The Collectors #2 Page 8

  “Oh,” said his mother. “Giovanni . . . I’m sorry.” She touched his cheek. “My work makes some things harder for both of us. Lots of new adventures, fewer old friends.” She gave him a gentle smile. “In three weeks, I promise, we’ll head back to the city, and you can have a nice long visit with Peter.”

  “Three weeks,” Van repeated.

  “I just can’t get away from my work any earlier than that.” His mother’s hand left his cheek. “Thank you for understanding, caro mio.”

  She turned back to the music. A moment later, the sounds of the piano filled the room.

  The notes crowded Van’s head. He bolted to his bedroom, taking out his hearing aids and dropping them on the bedside table.

  Three weeks.

  He couldn’t wait three weeks.

  By that time, Mr. Falborg would have enclosed the wishing well and trapped the Wish Eater. By that time, Van would have failed Pebble and everyone else.

  He sagged to his knees in front of his miniature stage.

  SuperVan still posed there. Alone.

  “Hey!” called an imaginary voice. “SuperVan!”

  SuperVan seemed to stand a bit taller. “Who is that?”

  “SuperVan!” the voice called. It was coming from within Van’s treasure box. “SuperVan, help me! I need you!”

  Van nudged SuperVan toward the sound. “Pawn Girl? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me!” Van imagined the wooden pawn calling back. “I’m trapped inside the White Wizard’s fortress!”

  SuperVan’s plastic feet remained on the stage floor. “I can’t move! Something has stolen my power of flight!”

  “But—but you’re SuperVan.” Pawn Girl sounded brokenhearted. “Isn’t there any way to get your powers back?”

  Van thought.

  Maybe there was a way.

  He glanced through the bedroom window. The woods had turned silver gray in the twilight, the treetops stretching away as far as he could see. But when Van got up and pressed his forehead to the glass, he thought he could just make out the peaked roof of a tall brick tower, far away. And beyond that, Van knew, somewhere deep in the silver-gray shadows, was the wishing well.

  In his mind, the seed of a plan began to grow.

  Late that night, after his mother had come in to give him a kiss and settled down to sleep in her own bedroom, Van sat up in bed. He’d kept his clothes on under the covers. Fitting his hearing aids into his ears and his feet into his shoes, he crept out of their suite into the night.

  The grounds were deserted. Up the winding paths ahead of him, the Fox Den mansion twinkled with dim lights. A half moon illuminated the sleeping outbuildings, the quiet gardens, and rippling koi ponds. With a last glance over his shoulder, Van dashed across the grass and into the woods.

  The pennies he’d gathered on the road knocked together in his pocket. As Van hurried through the thickening trees, their weight thumped against his leg, seeming to grow heavier and heavier. But he wasn’t going to slow down. And he wasn’t going to change his mind. He had promised Pebble his help, and there was only one way he could think of to keep that promise.

  He would have to use a wish.

  Van understood the dangers. A wish had hurt his mother. A wish had forced him to help damage the Collection. A wish had nearly squashed him—twice. But wishes had also gotten Van safely from place to place. They had let him help his friends. Once, when Van had plummeted from the top of a city building, a wish had even saved his life. He reminded himself of those good wishes as he rushed along.

  Besides, the danger of Mr. Falborg claiming the ancient Eater was far greater than the danger in any single wish.

  All Van had to do was find his way back to the wishing well.

  Fortunately, finding his way through strange places was one of Van’s greatest talents. He’d been his mother’s navigator in every city they’d visited since he was five years old. Because Van noticed details—an unusual door, a striped awning, a grumpy-faced cat glowering at them through a window—he could walk a route just once and remember it. He would retrace his steps by following the chain of images: cat, awning, unusual door.

  But as Van raced deeper into the woods, he discovered something.

  The woods didn’t have doors. Or awnings. Or grumpy cats behind glass.

  The woods had trees. That was all. And in the darkness, all trees looked the same. They were a crush of silhouettes, black on gray on black. They closed around him like jagged fences, or like the rungs of a giant, crooked cage.

