The Collectors #2 Read online

  What it saw was a room blazing with wish magic. It saw the case crammed with burning, waiting wishes. It saw danger and destruction and fire and noise. It saw three tiny people, nearly crushed by the force around them. And it saw the smallest of them—a boy with wide eyes and black hair—looking back.

  What the boy saw was a face: a face so large that it filled the hole where the roof had been. It was shifting and silvery, with a muzzle like a lion’s. Pale whiskers whipped around its jaws. Its massive eyes were gray, as deep and reflective as ponds. Staring into them, the boy thought, was like staring into the eye of a blue whale, or into the heart of a redwood tree. It was something so large and so deep and so old that it made everything else on earth seem small.

  The boy and the thing gazed at each other. The thing from the bottom of the well hadn’t been seen in lifetimes. And with those ancient silver eyes on him, the boy knew he had never been seen this way before. He wondered if he’d ever truly been seen at all.

  Almost delicately, the thing from the bottom of the well reached one clawed hand into the tower.Bricks slipped and rained from the ceiling. The tower swayed. Without any effort, the thing crushed the glass case filled with dead wishes beneath its hand.

  The light in the tower had been bright before. Now it was so searing that the people threw themselves to the floor. The thing from the bottom of the well watched them scuttle, panicked, against the walls, wrapping their arms over their heads. A blazing hum ripped the air.

  The thing from the bottom of the well opened its mouth. It pulled in those thousands of dead wishes. It pulled in their noise and their fire and their force. It pulled in the faint wisp of one living wish, almost lost in the searing storm.

  The massive Eater surged with power. The power to create. To destroy. To do anything it wished.

  The thing from the bottom of the well had never gotten to make a wish of its own. And now, what it wished for was . . .

  Quiet.

  Beneath it, the swaying tower steadied. The wind died.

  The swarm of Eaters backed away. One by one, and then in a receding tide, they flew off in all directions, scattering into the darkness.

  Quiet rippled over the woods. It seeped through the grounds of the Fox Den, where fires flickered out, fights ended, and people sagged sleepily onto the grass. Jewelry and limousines disappeared in puffs of fog. Sirens died. Bones healed.

  The thing from the bottom of the well took a last glance into the tower. The three people had gone still, huddled amid shards of glass and rubble. All that remained of the dead wishes was those sparkling shards, and a scorched spot on the floor.

  The thing lifted back into the air.

  It soared, a bit more heavily now, over the treetops to its silent clearing. It dragged its even more massive body down the shaft of the well. It slid legs and arms and winding tail into the underground tunnels where they belonged. It buried its claws in the cool earth. With a deep sigh, resting its chin on the ground, it gazed out at the pile of coins, glinting in the faint hints of starlight.

  Then it closed its ancient eyes and settled down to sleep.

  22

  Quiet

  Van and Pebble raised their heads.

  The tower room was still. Brick dust spiraled slowly in the air, dancing with the last wisps of fog. Soft night wind shushed across the open roof above.

  They wobbled to their feet. Van’s hand still clutched the bits of a broken wishbone. Pebble’s hand, he noticed, was closed around a swirling glass marble. They both slid the objects into their pockets.

  “Is it gone?” Pebble asked, at the same moment that Van said, “Is it over?”

  They froze, listening and looking. The window showed nothing but the dark forest outside. There were no whirling Wish Eaters. No screams. No sirens.

  Pebble’s eyes trailed across the room, landing on a shape slumped against the wall. She bolted toward it. Van stumbled after her, his shoes skidding on the shards of broken glass.

  Ivor Falborg lay in a heap of rubble. Bricks tumbled around him, their darkness eclipsing his white suit. One open hand was flung out on the stone floor before him, as though he were reaching for something that was no longer there.

  Pebble put her ear to his lips.

  “. . . Alive,” she said. “. . . still breathing.”

  Without the glow of the dead wishes, Van couldn’t quite follow her lips. Still, the relief on her face was clear.

  She knelt beside the man in the white suit for a moment longer, murmuring something that Van couldn’t catch. Then, slowly, she got to her feet.

  “Until . . . and Gerda . . . call for help,” she said, taking a step away. But there, she stopped, her head bowed, a frown tugging the features of her face.

