Thieves of Weirdwood

by Christian McKay Heidicker

  The Rook’s expression softened slightly, giving Arthur another moment to think.

  The gang leader had needed someone else to handle the dragon-bone Quill. Someone creative enough to tear big holes in the Veil so that he could be reunited with his wife’s spirit. He’d found Alfred Moore in the Mirror, giving the pen name author the one thing that would kill his creator and set him free, while also getting him to unleash monsters on Kingsport.

  But Moore had written that he’d received the Quill from a Jangling Man … Of course. That had to have been Charlie, whose chain mail was always clinking. As with the Black Feathers, the Rook kept his dirty business several people removed from himself so the Wardens wouldn’t be able to track him.

  More importantly, with his magically bound tongue and hands, the Rook was unable to use the Quill. It seemed he couldn’t even touch it with his tattooed hands.

  “The Wardens will be here any moment,” Arthur said. “We need to come up with defenses. Now.”

  The Rook considered him a moment, then frowned at Charlie.

  No, Arthur thought. Don’t let him use it.

  “And here I am with a bodyguard who never learned how to bloody write,” the Rook said.

  Charlie blushed and shifted.

  The Rook’s eyes glanced to his office door, clearly considering his daughter.

  “You don’t want Liza to get involved in this,” Arthur said. “The Quill’s too dangerous.” He held out his hand to Charlie. “Let me do it.”

  The Rook’s mouth grew tight. “If it turns out you have deceived me, I will feed you and your sorry excuse for a father to one of Moore’s rabid nightmares.”

  Arthur gulped as Charlie slapped the Quill in his palm. Arthur considered bolting out of the pub, but he wouldn’t make it two steps before Charlie snapped his neck.

  Arthur sat on the feathered throne while the Rook laid a clean piece of paper in front of him. The Rook glared over Arthur’s shoulder, watching his every move.

  “Write precisely what I say,” the Rook said.

  Arthur nodded and dipped the Claw Quill, using his left, uninjured hand.

  The Rook said, “The Mirror Rook glided in from the silver city and alighted on the Real Stormcrow Pub in order to defend it.”

  Arthur fought down a shiver. He remembered the deafening BOOM behind the back door of the Mirror pub. If he summoned that creature to the Real, the Rook would become unstoppable. Sekhmet wouldn’t be able to come and rescue him. But if Arthur wrote anything other than exactly what the Rook asked him to, Charlie would break him within seconds.

  Arthur began to write.

  The Mirror Rook glided in from the silver city and …

  “Um, how do you spell alighted?” he asked, trying to buy more time.

  The Rook told him, irritation in his voice. Arthur wrote the letters slowly, thinking. When Wally had told him to write a portal to escape the Manor, Arthur had foolishly written magical Kingsport. All it had taken was a single word to change everything.

  … alighted on the Real Stormcrow Pub …

  Arthur wrote the Rook’s words even more slowly, as if afraid to misspell something.

  He had time enough to change one word. One very important word.

  … in order to …

  It wasn’t until the very end that the answer came to him. A tiny change. Just a few letters. He smiled to himself. And then Arthur finished the sentence, writing as quickly as he could. The Mirror Rook would not be swooping in to defend the Stormcrow Pub but to …

  … destroy it.

  “No!” the Rook screamed.

  He seized the Quill, but his tattooed hand started to sizzle, and he cried out and let go. With his other hand, the Rook shoved Arthur out of the feathered throne and then stomped painfully on his arm, making Arthur’s grip release and the Quill clatter under the desk.

  Charlie picked up Arthur by the shirt and hurled him through the trapdoor. Arthur hit the cellar floor hard. The trapdoor fell shut, and Charlie locked it with a click. Arthur could still see the men through the trapdoor’s bars.

  “Cross it out!” the Rook screamed at Charlie. “Now, you fool!”

  Charlie crouched, frantically searching under the desk for the Quill, but it was too late. The pub’s walls began to tremble. Outside came a sweep of wings as big as ship’s sails and a grawk as loud as thunder.

  “Dad?” Liza’s voice echoed, scared and hollow from the pub.