  Van glanced over his shoulder. The glow from the Fox Den had vanished. The air below the canopy was blue black. Branches and brush tangled around him.

  If he turned around now, he might be able to find his way back to the Fox Den’s lights. Or he might not. He might become even more disoriented, with even less time. And he’d be even further from keeping his promise.

  There was nothing to do but press on.

  Van took a breath, aimed his feet at the spot where the wishing well should be, and ran.

  There was no wind. The woods were still. But every now and then, a burst of motion—a thrashing branch where an animal had bolted out of Van’s path, or a flash of moonlight on dark wings—would snag his eye, and fear would trip him, like the tree roots breaking through the forest floor.

  He kept his eyes sharp for the lights of the Falborg mansion. It was the one marker he could count on recognizing. Once he passed it, he’d know that he was on the right course. He’d been running for long enough that he had to be getting close by now.

  But there was no sign of the trees thinning. And there were no lights.

  No lights at all.

  Once again, Van halted.

  He spun in a quick circle.

  There were no lights anywhere.

  No houses. No streetlights. Even the moon had vanished behind a velvet curtain of clouds.

  Van stood, breathing hard. The forest loomed around him. He tried to reorient himself, but with no landmarks and no light, he couldn’t be sure which direction was which.

  He was still wavering there when, among the shadows just over his shoulder, he caught the flicker of something moving closer.

  Van broke into a run once more.

  It was probably just a raccoon, he told himself as he pelted through the trees. Maybe a deer. Something harmless and furry and just as startled by Van as Van was by it. But his body didn’t listen. It hurtled onward, through the shadows.

  Van glanced back again. He couldn’t see the thing that had startled him, but he could sense it, still there, still close. He could feel its eyes.

  Maybe it was following him.

  Maybe it was something furry and startled but not so harmless. Were there wolves in these woods? Or bears? Or something worse?

  In a burst of panic, Van ran even faster. Tree bark scraped his arms. Twigs ripped at his hair. The canopy thickened, and Van was sealed in the darkness beneath it, alone with his ragged breathing and thundering heart, and with whatever was chasing him. Out of the corner of his eye, too deep in the shadows for him to see clearly, the undergrowth rippled where something big had rushed through.

  The thing was definitely following him.

  Van ran faster still. He ran until his legs and lungs and his head ached. He ran as fast as he had ever run, but he couldn’t get away from the truth.

  He was lost. There was no sign of the Falborg house. No sign of the path to the well. No sign of anything familiar. There was only the surrounding darkness, and the thing that was hidden by it.

  Without slowing, Van fumbled in his pockets. He hadn’t thought to bring anything useful: a knife or a compass or even a flashlight. All he had was the stash of pennies. He should have left a trail of coins to follow back home. But it was too late now.

  Much too late.

  A few feet to his right, a patch of leaves fluttered. Whatever was hunting him had drawn closer. Van thought of his mother, squeezing his arm and telling him not to wander in the woods. He
thought of Pebble, begging him for help. He thought of the promises he’d made. With a last surge of speed, he charged forward, crashed through a knot of vines, and sprawled over a fallen tree onto a patch of dewy grass.

  Grass?

  Gasping, Van scrambled to his feet. Had he somehow reached the clearing after all?

  He looked around.

  The Fox Den mansion stood a hundred yards away.

  Van was gazing up at the back of it, the side with fountained ponds and lush green gardens. A few outdoor lights glowed steadily. Beyond the mansion, the grounds and outbuildings slept beneath the cloudy sky.

  He had run in a giant loop and ended up back where he’d begun.

  Van whirled around.

  The woods behind him were still. Whatever had been following him was nowhere to be seen. It must have backed away from the lights, keeping hidden within the trees . . . unless he had imagined it completely.

  No, Van told himself. He had felt the air stirring behind him. He could still catch the prickling sensation of eyes watching him, peering out from the darkness.

  Maybe.