  “What is it?” Van asked. “You’re not going to stay with him now, are you?”

  “No,” said Pebble quickly. “It’s not that.” She glanced around the room once more, the light from the windows catching her features. Van watched her face in the moonlight. “I just . . .” She turned to Van. “That giant Eater . . .”

  Van nodded. “It must have been the one from the well. I saw it too.”

  “Did you feel it?” Pebble asked. “When it ate the wishes?”

  Van nodded again. “It could have done anything. It could have destroyed this whole house. And us. But it didn’t.”

  Pebble hesitated. She pulled her baggy coat tight around herself. “Maybe you’re right,” Van thought he heard her say. “About the Eaters. Maybe . . .”

  They both kept still for a moment. A breeze swept in through the hole above, fluttering the ends of Van’s hair.

  Pebble glanced up at the night sky. “We should go.”

  They hurried down through the dark, quiet house.

  Van waited in the foyer as Pebble unlocked the basement door and shouted instructions down to Hans and Gerda. Together, they stepped out the front door—straight into a line of waiting spikes.

  Van and Pebble sprang backward, gasping. The row of Collectors, who had just been about to storm the house, sprang backward too.

  “Pebble!” voices shouted. “. . . here! . . . all right!”

  Van scanned the crowd. He spotted Nail, with Raduslav and Violetta, and Razor, and Eyelet, and Jack and many more. They were battered and tired, their nets ripped and their boots caked with mud. Several wore deep, bloody scratches. Two had arms wrapped in makeshift slings. But they were all alive.

  “Pebble.” Nail stepped to the front of the crowd. His voice was more ragged than Van had ever heard it. “Thank goodness!” He threw open his arms.

  For the second time that night, Van watched Pebble disappear into a happy crowd. He caught bits of explanations and questions and apologies, and saw Pebble point up toward the ruined tower, telling the end of the story. Then she aimed her pointing hand at Van. Her face cracked into a smile.

  Van felt himself being wrapped in someone’s arms and pulled into the crowd. Hands patted his back and tousled his hair. Jack grinned down at him. Pebble squeezed his arm.

  A warm, heavy palm landed on his shoulder.

  “Van Markson,” said Razor, bending close. “I believe I found something of yours.”

  He opened his other big, bloodstained hand to reveal a small blue hearing aid.

  Van picked up the hearing aid. It looked undamaged. When he slid it into place, he found that—incredibly—it still worked. He looked up at Razor. “In that whole huge clearing, with everything that was going on, you saw this?”

  Razor shrugged one big shoulder. “I’m good at spotting things others don’t see.” He smiled at Van, his scar curving, his black eyes bright. “I think that makes two of us.”

  Abruptly, Razor’s face hardened. His eyes went sharp. He straightened to his full height, grabbing the hooks strapped to his back.

  “Eater,” he growled.

  The crowd of Collectors whirled into formation, readying weapons, grasping nets. They stared at the edge of the woods.

  A large,
misty shape drifted onto the edge of the lawn. Its eyes were wide. Its fuzzy ears twitched anxiously. Cradled in its arms was a silvery squirrel.

  “It’s Lemmy!” screamed Van. “Don’t hurt it!”

  He flung himself through the crowd. Halfway between the Wish Eater and the Collectors, he spun around, his arms spread, staring into the mass of sharpened metal.

  The Collectors, ragged with injuries, waited. Their eyes narrowed. Their hands tightened around iron spikes.

  “This is Lemmy,” shouted Van, as steadily as he could. “It saved our lives tonight, mine and Pebble’s and—”

  “Of course it did,” said Jack’s sharp voice. “If you wished it.”

  “Not because we wished it,” Van argued. “Because it wanted to. It has feelings of its own. It should get to make choices of its own. Wish Eaters aren’t all bad. They’re—they’re just like us. They can do awful things, and they can do good things.”

  None of the Collectors moved.

  None except for Pebble.

  “It’s true!” she shouted, charging out of the crowd and running to Van’s side. “Lemmy saved us. Twice. And it saved Barnavelt too. None of us would be here right now without it!”

