The Artifact Hunters

by Janet Fox

  “Mmphf,” Isaac responded. He swallowed the rest without chewing, to get that bitter taste out of his mouth.

  Kat’s lips were pressed together as if she was trying to stifle a laugh.

  “More?” Lark asked, and Isaac shook his head and patted his stomach. He was afraid to speak until the awful taste settled, then he took several great gulps of water.

  No one else took a cake, all of them looking vague or thoughtful or preoccupied.

  “Come on,” Amelie said. “I’ll show you upstairs.” She rose from the table, suppressing a smile.

  Isaac raised his hand in a goodbye and grabbed his pack. Weariness overcame him. It had been a long day—a very long few weeks—punctuated by fear.

  From behind him, Isaac heard Kat say, “See you in the morning.”

  Then they all began to murmur, and Isaac was pretty sure they were talking about him.

  * * *

  * * *

  “You can take any room with an open door,” Amelie said. “There are lots of rooms. We used to have more people here.” She sounded wistful.

  The castle seemed even larger on the inside than the outside. The portraits of somber figures in period dress glared down, and the eyes followed him. Either end of the long hallway disappeared in gloom.

  “I think I would be lost without a guide,” Isaac said.

  “It’s an odd place, Rookskill,” Amelie answered. “Mind you, don’t go wandering alone, especially at night. The hallways seem to, I don’t know, bend. Rearrange themselves.” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “I had a bit of a time here a couple of years ago. A bunch of us did. But that’s all finished.”

  “I see.” Isaac had the feeling that it wasn’t finished at all, at least not for Amelie. He pressed his hand to his heart, feeling the pendant.

  Isaac chose the first unoccupied room they came to. It was large, with an enormous four-poster bed and a cold fireplace.

  Amelie chattered on. “Sorry about the dessert. Lark confuses sugar with salt. Well, maybe confuses. Maybe intentionally swaps. Ghillies are tricky. Sometimes they can be sweet as butter, but other times . . . plus, there isn’t much sugar to begin with. Rationing, you know. I would’ve warned you—don’t eat any food that looks normal, it’s the not-normal-looking food that’s all right—but didn’t want to hurt Lark’s feelings.” She paused and said, “Oh.”

  Isaac turned. A ghost of a cat walked toward them, in the air a foot above the floor.

  “Where’d you come from?” Amelie said. The cat moved between them, pausing to rub against Amelie’s leg, then walked on. “I’d better find out about you.”

  “That is your magical gift?” Isaac guessed. “Dealing with ghosts?”

  “Taking care of magical creatures of all types,” she said, blushing a little. “Lark, Willow, any creature like that. Like that ghost kitty, though I’ve never seen her before. Right, then. Have a good rest. There are clean clothes in the dresser. You should find some trousers and shirts that fit. We’ll get the rest sorted out in the morning.”

  Isaac nodded, closed the door, and put his pack on the nearest chair.

  He rubbed his eyes. The past weeks weighed on him like a ton of stones. The hum that filled his mind now was soporific, and he fell across the bed and was asleep before he even removed his shoes.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sometime in the night Isaac woke. He rubbed the drool from his mouth and turned over. The room was dark, but coals burned in the fireplace, shedding dim orange light.

  He sat up.

  Willow hovered over Isaac’s pack, fingering the buckles that held it shut. Isaac’s blood ran cold.

  “Stop,” Isaac commanded.

  Willow snarled. “Light sleeper,” they grumbled. “Made you a fire, we did. Think you could be grateful. Freezing in here, it was, until we fixed it.”

  “You are not to touch that pack,” Isaac said as firmly as he could, remembering Amelie’s instructions. Then he added, “But thank you. For making the fire.”

  Willow said snidely, “Yes, young master.” They smirked (Isaac thought) and added, “Know something about you, we do.” Then a pop and they were gone.

  Just in case, Isaac shoved the pack under his bed, then undressed and crawled under the covers.

  Maybe Willow knew why Isaac was here. Knew about his gift.

  He’d made it to Rookskill. The castle was weird but protected. Everyone here seemed nice. There were kids his age. And they were helping in the war effort by learning how to use magic, which was both decent and pretty amazing. Maybe even fun. They were being trained. Was this what his father had been talking about?

