Peter and the Shadow Thieves

by Ridley Pearson Dave Barry

  “Then who did you say it to?” said Old Trumpy.

  “I, er…to myself,” answered Peter.

  “Ah,” said Old Trumpy. “I does that meself sometimes. I’m talking thirteen to a dozen, and then I notice there’s nobody there. The bells is new, though.” He attempted another swig from the bottle. Empty still.

  Peter looked toward the near end of the alley. The sky was lighter, the rain abating.

  “Sir,” he said. “I’m trying to find a house here in London.”

  “Oh, there’s lots of houses here in London,” said Old Trumpy. “Thousands, I should think. Shouldn’t be no trouble finding one.”

  “But I’m looking for a certain one,” said Peter. “A particular one.”

  “Ah,” said Old Trumpy. “That could be harder.”

  “It belongs to a family named Aster,” said Peter. “Lord Leonard Aster.”

  “Lord Aster, is it?” said Old Trumpy. “It’s a lord’s house you want?”

  “Yes,” said Peter.

  “Haw-haw harrggghkh-TOOEY” said Old Trumpy, producing another impressive fountain of phlegm, from which Peter looked away.

  “Sorry,” said Old Trumpy. “No offense…What’s your name again?”

  “Peter.”

  “No offense, Peter, but you don’t look like the nobility type.”

  “But do you know the house?” said Peter.

  “What house?” said Old Trumpy.

  “Lord Aster’s,” said Peter, trying not to show his exasperation. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Not around here, I can tell you that, haw-haw,” said Old Trumpy, gesturing around the filthy alley. As he did, a rat scurried from one rubbish mound to another.

  “Well, do you know where I might look for him?” said Peter.

  Old Trumpy considered this question thoughtfully for a moment, then said: “Look for who?”

  Peter sighed. “Never mind,” he said. He started walking toward the end of the alley.

  “You’re off, then?” called Old Trumpy.

  “Yes,” said Peter, picking his way carefully over a pile of rubbish and jumping back as several rats scurried out. “I’m off.”

  “What’s your name again?” called Old Trumpy.

  Peter stopped, sighed, turned around. “Peter,” he said.

  “Right, Peter,” said Old Trumpy. “Listen, son, you be careful out there. It ain’t safe ’round these docks, especially for a young lad like you. And it ain’t safe for nobody nowhere in London when dark comes.” He drew a finger across his throat. “You can’t trust nobody out there, lad. Nobody. That’s why Old Trumpy stays in here.”

  Peter, saying nothing, turned away and resumed picking his way toward the end of the alley, leaving Old Trumpy talking to himself.

  “Ain’t safe for nobody,” he muttered. “Not nowhere at all, not with night coming.”

  Then he tried another swig from the bottle, which, to his mild surprise and considerable disappointment, remained empty.

  CHAPTER 29

  A BONE TO PICK

  SLANK WAS WATCHING the crew of Le Fantome like a hawk.

  He’d been at sea since the age of thirteen; he knew sailors, and he knew that London, with its many temptations, beckoned to them powerfully, despite Nerezza’s orders to remain on the ship. Guards were posted at the gangway to keep the crew from walking off, but Slank knew that many of the men—if they thought nobody was watching—wouldn’t hesitate to slide down a line to the dock, or even jump into the filthy Thames and swim for it. And once they’d gotten ashore and filled their bellies with grog, it was only a matter of time before they were wagging their tongues about the ship’s strange voyage—and the even stranger passenger it carried.

  But Lord Ombra did not want word of his presence to get out, not yet. And Slank shuddered to think of the consequences if Lord Ombra was displeased. So Slank passed the idle hours awaiting Ombra’s appearance prowling the decks, keeping close watch on the increasingly restive crew.

  At the moment, most of the crew had gathered forward along the rail to watch a bloody, drunken brawl taking place outside the Jolly Tar, a notorious dockside pub. With the men temporarily distracted, Slank decided to scale the rat lines that led to the crow’s nest. From here, high above the deck, he had a good view of the ship and a stunning view of the city, stretching into the distance under a late-morning sky dark with coal soot.

  Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. The fight ended, and the crew of Le Fantome went back to sitting around. Slank fixed his attention on the bow lines, then the stern, then back again. He looked port and starboard; he kept his ears attentive for the sound of whispering. A light breeze blew, bringing with it the scents of the city, some foul, some—like the smell of fresh food cooking—sweet. The furled sails slapped, a sound familiar and pleasant to any sailor. As the stiff fabric flapped, its folds opened and shut, like the bellows of an accordion.

  What was that?

  Slank stared aft, into one of the folds of a sail attached to the mizzenmast. He had the perfect angle as the breeze blew and the sail sagged open. The breeze calmed, and it slipped shut again, like a giant purse closing.

  Slank frowned, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. The furled sail sagged open, and there it was again.

  He quickly lowered himself from the lookout basket, scurried down the rat lines, crossed the deck, and ascended the mizzenmast faster than he’d gone aloft in years. He climbed to the folds in the second sail from the top. He pulled on the heavy sailcloth, one fold to the next, searching for what he thought he’d seen. Several men gathered on the decks below, watching, wondering what Slank was doing.

  There! Slank reached and held the last of the folds open. He leaned over and peered down into this fold, confused by what he saw: three apple cores, eaten to the seeds; a bone, also gnawed practically to the marrow.

  A rat? But what rat would climb up here to eat? A bird?

  Slank hooked his knee around a line and lowered himself upside down into the fold of canvas, drawing mutters of interest from the sailors below. He grabbed the bone, then pulled himself back up. Steadying himself, he studied the bone, twisting it in the gray light.

  Teeth marks. Not picked clean by a bird’s beak, as he might have expected. Not the gnawings of a rat, either; no, these looked like human teeth marks, too small to be a man’s. They were more the size of a…

  Slank stared out toward the rooftops of London, then glanced at the decks below. Could their stowaway have left these behind? But the apple cores were not nearly rotten enough; they were far too fresh, too recently eaten. The stowaway had jumped ship weeks ago.

  Slank frowned, remembering another ship and the boy who’d gone overboard at sea—only to reappear later, alive. He thought about the rumors of a ghost haunting the ship—after the stowaway had gone overboard.

  Could it possibly be?

  Slank stared at the bone, his grip tightening on it, as he would love to have squeezed the throat of the flying boy. If, somehow, the boy had been on the ship, and was now here in London, what did that mean for Ombra and his plan? Did Slank dare mention it? Back on the island, Ombra had cautioned him about his hatred for—his obsession with—the boy. Did he dare bring up his suspicions now, without better proof than some old bone and some apple cores? Yet Ombra himself had clearly suspected something was amiss on the ship, with his constant demands for searchers and extra guards….

  Slank decided that, for the time being, he would keep his suspicion to himself. He pocketed the bone and climbed back down to the deck, inventing a story to explain his unusual behavior to the watching sailors.

  Yes, he’d keep quiet for now. But when he got off the ship—as he would soon enough, he’d be looking for the boy. And if he found him…

  Slank put his hand into his pocket again and gripped the bone until it snapped.

  CHAPTER 30

  SOMEHOW

  PETER, WITH TINK STILL unhappily concealed under his shirt, stumbled from the alley int
o a cobblestone street swarming with activity. In the center of the street, barrels and crates were being hauled by horse-drawn wagons, as well as handcarts pushed and pulled by grunting, cursing men. Hurrying this way and that were sailors of many hues, in many garbs, talking and shouting in many languages. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry; everybody seemed to be in everybody else’s way.

  On both sides of the street, next to gutters running with stinking brown water, were shops selling clocks, sextants, canvas trousers, weatherproof coats, hammocks, rope, lanterns—all manner of goods for ships and those who sailed them. Scattered among the shops were public houses, from which came the sounds of shouting, singing, laughter, and fighting. Directly across the street from Peter, a sailor in a red flannel shirt emerged from a pub, stood for a moment, wavering back and forth, and then pitched face-forward into the gutter. Nobody took notice; the din and flow of humanity went on around him unabated.