  “That’s right!” squeaked a small voice. Barnavelt craned over Lemmy’s misty arm, calling down to the Collectors. “None of us would be here! And look—we’re all here! Me, and Pebble, and Van, and me, and Lemmy, and me. Hey, Pebble! We’re all here!”

  Pebble held up her hands. Barnavelt leaped into them.

  “I flew!” the squirrel told her. “I was flying, Pebble! Did you see me?”

  “Pebble . . . ,” said Nail warningly. “You know very well how dangerous Eaters can be.”

  “Anyone can be dangerous,” argued Pebble. “Eaters have hurt us. And we’ve hurt them.”

  Lemmy drifted close, pressing up against Van’s back. Van could feel the Eater’s misty body quivering. He reached up to touch its side.

  “You can’t keep on doing this,” said Van. “Hurting and scaring the Eaters and locking them all up forever, just because you’re afraid.” A few of the Collectors stiffened at this. Van pushed on, even though his voice shook. “It isn’t right.”

  Pebble pressed her shoulder against his.

  “It isn’t right,” she agreed. “It has to change, or—or I can’t come back with you.”

  There was a stir in the crowd. Van turned to stare at her.

  Pebble went on, her voice firm. “I wouldn’t stay with Uncle Ivor, and I won’t stay with you either. You’re not just trying to keep everyone safe. You’re trying to control things. If you do that to Lemmy . . . then I can’t be a Collector anymore.”

  Nail stared at them for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned his eyes to Razor. The Collectors lowered their weapons.

  “Very well,” Nail announced. “We will discuss this further. Perhaps,” he added dryly, “after we see how much damage Falborg’s Eaters have done to the Collection in our absence.”

  “Okay.” Pebble nodded sharply. “We’ll discuss it.”

  “And Lemmy goes free,” said Van. “Right? For good?”

  Nail’s mouth made a hard line, but his gaze was steady. “For good,” he answered at last. “You have our word.”

  Van wrapped his arms around Lemmy. Misty softness brushed his skin. The Wish Eater gazed down at Van, a tiny smile seeming to uncurl on its face.

  Beyond Lemmy’s foggy body, Van could see the stars fading from the sky, the deep blue of night rinsing to the pale hue of dawn.

  “I should get back to the Fox Den,” he told Pebble. “My mother will worry.”

  Pebble nodded. Before Van could react, she threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight. Barnavelt’s whiskers brushed his ear.

  “Bye, Van Gogh,” the squirrel whispered.

  “Will I see you again?” Van asked as Pebble released him.

  Pebble took a step back, pulling her bulky coat close. “We’ll see,” she said. “Keep your eyes open.” She nodded to the Wish Eater behind him. “Goodbye, Lemmy.”

  Before Van could ask any more questions, his feet left the ground. From the Eater’s arms, he watched Pebble and the rest of the Collectors dwindling away below him, the Falborg mansion shrinking until it was swallowed by trees. And then there was nothing beneath the soles of his shoes but the softly stirring forest.

  Lemmy landed in the shadows behind the Fox Den’s outdoor stage. Van slid out of the Eater’s arms, filled with the same disappointed heaviness he always felt when a flight was over. The first time Lemmy had carried him, soaring over the rooftops of the city to leave him at the Greys’ house, Van had thought that their goodbyes might have been for good. But now, with Nail’s promise that Lemmy would remain free, Van hoped this wasn’t a goodbye at all.

  “Thank you, Lemmy,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

  The Eater gave him one last tiny smile. It turned and floated into the trees, its cloudy body setting their leaves swaying gently. In a blink, it was gone from sight.

  But just because he couldn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Van took a deep, long breath. With Lemmy—and Mr. Falborg’s released Eaters, and the ancient thing from the bottom of the well—all waiting somewhere in it, the world seemed scattered with more magic than ever. Like a big shady park where a thousand lost treasures might hide.

  “Giovanni!” His mother’s voice rang through the dimness.

  Van whirled around.

  His mother stood on a rise near the festival stage, craning in his direction. On the dark grass behind her were two other figures, both of them sitting up. Moving. Alive.

  Van raced across the grass. He hurled himself into his mother’s arms, the emerald-green dress and the smell of lilies enveloping him.