  Van swayed on the grass, taking deep breaths. The forest remained perfectly still. He should have been relieved—and he was—but he was also no closer to helping Pebble. And he wouldn’t get any closer tonight.

  Finally, exhausted and aching, Van turned and stumbled toward the gardens.

  He shuffled along the paved paths. Scents of roses and pond water draped the air around him like invisible lace curtains. At the edge of one stone pond, Van slowed, watching droplets fall from its marble fountain and ripple the black water below.

  He’d met Pebble beside a city park fountain. He’d lost her next to another fountain, in Mr. Falborg’s backyard. Now he’d found her again . . . but everything had changed. Now both he and Pebble were stuck in that gray place between enemy sides, without anyone to help them.

  Except each other.

  Van reached into his pocket. The pennies felt warm and solid in his hand. He pulled one out and held it on his palm, letting it wink darkly in the moonlight. He thought of all the wishes he’d made before he’d even known about Collectors or Eaters. There must have been hundreds of them—wishes made on eyelashes and coins and ladybugs, wishes on birthday candles and stars. Maybe, Van thought, the wishes you made without the hope of help from magical creatures were just wishes you had to make come true for yourself.

  So Van wished.

  I wish I could find a way to help Pebble.

  The dark dot of the penny hit the water, making one more ripple.

  Van straightened his shoulders. He turned away from the fountain, wound through the gardens to the front of the mansion, and padded down the path to the old stables. A moment later, he was shut inside of his suite, and the Fox Den lay silent beneath the moon-gray sky.

  Another minute slipped by.

  From the edge of the woods, something crept out into the moonlight.

  The thing was pale and four-legged, formed like an animal—but not like any animal that belonged in those woods. Its large body drifted over the grass as lightly as a trail of fog. Its eyes took in everything: the sleeping mansion, the dark gardens, the glimmer of water in the pools.

  The thing floated through the gardens. It stopped beside a stone fountain. One long-fingered hand clawed through the pool, catching a small, golden light.

  The thing swallowed the light.

  Silvery mist filled the air. Its shimmer blanketed the rose beds and swirled along the paved paths. Before the mist had thinned once more, the thing was gone.

  And the phone beside Ingrid Markson’s bed began to buzz.

  11

  Doom Will Get You Anyway

  By the time Van woke, the midmorning sun was pouring its gold light through his window.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead!” sang his mother when Van stumbled out into the hall. She swiveled in her seat at the kitchen table, her smile dimming slightly as her eyes fell on Van. “Are you all right, caro mio? You look like you slept in your clothes!”

  “Oh. Um . . .” Van glanced down at his wrinkled and mud-dabbled pants. “I guess I did. I was really tired.”

  “Yes, you dozed right through the coaching sessions I held here in the living room this morning.” His mother took a sip of her tea. “Now I don’t have any other obligations until tomorrow afternoon. Instead, I have a special surprise for you.” Her smile returned to room-bleaching wattage. “Charles and Peter Grey will be here in less than an hour!”

  Van felt as though both his knees had disappeared. He swayed, managing to catch himself against the wall. Maybe he had misheard; he hadn’t put in his hearing aids yet. Maybe his mother had said something else. Something less horrible.

  “They what?” he croaked.

  “After our talk yesterday evening, I sent Charles a message telling him how sorry I felt about rushing you away. He wrote back late last night and said they would come up to spend the weekend with us!”

  Van clutched the wall harder. “The whole weekend?”

  “Well . . . one night, anyway,” his mother amended. “You and Peter can have a sleepover here while Charles takes one of the guest rooms in the mansion. He and the company director are old friends.” His mother’s eyebrows rose. “Giovanni, aren’t you happy about this? You told me you missed Peter. . . .”

  “Oh. Yes. I did,” Van scrambled. “I mean—I just thought we’d go to the city to see him.”

  “Well, the city is coming to us instead!” His mother’s smile flashed back. She lifted her teacup. “Now go and shower!” she commanded over its rim. “Andiamo! So you can be ready when your doom arrives!”

  Van stumbled backward. “What?”