  A deafening shriek pierced the night as a talon the size of a scythe sliced through the ceiling. Liza screamed, but it was lost in the collapse of the pub’s walls. The office filled with talons and shrieks and splintered wood. A giant feather fell over the bars of the trapdoor, so Arthur could only see bits and flashes of the attack. He heard a wet sound, and Charlie grunted. Blood dripped down the steps. The ceiling continued to wrench apart as a beak, as black as tar and as long as a ship’s prow, clacked through.

  “I am your master!” the Rook screamed at it. “I created you in all of your glory through my power and for—”

  The beak snapped, and his voice cut short. Arthur watched as the massive head of the Mirror Rook retreated through the hole in the roof, the Rook’s feet kicking like a helpless insect in its beak. As the Mirror Rook took flight from the roof, the feet fell still and did not move again.

  * * *

  When the sound of flapping faded in the distance, Arthur collapsed to the floor, dust settling with his pounding heart. He had summoned the Rook’s Mirror counterpart, and it had devoured the Rook. Arthur felt neither guilty nor victorious. Only fear.

  Arthur blinked at his surroundings, blood pounding in his eyes. The cellar was not filled with fingers or skeletons, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. The air felt like the cold, damp armpit of a corpse—thick with the stench of festering cheeses. He hugged himself. This is where Black Feathers came to die. And there was no one left upstairs to let him out.

  Arthur could have sat there all night, staring. But then he remembered. Sekhmet was unconscious in an alley. Wally was waiting for him in the Mirror City.

  “Come on, Arthur,” he said, forcing himself to his feet. “You can figure this out.”

  He climbed the ladder and reached through the bars of the trapdoor, brushing aside the giant feather. Through the debris, he spotted the claw Quill, blue veins glowing. He grabbed a splintered piece of wood and used it to pull the Quill toward him. Huamei’s claw was still warm, thrumming with the power of having summoned the Mirror Rook.

  Arthur had been hesitant about writing before, but now his fear had grown into mind-numbing dread. If he wrote one wrong word, it could destroy him. He searched the cellar and realized, with no small amount of relief, that he couldn’t write if he wanted to. He didn’t have paper or ink.

  The relief quickly turned into guilt. Were Wally and the others cursing Arthur’s name? Was Wally telling them that this was typical Arthur Benton—running away from danger to serve himself?

  Rats scrabbled and squeaked in the cellar’s dark corners. But beneath them was another sound. Snores. Familiar snores.

  “Harry?” Arthur said, blindly feeling his way through the darkness. His hands found a large belly, and Arthur patted his way to his father’s cheeks, which he lightly slapped. “Harry, wake up! We gotta break out of here!”

  Harry didn’t stir. He had all the telltale signs: pungent breath, bottomless snores, drool dripping down his cheek. It seemed that the moment Arthur had released his dad from Greyridge, Harry had gotten drunk. He was so far gone, he’d even slept through the Mirror Rook’s destruction of the Stormcrow.

  Arthur went to the corner, cupped some water from a hissing pipe, and dribbled it over Harry’s lips. Harry snorted awake, sitting up with a start and then rubbing his head. “Where are we?”

  “Stormcrow’s cellar,” Arthur said. “Not that having you awake does any good.”

  “What do you mean?” Harry said, squinting.

  “Do you realize how much more difficu
lt you make everything?” Arthur yelled. “Like life isn’t hard enough! You drink all my earnings away so we can barely feed ourselves, let alone starving orphans! No wonder I’ve never felt like a Gentleman Thief! I’ve taken after you, and I hate it! Leaving Wally behind! Stealing treasure from good people just to save you from being killed!” Arthur sat on the ground in defeat. “I hate it.”

  Harry was silent a moment. “Son, I ain’t touched a drop since you released me.” He nodded to the trapdoor. “Charlie up there conked me over the head.”

  “But…” Arthur said, “your breath. The drool.”

  “I was eating cheese and onions when he got me!” Harry wiped the slobber from his chin. “And I’d like to see you not drool after getting knocked unconscious!”

  Arthur’s surge of anger dissipated when he saw the bump shining on Harry’s forehead.

  “Oh,” Arthur said. “Sorry, Dad.”