  An official-looking man strode past, wearing a blue jacket with brass buttons.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Peter said, stepping up to him, “can you tell me where I might find Lord—”

  “Out of the way!” said the man, barely looking down as he gave Peter a shove that sent him stumbling into another man, who shoved him into yet another man, who cuffed him on the ear and pushed him away so hard that he fell into the street and had to scuttle backward like a crab to avoid being trampled by a horse pulling a wagon.

  Peter leaped to his feet and pressed his wet back against a building, his heart pounding. Tink’s bells sounded angrily from under his shirt.

  “We can’t fly away,” he whispered. “People don’t fly in London.”

  But we can fly, she said.

  “But not here. I don’t want them to see me,” Peter whispered. A chill swept through his body, and he shivered violently. He was wet and filthy, and his feet were bare. Suddenly he became acutely aware of how cold and hungry and tired he was. Especially cold.

  And night was falling.

  Despair seeped into Peter’s soul. He longed to be back on the island with the Lost Boys. For a moment he wanted only to sink to the ground, curl into a ball, and cry. What prevented him from doing so was the thought of Molly, and the memory of the time she had leaped from a ship in the middle of the ocean to save his life. If he were in trouble, she would not lie on the ground sniveling; she would find a way to help him. Now she was in trouble, somewhere in this indifferent, confusing, and cruel city. And somehow he had to find her.

  Somehow.

  CHAPTER 31

  A TINY HEART BEATING

  TWO MILES AWAY, in her grand home on Kensington Palace Gardens, Molly paced in her room, as she had done for much of a lonely, restless afternoon. She paused every few minutes to look out the window—for what, she didn’t know.

  Each time she looked, the scene was the same: the street, the gloom, Mr. Cadigan standing guard. Nothing changed. Yet still Molly was drawn back to the window, time and again.

  She sat on her bed, then stood again, then sat, then lay down for perhaps the dozenth time, knowing that rest would not come.

  All at once she felt a burning at the base of her neck. She quickly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blue-and-white dress and felt for the locket that hung around her neck.

  It was warm.

  Molly ran to her window. A hard rain poured down. She looked down onto the broad street in front of the house, but the rain fell too heavily to allow her to see across to the mansion on the other side. Despite herself, she dared to hope that she would see her father’s coach arriving, or even her father himself already at the front door.

  But there was only Mr. Cadigan, at his post.

  Staring out her window, she pulled the locket out from under her dress. It pulsed twice, like a tiny heart beating.

  CHAPTER 32

  A FEELING

  PETER GASPED, AND his hand went to the locket around his neck.

  What is it? said Tink, who had felt it also, the sudden warmth. What’s happening?

  “I don’t know,” whispered Peter, touching the locket, feeling it pulse twice. He held it for a moment, not daring to pull it out on this busy street. Then he let it go and pushed himself away from the wall. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he started walking purposefully uphill, away from the water, toward the smoky density of London.

  Where are we going? asked Tink, from under his shirt.

  “To find Molly,” said Peter.

  But you don’t know where she is.

  “No,” said Peter. “I don’t. But I know she’s here.”

  CHAPTER 33

  A WAY OUT

  AS THE GRAY DRIZZLE of evening sky turned to the murky dark of night, Peter trudged through mud-slick streets, his feet bleeding from cuts he was too cold to feel.

  It would be inadequate to say that he was lost, since he’d never known where he was, or where he was going. No, he was far beyond lost. He tried to keep aimed in one direction—away from the river—but the cobblestone streets were a maze, twisting this way and that, sometimes branching off in four or five directions, sometimes stopping in a dead end, forcing Peter to retrace his weary steps. He could have been miles from where he started; he could have been only yards. He simply didn’t know.

  As night fell, the streets grew less busy. But they were not deserted: Peter encountered other shadowy shapes moving through the fog. Most of them, especially the women and children, scurried past, keeping their distance, their eyes avoiding Peter’s. But some of the men and larger boys slowed and gave Peter hard, appraising looks, looks that made him hold his breath and tense his legs, ready to run.

