The Artifact Hunters

by Janet Fox

  He turned landward again and saw with surprise that the others had vanished like phantasms.

  “Wait,” he called in Czech, forgetting in his surprise to use English.

  Where did they all go, and so quickly? He struggled up the cliff to the top and stopped, hearing no sound but the rustle of wind-washed bracken, seeing nothing across a wide stretch of twilit moors.

  They were gone, and it was more than strange, as if he’d been spirited to this place by magic.

  Isaac was alone with only his memories and his hopes. But here he would find his parents, who had believed he could make it to Scotland. He would search for this strange symbol as his mother had told him he must.

  Isaac stood on a spit of windswept barren land until the night was fully dark as the stars flitted through stringers of clouds. He gulped the unfamiliar damp, peaty air of Scotland. His cheeks began to sting, the wind bringing tears to his eyes. In the distance he thought he could see a pinprick of light.

  He made for that light.

  CHAPTER 5

  Moloch

  Thin places. Moloch knows much about thin places.

  As a Seelie fae who’s been banished to the grim corner of the fae world, he pays careful attention to the thin places that are the veil between the worlds, fae and human. As a fae whose heart is filled with desire, Moloch waits for human cruelty and selfishness to tear the fragile fabric of the ancient boundaries. Yet another hate-filled human war has made the boundaries, those thin places, very, very easy to cross.

  Moloch stands at the top of the high tower of his isolated corner of the Realm of Faerie, twisting the object he holds in his clawlike fingers as he waits for a sluagh hunter to return with news. The object in his hand is a small cracked mirror.

  Of course it’s cracked. Everything Moloch has is damaged.

  He stares into the mirror and wills it to open a window to the past, an act he does often in an effort to feel better.

  He sees again the time when fae and humans shared space and magic. He sees himself as he was—beautiful, powerful, included in the Seelie world. Moloch’s mouth twists and he clutches the edge of the mirror.

  The vision changes and the ancient war between fae and humans (the war that separated the realms) rages. He sees how he stands by as humans steal the magic and lock it away. (All right, he helped them, and yes, it was a mistake, but he did it to show off his cleverness, and wouldn’t anyone?) He sees how his face is sliced by a human when he tries to betray them, too.

  He sees again how the Seelie fae condemn him as punishment to this dark corner of the Realm of Faerie, where he has lived in exile for miserable centuries with the sluagh host, the Unseelie fae.

  Ah, thinks Moloch, the Unseelie fae, the sluagh. They are terrifying—but feckless. A bit dim. Okay, not very bright at all. But they admire Moloch. Moloch and the sluagh have come to a working arrangement.

  Moloch believes that if he can find the Guardian, he’ll have a bargaining chip to regain his old life. The sluagh search for the Guardian for Moloch, and he looks away when they harvest human souls.

  The window Moloch peers through closes, and the mirror reflects him as he is. He’s holding the mirror close and sees the white rib of scar that disappears beneath his black eye patch. He’s tempted to smash the mirror on the stone. Instead he clutches it so tight it bites into his hand.

  He wants the mirror to find what he’s looking for, but the mirror, like Moloch, is flawed.

  Moloch paces to the edge of his high tower and glares out over the distance to the bright, light Seelie fae world with its music and dance. He can hear laughter.

  Moloch wants to be freed from the ruin of the Unseelie world and, yes, away from the loyal but rotting sluagh, and back to the bright lights and glamour. If he recovers the magic, he might be given leave to return to his former life.

  He needs to find the Guardian.

  Then Moloch will turn the Guardian over to the Seelie king, who will reward him. With this human war stretching the thin places between worlds to breaking—allowing his sluagh hunters to close in on the trail—Moloch feels he’s finally going to get what he wants.

  From where Moloch’s dragon, Wyvern, is curled in the corner of the tower, he puffs in his sleep, and smoke rises above the beast in a small cloud.

  Soon, my friend, Moloch thinks, we will fly.