  Harry climbed the ladder and tried to force open the trapdoor. It barely budged.

  “This is a pickle, eh?” he said.

  Arthur squeezed the Quill. “If only we had some paper and ink…”

  Harry gave him a confused look. Then he reached in his back pocket and pulled out several eviction notices. They must have been nailed to their apartment door—one for each day Harry failed to pay rent.

  Arthur snatched the pages. “Dad, you’re a lifesaver!”

  He made a small desk beneath the light of the trapdoor by setting a cask lid between two barrels. Now he just needed ink. He found a barrel of oil and dragged it sloshing over to his makeshift desk. The liquid inside was sludgy black. Using his left, uninjured hand, Arthur dipped the Quill and wrote Garnett Lacroix. It was messy, but it would do.

  Arthur’s hand trembled. His heart pounded. He needed to come up with a way to revive Garnett Lacroix. Something that he as a reader would believe. But nothing came to him.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine a perfect start to the story. Maybe he’d describe the stars of the Mirror City. They were like … ninja stars made of light. Wait, no. They were like sea anemones of fire …

  Bluch. This was harder than he thought. He didn’t sound anything like Valerie Lucas. Arthur tried not to think about the fact that Kingsport’s fate was at stake and that his spirit could be lost forever.

  “What’re you doing, scribbling at a time like this?” Harry asked.

  “I need to write a story about Garnett Lacroix,” Arthur said. “I can’t explain why right now. Just … let me focus.”

  “Ah. Right,” Harry said, leaning against the ladder. “Lacrotch.”

  “Lacroix,” Arthur corrected.

  “Lacwaw,” his dad said. “That’s the one. You used to sit in my lap while I read you those stories. You’d giggle and gasp and smile up at me like I was your hero. You remember that?”

  “Of course I remember. Mom gave me those stories.”

  “Pbbbb.” Harry fluttered his lips. “Nah. She was sick at the hospital. She told me to pick out somethin’ special for Christmas, and that’s what I picked.”

  Arthur stared at his father. “You bought me Garnett Lacroix?”

  Harry grinned. “Sure did.”

  “Those books changed my life,” Arthur said, seeing his dad in a whole new light.

  “’Course they did!” Harry said. “I’m not as big a fool as you like to think.”

  Arthur remembered something important then. Every hero had to have a dark night of the soul before things grew bright again. And things didn’t get much darker than the Stormcrow’s basement … or lighter than the memories of a beloved childhood story.

  Maybe life was more like adventure stories than Arthur gave it credit.

  He stared at the blank page. “Dad, do you remember any of the stories?”

  Harry rubbed the bump on his head. “I think I might. You always did like that one about saving the orphans.”

  “Would you tell me that one?” Arthur asked. “Like you used to?”

  Harry cleared his throat. “Once upon a time there was this thief who dressed better than just about anybody, if I remember correctly.”

  Arthur listened until he felt inspired. Then he told his father to hush and placed Quill to paper.

  Garnett Lacroix woke with a start. He clawed the cobwebs from his eyes and gazed around the sewers.

  “What the devil?” he said, his voice echoing down the dark tunnel.

  Arthur found he was no longer self-conscious about what to write. He simply let the adventure flow through him. Just like when he was little.

  Garnett opened his vest and peeked inside at the many empty bags of blood that lined his shirt. “Good thing I was carrying those blood transfusions for that orphanage!” the Gentleman Thief said. “The spiders drank those instead of me!” He tore out the empty bags and discarded them. “I’ll have to track down more blood for the orphans after this adventure is through!”

  Arthur wasn’t sure that was how Valerie Lucas would’ve resurrected her hero, but he hoped she’d be proud of him.

  Garnett touched his cheek, which was quickly transforming—papery as mummy skin to soft and prickly. Blood coursed through his fingertips.

  “Where are my Merry Rogues? Gus? Tuck? Mim?”

  There was no response. The sewers rang hollow with the desperation of a man who

  Arthur crossed out the line. “Get to the action, Benton.”

  Garnett picked himself up and brushed the last of the cobwebs from his pants. “Wherever they are, they probably need my help!”

