He froze. The faery butler did, too. Mr. Jelliby dropped the hook.
A gentle breeze had sprung up out of nowhere, carrying on it the smell of snow. And something was happening to Hettie. A black line had begun to trace itself along her skin, starting at the top of her head and slithering down over her shoulders, down her arms and her legs.
“Barthy?” she said, her voice cracking with fear. The pale skin around her mouth was stained blackberry-dark. “Barthy, what’s happening? What are you looking at?”
The instant the line reached the nailed-down shoes, they disintegrated, turning to delicate flakes that scudded over the floor. The breeze became a wind, stirring the branches of her hair. And suddenly there was no longer a wall behind her, or crates, or a warehouse, but a great, dark wood extending into the distance. Snow lay on the ground. The trees were black and leafless, older and taller than any English trees. Far back among them, Bartholomew could see a stone cottage. A light was burning in its window.
Hettie wrapped her arms around herself and looked at him, eyes wide.
“It’s working,” a voice lisped from the ceiling. Bartholomew glanced up, whirling, and saw a small white shape in the gloom, perched at the end of one of the dangling chains. It was staring at the woods, at Hettie. Its mouth was wide and empty, and somewhere inside its cold, wet voice was the echo of Mr. Lickerish’s whispery one. “The door is opening.”
Bartholomew spun back to Hettie. The door was opening. Slowly the black line expanded, stretching into a ring, like a black flaming hoop for a tiger to leap through. And as the door grew so did its frame, until it was no longer only a thread but a writhing chain of angry, flapping wings. They looked like the wings that flew around Jack Box and Melusine wherever they went, only stronger somehow, blacker. And whatever they touched, they destroyed. The stone slabs of the warehouse floor curled and snapped as they brushed them. The crates nearest them exploded in showers of wood. And still Hettie stood rooted to the spot, a small figure against the woods and snow of the Old Country.
“Yes.” Mr. Lickerish’s voice came through the milk imp’s mouth, soft and sibilant. “Child Number Eleven. You have opened.”
The faery butler lurched toward the elevator, but Mr. Jelliby was upon him again, kicking and punching with all his might. Bartholomew started toward Hettie. He felt the wind, smelled the ice and rot of the ancient woods. The door was not very large. Mother always said the one in Bath had been the hugest thing the world had ever seen.
“Go to her, boy,” the milk imp said from the ceiling. “Go and get her and bring her home.” Its voice held a sly edge now, like silk wrapping a sharp knife. “Don’t worry. The sylphs won’t hurt you. Not one of their own.” The imp leaned down off its hook. “Go on,” it coaxed. “Go get her.”
Bartholomew did not need to be told twice. He broke into a run, dodging Mr. Jelliby and the faery butler. Then Hettie was in front of him and he was pulling her to him.
Hettie flew out of the black wings of the doorway. Her feet touched the stone floor. Bartholomew had her hand, was already starting to dash for the window, out. Behind them the door gave a horrible jolt. With sickening speed the wings shrieked outward, devouring everything in their path. Bartholomew felt them scrape against his skin, rough feathers and bones. But the imp had not lied. Whatever faery creatures were hidden inside those wings, they did not hurt him now.
“Bartholomew!” Mr. Jelliby screamed, ducking as the faery butler’s knife whizzed over his head. “Put her back! Put her back or you’ll kill us all!”
In a panic, Bartholomew pushed at Hettie, but the damage was done. The door had almost reached the warehouse roof, a vast tornado of wings swallowing everything in sight. The wind buffeted his face, sharp with snow. The forest seemed to fill the whole space, growing dark out of the crates and the river. Feet pounded the stone floor close by—Mr. Jelliby’s or the faery butler’s—but he didn’t see anyone.
Hettie was trying to reach him again, her hands grasping for his shirt. On the other side, the forest was no longer empty. Something had emerged from the cottage in the distance. The light was still there, but it blinked on and off as a figure darted in front of it, now hiding behind trees, now rushing forward, coming closer. Behind it, other shapes were approaching through the woods, dark and quick, curious eyes glinting in the moonlight.