  Moloch looks in the cracked mirror again, and this time as it reflects his damaged face he narrows his remaining eye, the eye that glows as red as fire. He hears in the distance the scream of a returning hunter, and one corner of his mouth lifts in a smile.

  CHAPTER 6

  Isaac in the Orkney Islands

  Circa 1750

  Out of the moors in the middle of the night a barn rises like a gingerbread cottage, one pinprick of light coming from a small lantern. Made of stone, the barn sports gaps the size of Isaac’s fist between the boulders, gaps that let in the whistling wind. But Isaac is grateful for this bit of strange luck, finding shelter, and he tumbles almost at once into a peculiar sleep.

  Peculiar because it isn’t a natural sleep. It’s as if he’s caught in a storm at sea. As if he was knocked senseless as soon as he fell into the hay.

  As if Isaac Wolf has been enchanted.

  * * *

  * * *

  Isaac wakes stiff with cold, and for a moment he can’t remember where he is. He’s befuddled and not feeling rested, even though a pale afternoon light streams through the open barn door.

  Then he realizes with a start what woke him and feels a surge of joy. His father—his own father—stands over him.

  Isaac leaps to his feet and throws his arms around him. “Papa!” He has to squeeze his eyes tight so he won’t cry.

  “Isaac.” His father hugs him hard and then pulls away. “We don’t have much time.” He turns, beckoning. “Come quickly.”

  Isaac hitches up his pack and follows his father out into a raw wind, making for a small hut. He remembers now that he’s in Scotland, on one of the Orkney Islands. From somewhere—he can’t place it, coming from under his feet maybe—he feels a low, throbbing hum.

  “Where are we?” Isaac asks. “Where’s Mama?” He realizes with some confusion that his parents must have arrived in Scotland before him.

  “It’s all right,” Papa says, which only confuses him more. His father is moving fast.

  “How did you get here?” When his father doesn’t answer, Isaac, tripping while trying to keep stride, adds, “Papa?”

  The barn and the hut stand on the edge of a moor so vast and featureless it’s a wonder he stumbled upon them. Crossing the courtyard of this croft he passes a tall standing stone that wears parallel carved lines as if scratched by some great cat. The thatched hut, when they reach it, is small and tidy but spare, lit by a warming low fire. It all feels as if it belongs in another time, hundreds of years past.

  But there, standing in the middle of the room, is his mother.

  “Mama,” Isaac says, reaching for her.

  His mother hugs him tight, then pulls away. She motions for him to sit at the small table. “We have much to explain, and you must listen carefully, Isaac. They’re trying to find . . .” Her eyes shift to the still-open door. “No,” she whispers. “They’re coming.”

  His father says to her, “Go. Hold them off.”

  She nods and begins to murmur, a low, soft sound.

  Isaac demands, “Who’s coming?” He rubs his eyes, trying to get them to focus. He turns to look out the door. A line of gray storm clouds has gathered on the horizon, but he doesn’t see anyone outside. Aren’t they safe now, away from the Nazis?

  His father kneels in front of him. “You take this,” he says quickly. He reaches under his collar and pulls at a chain that hangs around his neck. As he slips it off, he lets go a deep breath, as if releasing a long-held thought. He holds the chain up.r />
  At the end of the chain hangs a pendant in the shape of the symbol on Isaac’s worn-out paper. It’s a looping, intertwining series of rings.

  “It’s called an eternity knot,” says his father. “Keep looking for it. We’ve left it for you to find.” He pauses. “Isaac, no one can take this from you by force, only if you relinquish it. Which you must not do.”

  “Wait,” Isaac says, shaking his head. “Where am I going? Aren’t you coming, too? We’re all together.” He reaches for his father’s hand as his father presses his lips together, an expression Isaac knows means he’s troubled.

  “There’s no time to tell you everything, Isaac. And it’s safer if you learn the lessons one by one. Put them together. A puzzle you must solve.”