  At least some answers to Isaac’s questions were tucked inside the casket, but he wasn’t about to open it again in the darkness. He didn’t want to remember that cold object inside. Didn’t want to revisit the dread vision. He’d open the casket again when he was ready, and in the daylight at the very least.

  But before he drifted off to sleep, Isaac shuddered with the thought that those awful monsters were out there. They were out there in the deepest dark.

  CHAPTER 17

  Moloch and the Seelie King

  * * *

  * * *

  Sitting in his stygian corner of the faerie realm, Moloch licks his lips and schemes.

  Moloch’s hunter has returned empty-handed once again. Empty-handed, but with information.

  In Orkney, in one of the thinnest of thin places—a ring of ancient standing stones—Moloch’s hunter smelled the scent of powerful magic.

  Guardian magic.

  Exactly the magic Moloch has been searching for. The hunter followed the scent to an inn where the magic appeared to have been used by a human boy, too late to find him but not too late to discover from the unfortunate landlady of that inn that the boy (she called him Isaac) was heading for a certain castle.

  Rookskill.

  Moloch knows this castle. Moloch has known Rookskill for a long time, but nothing truly important has stirred there lately.

  Isaac, according to the miserable landlady, was looking to find a certain symbol, too.

  The eternity knot.

  Moloch also knows the significance of the eternity knot.

  If the sluagh hunter is right, if indeed the magic is now in the hands of this Isaac, if indeed this Isaac is making his way to Rookskill, why, the hunter’s information could be beyond Moloch’s wildest dreams. A boy might be yet too untrained to understand the magic. Might be weak. Might even carry the key. How glorious!

  Moloch closes his eyes. He imagines the look on the face of the Seelie fae king when Moloch hands him this gift. He imagines the outpouring of admiration from the Seelie fae. He sees himself restored to the bright, light world of his past, all his sins forgiven. Moloch smiles.

  He stands and strides through shadowy hallways, on his way to beg an audience of the Seelie king.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Seelie king remains silent while Moloch speaks. When Moloch is finished, the king rises and says, “Let me think on the best approach.”

  Moloch pauses, confusion clear in his remaining eye. “I’m willing to go at once.”

  The king turns his back on Moloch and says in a tone both short and sharp, “I need to assess.”

  Moloch asks, “My boon, then? Restoration?” He sounds desperate.

  “If all goes well,” the king answers cryptically. He doesn’t want Moloch to believe he’ll ever be accepted again.

  Moloch disgusts the king. His courtiers hide their eyes when Moloch passes by. He’s grown repulsive over time and now carries the sluagh stench of rot, and his wings—once variegated and brilliant, like colored glass—have become hard and leathery. Even his remaining eye, once the green of Seelie fae, has turned sluagh red. After centuries of exile with them, Moloch has take
n on the aspects of the Unseelie. Of the sluagh, although Moloch doesn’t seem to realize how unpopular he’s become.

  The bright Seelie fae reject him completely.

  Once Moloch returns to his exile, the king calls his most trusted spy. “Find out what you can.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At first, Moloch doesn’t want to believe it. He’d expected an immediate yes, a readmittance. “They wouldn’t,” he mumbles. “They couldn’t.”

  But he saw their expressions when he approached the king. Saw their revulsion. The pain in his heart is sharp and bright, and a fresh anger rises inside him at their rejection.

  Moloch uses his mirror this time not to spy on the human world but to spy on the Seelie king. His instincts, what he felt from the king and court, prove right. The Seelie fae are lazy and unwilling to do the searching Moloch has done. But they are quite willing to take the fruit of Moloch’s efforts for themselves, even while they laugh at him, revile him behind his back. The superficial Seelie.

  His breath comes short as he sees that the king himself intends to find the Guardian now that he has Moloch’s hard-won information. The Seelie king will steal Moloch’s glory. Prevent Moloch’s redemption. Prohibit his return to the Seelie court.

  The king and his court will leave Moloch to rot with the sluagh.

  Moloch begins to shake with the realization that he’s been used and is despised. Anger floods Moloch and he lets out a sluagh-like scream.