  Arthur wrote the Gentleman Thief out of the sewer and into the tangled Mirror streets. Arthur briefly worried that he was only imagining his hero walking up Parasite Lane. What if in the Mirror, nothing was happening? What if Garnett was still covered in cobwebs?

  But it felt so natural to write that Arthur continued.

  Garnett Lacroix blinked up at the strangely glistening sky. The stars looked like bright sparkling fangs that dripped glittery horror onto the rooftops.

  “Beautiful!” he cried. “But now is no time for sightseeing!”

  He walked until he heard a familiar sound. The joyful voices of his Merry Rogues! Garnett followed the music and came to the Ghastly Courtyard. But instead of his Rogues, he found a group of skeletons standing on the gallows, snipping away underwear bands and sewing those bands together.

  “Gus? Tuck? Mim?” Garnett said. “What happened to you?”

  “Just a little bone tired is all!” Tuck said.

  “Too many skeletons in our closet!” said Mim.

  “We haven’t got the guts to tell you!” said Gus.

  Garnett wiggled a finger in his ear. “Please, leave the puns to me.” He clapped them on their shoulders, rattling their bones. “It’s good to see you.”

  The skeletons went back to work, sewing the stretchy bands of underwear together.

  “Arthur!”

  A boy ran up to Garnett and handed him his wide-brimmed hat with the daffodil tucked in the brim. The boy was clever-looking. A little on the short side, maybe, but could probably pick a lock better than most.

  “Who is this Arthur of which you speak?” Garnett said, putting on his hat and feeling whole again.

  “Sorry, Mr. Lacroix,” the boy said and shook Garnett’s hand. “I’m Wally. We weren’t sure you were going to show.”

  Back in the Stormcrow cellar, Arthur grinned. He hadn’t written those last words. They had appeared on the page all by themselves.

  “Of course I showed!” Arthur wrote. “Wherever there’s a bat-winged hospital on the loose, expect the Gentleman Thief!”

  “That’s oddly specific,” Wally said, then smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  As Wally’s words scratched themselves on the page, the cellar started to melt away.

  “Arthur?” Harry said, panicked. “Son, what’s happening? Your eyes are going white…”

  Arthur blinked and found that he was staring through the eyes of Garnett Lacroix.

&
nbsp; 23

  MONSTER GREYRIDGE

  “We sure this is gonna work?” Wally asked as he tied one end of the underwear sling so it dangled between two gallows.

  “Of course it’ll work!” Tuck said.

  “We’re dead shots!” said Mim.

  “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?” said Gus.

  Wally secured the knot and dropped to the planks. “Um, we could all die?”

  Mim threw a bony arm around his shoulder. “Ah, lovey. Being dead’s not so bad.”

  Wally shrugged her away and went to talk to Arthur/Garnett, who stood on the edge of the Ghastly Courtyard, hands planted on his hips, gazing into the sky. Wally had to admit that the Gentleman Thief did look heroic. Strong chin. Powerful frame. Gold-laced jacket and bright blue pants. Wally finally understood what Arthur imagined he looked like whenever he struck a pose in his tattered rags.

  “Ready?” Wally said.

  Garnett breathed deeply. “As ready as a crocodile in a petting zoo.”

  Wally smiled and shook his head. Arthur really needed to work on his lines.

  “Just be careful up there,” Wally said.

  “Fear not, young thief,” Garnett said. “Alfred Moore has brought me back to life dozens of times—from being shot in the heart to falling off a waterfall to that time my head was shipped to the Far East.”

  “Well, now he’s trying to do the opposite,” Wally said.

  Garnett only winked at him.

  Wally watched Monster Greyridge flap its way across the horizon. It flew the same circle above the city, over and over again, taking about an hour to make a complete rotation. They would have to time their launch perfectly to make sure Garnett broke through the hospital’s portcullis. The skeletons had aimed the elastic sling at the moon. The hospital was nearly on target.

  “Four minutes, everyone!” Ludwig shouted, madly folding paper cranes.

  Wally’s stomach lurched. He approached Breeth, whose tentacles were nestled in the saddle at the base of the underwear sling.

  “Ready, Breeth?”

  When she didn’t respond, he climbed her tentacles like slimy tree roots and sat next to her toothy mouth.