The faeries. They were coming.
“Don’t you want your sister?” the imp mocked. “Oh, dear little Hettie, do you see? Your brother doesn’t like you anymore. He doesn’t want to save you.”
Bartholomew looked at her desperately. He wanted nothing more than to save her. He had traveled hundreds of miles, braved the Bath police and the Goblin Market and the rat faery to find her. But Hettie was peering at him, eyes round and uncertain.
“You know, if you push her back—if you shove her into the Old Country and that dark winter’s wood, with those wicked, wicked faeries approaching from all sides, the door will begin to shrink. Wouldn’t that be grand? Wouldn’t that be smashing? It would become unbalanced. It would implode. I’m not lying. Try it. Abandon your darling sister for a world you don’t care a pennyworth for.”
The imp’s words sparked something in Bartholomew’s memory. In a flash, he was back in the greenwitch’s clearing, walking away from the painted wagon and the cheery light of its window. I don’t care about the world. That’s what he had said, growling under his breath as they trudged into the night. No one else did either. The faeries didn’t care. The people didn’t care. They had other things to worry about, like coins, and bread, and themselves. Bartholomew could let them all die. He could pull Hettie away, and the wings would sweep out across that cruel, hateful city. They would destroy everything, topple churches and houses and palaces of government. Mr. Jelliby would turn to dust. And Bartholomew and Hettie would walk away, hand in hand, across the ruins. It would be so easy.
You’re no different, that nasty voice had said, and it was saying it again, louder and harsher than ever. You’re no different from the rat faery. No different from Mr. Lickerish, and the greenwitch, and all the other people you thought you hated.
But Bartholomew was different. He knew he was. He was frail and ugly and not very tall, and he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care if the faeries hated him, or the people feared him. He was stronger than them. Stronger than the rat faery had been, stronger than Mr. Lickerish ever was. He had gone places and done things, and he had done them not for himself but for Hettie and Mother and Mr. Jelliby, who had taken him with him when Bartholomew was standing alone in the alley. They were what made him belong. Not the faeries, and not the people. He didn’t need to be like them.
Bringing his face up to Hettie’s ear, he began to whisper, quickly and urgently, his hand tight around her fingers. “Don’t listen to him,” he said, through the wind and the wings. “He’s all lies. Don’t be afraid. You’re going to have to go in there for a short while, but as soon as the door is as small as it gets, leap back to me. Leap with all your might, do you hear me? It’ll work, Het, I know it will.”
“Barthy?” Hettie’s voice was shaking. And then the wind howled around them and he couldn’t hear her anymore. But he knew what she was saying. Barthy, don’t make me go in there. Don’t let the faeries get me.
Bartholomew tried to smile at her. His face wouldn’t move. Even the tears were frozen, aching behind his eyes. He hugged Hettie to him, hard and fierce as if he would never let her go.
“It’ll work, Het. It’ll work.”
Very gently, he pushed her through.
Her bare feet sank into snow. Wind whipped through her branches, her clothes. For an instant the wings became still, as if soaring through open sky. Then they seemed to turn, shrieking inward.
“What?” the milk imp spat, clutching at its chain and staring. “What are you doing, you wretched child. Pull her out! Pull her out or you will never see her again!”
I will. But Bartholomew knew there was no point answering. He kept his
eyes fixed on Hettie, waiting to shout, to tell her it was time, and she could jump.
The door was shrinking quickly. The smaller it became the faster the wings spun, until suddenly a pillar of blackness burst upward, screeching along the elevator cable toward the airship. The imp gave a whine and was consumed. From somewhere high above came a deep, rolling boom.
The wings filled the door, blotting out everything. Bartholomew could see only snippets of the woods beyond, little glimpses of Hettie’s frightened face, the cottage, the snowbound forest.
“Now!” Bartholomew shouted. “Now, Hettie, get out! Jump!”