  His mother set her cup down. “So you can be ready when the two of them arrive! Go on! Andiamo!”

  Shut inside the bathroom, Van buried his head in a towel and tried to think. But all he could think about was how hard it was to solve a problem, and how easy it was to make a problem worse.

  Forty-five minutes later, his doom arrived.

  Van stood in the doorway, neatly dressed, his damp hair combed and his hearing aids in place. His mother glowed beside him in a pale blue blouse. And Peter, climbing out of his father’s sleek black car in his expensive gray clothes, looked like a bullet coming from a gun. A very mopey bullet. A bullet that was headed straight toward Van.

  Peter stopped so close to him that Van could feel his breath as he spoke. “What’s going on?” he whispered, close to Van’s ear. “I thought we were trying to keep them apart!”

  “I—” Van began. But he was interrupted by his mother, who was giving both Greys kisses on the cheeks, and by Mr. Grey shaking his hand, and by the shattered plans wheeling around in his head.

  “Are you two hungry?” Van’s mother asked. “Shall we go to the dining hall?”

  “We hate you for leaving,” said Mr. Grey.

  No. We ate before leaving. That made more sense. The smile Mr. Grey was giving Van’s mother certainly didn’t look like hate.

  “Why don’t we all take a walk around the grounds then?” Van’s mother sang. “It’s such a lovely day, and such a lovely place.”

  Mr. Grey offered her his arm. “And such lovely company.”

  Van heard those words perfectly clearly.

  So, obviously, did Peter.

  He hung back next to Van as Mr. Grey and Van’s mother set off, glaring at their parents’ backs with ice-water eyes.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” said Van to Peter, once the adults had strode out of hearing.

  Peter muttered something Van couldn’t catch. He stalked after their parents. Van scurried behind, wishing that his mother weren’t leaning quite so heavily on Mr. Grey’s arm, and that her smile didn’t look quite so happy.

  After their walk around the grounds, Van suggested that they all play Monopoly in the mansion’s game room. He wasn’t really a Monopoly fan, but he wanted to keep all four of them together for as long as possible,
so that Mr. Grey and his mother couldn’t steal any more time alone.

  Three hours later, Van’s head was pounding from trying to separate the Greys’ voices from the background noise, his mother was glassy-eyed with boredom, and Mr. Grey—who kept calling Park Place “Park Lane” in his emphatic British accent—looked wrinkled and annoyed. Only Peter was smiling.

  They had dinner together in the grand dining hall. Peter asked his father to “pass the WAAAAAUUUTER” in a glass-rattling belch.

  “Peter,” said Mr. Grey, through tight lips.

  It took Van several attempts, but he finally managed to burp out the word “cheese” loudly enough that Peter snorted water through his nose.

  Dinner wrapped up pretty quickly after that.

  The blue haze of twilight hung around them as Peter, Van, and Van’s mother headed down the paths toward the old stables.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” said Van’s mother as the boys settled down in Van’s room, Van on the bed and Peter on a cot borrowed from the mansion’s guest rooms. His mother had loaned them the TV from her own bedroom too, so they could have a “real slumber party,” as she kept saying, with a big smile.

  “Good night, Peter,” said Van’s mother, pulling the blankets up over him. “Buona notte, caro mio,” she added in a softer voice, bending down to kiss Van on the forehead. The scent of lilies followed her as she swished out the door.

  Van rubbed the kiss away with his sleeve, mildly embarrassed. But Peter wasn’t watching. He was gazing at the door with an empty look in his blue eyes. It was a look that made Van wonder how long it had been since anyone had kissed Peter Grey good night.

  They found a superhero movie on TV—the kind with enough explosions that they couldn’t have heard each other even if they tried to talk. Van dozed off before it ended.

  He woke up with a start a little while later, blinking around, trying to remember why he’d fallen asleep with his hearing aids still in his ears.

  The TV volume had been turned low. The glow of the screen revealed Peter Grey lying on the other bed, its blue light glinting in his open eyes.