  “Giovanni, what are you doing out here?” she asked, releasing him. “You should have been in bed hours ago!”

  “I just—” Van improvised. “I noticed all the lights out here, so I came out to see what was going on.”

  His mother nodded, looking slightly dazed. “Yes, we’ve had several little emergencies. The reception tent caught fire. There was some sort of altercation in the driveway. Peter was injured by a falling light. It’s all been a bit . . . chaotic.”

  Van looked down at the grass beside them. Mr. Grey sat with his arm around Peter’s shoulders, looking rumpled and grass stained. Peter leaned against his father. A small bandage covered the side of his head.

  “Are you okay?” Van asked, crouching beside him.

  “I’m fine,” said Peter. His voice was irritated, but Van could see the pleased smile at the corners of his mouth. “My dad’s just making a fuss.”

  “. . . not sure . . . fine,” said Mr. Grey, with an anxious look at Peter’s head. “I’d like to get . . . directly to the doctor . . . soon . . . the city.”

  “Dad. Seriously.” Peter sighed as his father rose and pulled him to his feet. “It barely even hurts.”

  Van tapped Peter’s arm. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

  Peter met Van’s eyes. As his father guided him away, he turned back to flash Van the devil’s horns, along with another small smile.

  “What a strange night,” sighed Van’s mother, watching them go.

  “Yeah,” agreed Van.

  “I was certain that this place would be safer than the city.” She shook her head at the wreckage of the Fox Den grounds. “Perhaps our curse has followed us.”

  “Maybe,” said Van. “Or maybe it’s not really a curse at all.” He slipped his hand into his mother’s. “Maybe . . . maybe it means that bad things happen, but we’re always okay in the end.”

  His mother gazed down at him for a moment. “Yes,” she said, more softly than usual. “We have everything we need.” She gave Van’s hand a squeeze. “Now, both of us ought to get straight to bed. Andiamo.”

  They set off down the path, Van’s mother walking without a trace of her limp, and Van glancing up at the sky where, one by one, the last
stars were winking out.

  23

  Wish You Were Here

  Winter was sneaking up on the city.

  The trees still shook clusters of gold and brown leaves, and a few hardy flowers still tumbled from window boxes, but the air had an icy edge to it. There were fewer lost sunglasses and more rumpled tissues in the litter that gathered along the street.

  Late one autumn evening, Van Markson and his mother strolled along a quiet sidewalk. They had just come from having dinner at the Greys’, where Van’s mother and Mr. Grey and a few opera friends had lingered around the table while Van and Peter had fired lasers at alien ships upstairs. Now they were on their way home.

  They had been back in the city for two days. The season at the Fox Den was over, and Van’s mother had a recording contract and several holiday concerts to give. Returning to the city—to the same apartment that had been theirs before—felt strange to Van, who had never come back to the same place twice. It felt like trying to slip into your favorite sweater from three years ago, finding that you’ve grown too big to fit inside it anymore.

  Van wasn’t sure where he would fit now.

  The Collectors had to know he was back. They knew every corner of the city, every birthdate, every address. But he’d seen no sign of them so far—not even a suspicious raven on his windowsill. Maybe they didn’t need him anymore.

  And no matter how hard he looked, he hadn’t caught a glimpse of Lemmy either. But he wasn’t going to stop watching.

  “Giovanni, ” said his mother, touching his arm as they passed a corner grocery. Van looked up. “I need to stop for milk and coffee. Our kitchen is still half bare.”

  “Can I stay out here?” asked Van.

  “All right,” said his mother. “But stay right in front of the shop, and don’t move. I’ll be just a moment.”

  She swept through the door.

  Van stood alone on the quiet sidewalk. The air smelled like leaves and smoke. Between the tall brick buildings around him, the sky was a deep navy blue. He gazed up, searching for falling stars and flickering wishes, the magic that might be hidden anywhere . . . but this time, even though he waited and waited, there were no lights, and no falling stars. A flash of silvery gray swept past the corner of his eye. Van spun toward it, scanning the rooftops where it had appeared. Whatever it was had vanished. Maybe it was only a wisp of steam, he told himself, his heart sinking back down in his chest. Maybe it wasn’t a Wish Eater at all.