  “I can feel them,” Isaac’s mother says. “You must hurry, Josef.”

  Isaac’s father slides the chain over Isaac’s head and tucks it down underneath his shirt, cool against his skin. Isaac hears that sound again, that low hum, and now a soft vibration buzzes where the pendant touches him.

  Isaac’s father says, “Don’t take it off. Ever. Not for anyone or anything. Not even for a second.” His father’s voice is urgent. “Promise.”

  Isaac nods, blinking. He can’t make sense of any of this, and he still feels disoriented, unbalanced, in a mind-fog. But he wants so badly to show his parents he’s come all this way with the strength they believe he has. He wants to be the wolf.

  “Say it,” his father commands, pressing Isaac’s hand between his own.

  “I promise,” Isaac says. He places his free hand on his chest, where the pendant lies, cold and throbbing, over his heart.

  “Josef,” Isaac’s mother says. “The watch now. Quickly.”

  Isaac’s father pushes a small casket toward Isaac. “Take this, too. There’s a castle on the mainland, in Scotland, to the south. Rookskill. Village of Craig. What’s inside this box will connect us. It holds answers.” His father leans forward. “Another promise, Isaac. Don’t open this until you’re inside the castle. That’s where you should be safe. If you open it before, they may sense it.”

  “Who are they?”

  His mother moves toward the door, lifting her arms. “If Isaac doesn’t go now, they’ll find him.” It sounds like she might cry, her voice breaking. She stands in the doorway, placing her hands on the doorframe as if she’s a shield.

  His father says, the words coming fast, “You’ll return to your own time. We’ll stay behind to draw them off. Be wary of the night. They come strongest with the deepest dark.”

  A sharp wind blows inside the hut. Isaac’s skin prickles. The hum inside him grows louder, and long shadows stretch across the floor. Isaac blinks. It’s now as dark as twilight.

  The fire goes out with a hiss.

  “No.” His mother, a bare silhouette, braces and says, her voice rising, “They’re here.”

  Isaac tries to stand.

  His mother turns to Isaac, her face ashen. “Haste!”

  His father shoves the casket. “Now. Take it.”

  The wind rises to a howl. A shadow falls across the already gloomy room, and an enormous creature appears just outside the door. The hair on the back of Isaac’s neck stands straight out and his breath catches, and the pendant sends a searing charge through his heart, the hum growing in his brain to a piercing whine.

  He thinks he hears a whispered word. Guardian.

  The room is as black as pitch. His mother cries out, and the shadow-creature standing at the door screams, and his father shouts, “Isaac.”

  Isaac places both hands on the casket. His fingers cramp, and he can’t lift his hands away. He hears a sound like a faint chime coming from inside the casket, like the ring of a small bell.

  Wings unfurl behind the creature and a stench of rot fills the air and Isaac gags, then gasps. The monster turns toward him with eyes that glow as red as burning coals. Isaac is frozen, hands still on the casket, frozen by that deep hum that fills him, the hum from the cold pendant that sends another charge through his heart. As the fear inside Isaac explodes to panic, the room, the monster, and his parents glow with brilliant blue light—and he cries out, yells out loud, as, with a blinding flash, all falls to darkness.

  CHAPTER 7

  Isaac

  1942

  Isaac, still yelling, eyes shut tight, hands still clutching the casket, tumbled head over heels in space, over and over until he landed on his knees on the floor of the hut. Then he opened his eyes again and pushed up from the floor, legs shaking.

  His mother and father were gone and the monster was gone, too. Isaac was alone, the pendant cold against his skin, the casket clutched tight in his hands.

  It was a late winter afternoon, light pouring in from above through a vast hole in the roof of the hut that was ruined—but not by a blast. It was ruined by age. Thatch littered the floor. The table and a chair were the only furnishings. The windows and doors were gaping holes. Dust filled his nose, and the wood creaked as the rotting floor bent beneath him.