She wasn’t moving. Someone was standing behind her. A tall, thin, shadowy figure, a pale hand resting on her shoulder.
Bartholomew lunged forward. His arm went through. He felt Hettie, her dirty nightgown, her twig hair. He fumbled for her hand, trying to drag her to him, back to London and the warehouse. Home.
“Come on, Hettie, now! Jump!”
But the wings were everywhere, battering him, shutting him out. Hettie’s hand was wrenched from his grasp. He was thrown back, flying through the air until he struck a wall of crates. He slid to the floor, head spinning. Something warm trickled across his brow. His tongue tasted blood.
Hettie, he thought blearily. Hettie needs to jump. Slowly, painfully, he forced himself up, forced himself to move. “Hettie,” he called. “Hettie, you have to—”
Everything was still. The wind had stopped, the noise too. The wings were frozen in midair; splintering crates, hooks and chains all hung suspended. The door was a perfect ring at the center of the warehouse. And framed inside, standing small and lonely among the vaulting trees, was Hettie.
She looked at Bartholomew, her black eyes full of terror. Tears were streaming down from them, dripping over her sharp cheekbones. She raised her hand.
Then there was a sound like a violin string snapping. The spell was broken. Everything was in motion again. Rubble rained down from all sides—wood from the crates, stone from the walls, propellers and burning canvas from the airship. The door vanished.
Bartholomew gave a savage cry. He ran to the place where it had been, clawed at the air, clawed at the stones.
“Jump!” he cried. “Jump, Hettie, jump, jump!”
But it was too late for that.
Above him, there was a tremendous crash. Chunks of roof and burning beams collapsed around him, caging him in. Somewhere in the roiling smoke, an explosion. He fell to the floor, crying and screaming, and blackness enveloped him.
He didn’t know how long he lay there. It might have been a year or a day. It would have been all the same to him if he were dead and this were the end of the world. Sounds echoed toward him from far away. Water, icy cold, stung his skin. The black and silver of fire fighters’ uniforms glimmered dully through the fog of his vision. Then people were crowding around him, talking all at once.
“A Peculiar,” they said. “Half dead. Should we leave him? Leave him here?” And somewhere Mr. Jelliby was being angry, shouting, “You’ll get him to the carriages, is what you’ll do! You’ll rush him to Harley Street, and if it takes you the rest of your lives, you’ll save him! He saved you. He saved all of us.”
Go away, Bartholomew thought. Leave me alone. He wanted to sleep. The darkness was there again, rolling beneath him and beckoning him. But before he let it take him, he opened his eyes and looked up. He could see the sky through the ruined roof. It was dawn. The sun was just rising over the city, piercing the heavy clouds.
“I’ll come find you, Hettie,” he whispered as strong hands lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him away. “Wherever you are, I’ll bring you home.”
About the Author
STEFAN BACHMANN is a writer and musician. He was born in Colorado and now lives with his family in Zurich, Switzerland, where he attends the Zurich Conservatory. He began writing The Peculiar in 2010, when he was sixteen years old. www.stefanbachmann.com
To listen to Peculiar Pieces, music written by Stefan Bachmann to accompany the book, please visit ThePeculiarBook.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Cover art © 2012 by Thierry Lafontaine, Imaginism Studios
Cover design by Paul Zakris
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
The Peculiar
Copyright © 2012 by Stefan Bachmann
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bachmann, Stefan, 1993-
The Peculiar / by Stefan Bachmann.
p. cm.
Summary: After humans win the faery wars in England, a half-human, half-faery child, scorned by both races, finds himself at the center of a web of intrigue and danger when he is stalked by a sinister faery.
ISBN 978-0-06-219518-0 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-224501-4 (intl. bdg.)
Epub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062195203
[1. Fairies—Fiction. 2. Changelings—Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction.
4. England—Fiction. 5. Fantasy. 6. Youths’ writings.] I. Title.
PZ7.B132173Pe 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012017914
12 13 14 15 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com
The Peculiar Page 21