  Peter was working his way along a dark, narrow stretch of street when Tinker Bell, under his shirt, emitted a sharp warning sound an instant before Peter sensed something moving to his left. He jumped away from it, an action that saved him; for at that moment, a dark form lunged at him from a pitch-black alley. Peter felt a hand brush his back, the fingers grasping his shirt, trying to get a grip. Peter scrambled forward, jerking free, almost falling, catching himself with his hands on the ground as he stumbled away, hearing a grunt and a curse behind him, then the sound of heavy footsteps right behind.

  Upright again, Peter raced blindly through the fog, hearing the hard clomping following him. On and on he ran until, finally, the sound began to fade. Peter came to a cross street, where he turned right and kept running until he could no longer hear the footsteps at all. He finally came to a stop, breathing hard, near a gas streetlight that infused the fog with a ghostly glow.

  “Thanks, Tink,” he gasped.

  Why didn’t you fly? she demanded.

  “I’m attracting too much attention as it is,” he said. “If people see me fly, word will spread that there’s a flying boy in London, and Slank and the others could figure out that I’m here. Besides, I got away, didn’t I?”

  Tink, unable to come up with a counterargument, changed the subject. I want to get out, she said. It smells awful in here.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We can’t—”

  “Who’re you talking to?” came a voice from behind him.

  Peter whirled and emitted an involuntary yelp of surprise.

  “No need for that, mate,” said the voice. “It’s only me.”

  In the pale gaslight, Peter saw that the voice belonged to a boy. He was about Peter’s height, but considerably huskier. His wide face was streaked with dirt. The boy wore a threadbare coat; it was a man’s coat, too big for him, but it looked wonderfully warm to Peter, who was also jealous of the boy’s shoes. They were oversized, but far better than bare feet.

  “So who was it?” said the boy.

  “Who was what?” said Peter.

  “Who was you talking to?” said the boy.

  “Nobody,” said Peter.

  The boy stared at him for a few moments. Peter stared back, trying to look confident despite his uncontrollable shivering.

  “You’re cold?” said the boy.

  Peter said
nothing, but his chattering teeth were answer enough.

  “Come with me, then,” said the boy, his tone friendly now. “I know a place where you can warm up. There’s food, too. Come on.” He started to walk away.

  Peter hesitated. The boy stopped and looked back.

  “Come on,” he repeated. “Do you want to stay out here and freeze to death? Or do you want to be warm?”

  Peter, who wanted to be warm more than he’d ever wanted anything, started walking toward the boy. He felt the flutter of a vibration from Tink, but he put his hand gently on his shirt to silence her.

  “I’ll be careful,” he whispered. “He’s just a boy, and he seems friendly enough.”

  “There you go again!” called the boy.

  “It’s nothing,” said Peter. “Talking to myself, is all.”

  The boy waited until Peter caught up with him, then resumed walking.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Peter. What’s yours?”

  “Trotter,” said the boy.

  “Where are we going, Trotter?” asked Peter.

  “Just ’round here,” said Trotter, turning onto a narrow lane lined with rickety wooden structures leaning this way and that.

  “Is it your house?” said Peter.

  “Sort of,” said Trotter.

  He ducked into a narrow, very dark alley between two buildings. Peter hesitated. Tink vibrated again, and again he quieted her.

  “Come on,” said Trotter, barely visible in the deep gloom.

  Peter moved cautiously forward until he reached Trotter, who continued down the alley, then turned left into an even narrower and darker alley. So complete was the blackness that Peter couldn’t see Trotter, or for that matter, his own hands. From somewhere in the buildings around him he heard a baby’s cry; from somewhere else, a scream. He bumped into Trotter, who had stopped.

  “Sorry,” said Peter.

  “Here we are,” said Trotter. Peter heard the creak of a door opening and felt Trotter push him through the doorway. He found himself in a room smelling strongly of smoke and sweat and filth. But it was, as Trotter had promised, warm, the source of the heat being a glowing bed of coals in an iron grate on the far side of the room.