  The pendant pressed against his skin. What had just happened?

  Isaac turned. Thank all the prophets, the monster was gone.

  But so were his parents. Isaac thought his heart would break.

  He sat down, his muscles turned to jelly. The casket slipped from his hands to the table. The wind stirred the thatch that drifted down from overhead. He heard the distant cry of a seabird. The smells of peat and old farm filled his nose.

  He was Isaac Wolf. He took a deep breath. He had to unravel the tangle of threads he’d been handed, so he’d better get started.

  Isaac swallowed hard and leaned closer to the casket.

  The carvings in the wood were intricate, leaves and flowers, made by a skilled hand. The wood was rubbed glossy by handling, some of the carvings worn to mere impressions. The casket was no bigger than one of the small loaves of fresh bread his mother brought home from the neighborhood bakery.

  The sun shot a sudden ray through the door of the hut. It was growing late. And Isaac suddenly realized his position.

  Up until he’d stumbled onto the beach, he’d been guided. All across Europe, through danger after danger, he’d had one adult after another looking out for him. His parents had promised to meet him and he’d found them only to lose them again. Now he was completely alone, told to keep finding the symbol of the eternity knot, having an experience that could only be described as . . . what?

  Isaac clenched his fists and went through it, piece by piece.

  He was in possession of this casket that his father said held answers and was a connection to his parents, a casket that he was not to open yet.

  He wore a chain that held a pendant of the eternity knot that he was not to take off.

  His parents had disappeared after telling him he’d return to his own time.

  He’d seen a hideous monster he couldn’t name and watched his mother performing some kind of spell against it.

  They would find him.

  And what was Guardian?

  He took a deep breath.

  He looked again at the casket. He was tempted to open it, for it contained answers. He reached for it, and as his fingers gripped the wood, he heard a noise again, that hum, and he snatched his hand away, surprised.

  After shaking out his fingers, he carefully turned the casket so that the latch faced him. It was fixed by a lead seal that would have to be broken or cut. He leaned closer. The seal was imprinted with words.

  MEMENTO MORI

  His Latin was passable, and he recognized the first word. It meant “remember.”

  Remember that you’d better not open it yet, he thought. He wasn’t supposed to open it until he reached that safe place, that castle, because they (whoever they were) might sense it (whatever that meant). Rookskill. To the south. Village called Craig.

 
Terrific. So helpful.

  He would soon run out of daylight. This was not the time to be opening a strange box he wasn’t supposed to open yet anyway, and he didn’t want to meet something that came with the deepest dark.

  Isaac stood and picked up his pack. The spine of his copy of Frankenstein appeared as he set the casket inside the pack and he paused. His two books, brought from home: Frankenstein and Grimms’ Tales.

  Monsters. Magic.

  The magic he’d read about in Grimms’ fairy tales and wished was real. Flying on dragons. Receiving a magical power. Wielding a weapon. Being the hero. All that he’d dreamed about happening to him if fairy tales came true.

  Now magic seemed to be happening, but it had not been what he’d expected. He hadn’t mastered the moment. Instead he felt what the monster in Frankenstein felt: awkward, fearful, and lonely.

  The sun began to fade. Be wary of the night. They come strongest with deepest dark. That was one instruction Isaac had no trouble following. He had no more time to wait here, in this hut. He turned and made for the door.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the courtyard outside the hut Isaac paused again at the standing stone. In the waning light it cast a long shadow across the dirt, longer even than Isaac was tall. He placed his hand on the stone, his index finger tracing one long vertical groove to other runes at the base of the mark, faint beneath lichen.

  Isaac’s gaze followed the stone’s shadow, which stretched toward a swale in the moors. Smoke rose in the distance. Isaac stood taller. Smoke meant people. There were at least two ribbons of smoke. Which meant a village.

  Maybe even a village with a sign with the eternity knot, which would be comforting, for he would know that he was on the right track.