  So be it. He’ll dispose of the Seelie king’s spy. He’s tired of waiting to be forgiven, tired of waiting to be brought back into the world he’s missed. Moloch will make his own joy.

  First to stop the spy. Then to find the Guardian. And at last to find all that lost magic and—why not?—keep it for himself. With that magic he could become as powerful as the Seelie king.

  And then, Moloch thinks, let’s see what the selfish Seelie will do.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ralph Baines

  1942

  In his room at the Craig Village Inn of the Green Gate, Ralph Baines carefully hung up his uniform. He brushed away a tiny piece of lint. He examined his mustache in the mirror, trimming it neatly with his scissors.

  He’d sent word on ahead and was told he’d be met, so tomorrow he would make his way to that ridiculous castle and prove to himself and everyone else that he was right.

  This entire magic business was a hoax.

  The knock on the door was soft but intrusive. He did not want to be disturbed. He went to the door, opening it a crack.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, we be shutting the kitchen for the night. I like to let guests know.”

  “I’m fine.” He began to close the door.

  “You be off in the morn?”

  He paused. “Yes. First thing.”

  “Making for the barracks, then? The other young gents are heading in that direction and you could—”

  “I’ll make my own way.” He paused again. “Good night.” And shut the door without waiting for the reply.

  Then he sighed.

  Mustn’t be totally rude. But no one here needed to know anything more about him, such as where he was going in the morning. Especially after what he’d heard about Rookskill Castle since arriving at this hostelry.

  Magic. Tomfoolery. Sheer nonsense.

  He’d been told, while eating his tasteless thin soup downstairs, that people in the village heard howls in the deepest part of the night. The man who’d told him that said gullible folk thought that wolves had returned to the glens and fens. The only wolves this man knew of were across the channel, he’d told Ralph—“The wolves of the Reich.”

  But then the man had leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin and added in a murmur, “But wolves or no, that place Rookskill be wicked enchanted.”

  Wolves. Enchantments. Ridiculous.

  The forest, from the vantage of Ralph’s window at nighttime, looked like a thorny thicket. It hid Rookskill Castle in its depths.

  Ralph Baines was not gullible. He was certain that he could peel away the falsehoods about this place and the children and the supposed magic they were learning and expose it all as a fraud and become the hero he wished to be.

  Just as he fell asleep he had a last, somewhat comforting thought. He’d load his service revolver in case the bit about wolves was true. In case some wolves did remain in this hostile northern country.

  Yes. Be practical and realistic and put this nonsense to rest. That was the ticket.

  CHAPTER 19

  Isaac

  1942

  Isaac woke to the sound of a high-pitched scream.

  He couldn’t remember where he was—lying in a huge bed in a gigantic room with stone walls that were barely lit by gray early morning light.

  Then came another bloodcurdling scream, and Isaac shot out of bed.

  By the time he’d thrown on some clothes and made it to the door, everyone was in the hallway. Amelie ran by, her thick tartan dressing gown flapping. “It’s Lark,” she said as she passed.

  Colin stood in the doorway opposite, eyes like saucers, Canut, his fur as rigid as porcupine quills, by his side.

  Isaac followed Leo to the kitchen.

  The others were all there. Lark stood on top of a large worktable with Amelie sitting next to her, Lark’s head buried in Amelie’s shoulder as Ame crooned in a soothing voice. Kat, Leo, and Colin knelt, gathered around a tiny pile of fur on the floor, and the teachers stood off to one side, still in their dressing gowns, whispering.

  But Isaac, the instant he stepped inside the kitchen, heard the hum now elevated to a screech. He backed against the wall, clapping his hands over his ears and closing his eyes.

  Then slowly, slowly, the screech faded and went silent. Isaac opened his eyes and lowered his hands.

  “I think it’s dead,” Leo said, standing, wide-eyed. He turned to Isaac. “You all right, then? You look bloody awful.”

  Isaac nodded. “Headache,” he lied.

  The ghost cat sat in the air, tail flicking, head turning from what was on the floor to Isaac and back again.

  “He is dead,” said Colin with a sob. “Poor little mouse. Poor mousie. Was so scared and confused and in such pain his little heart broke. He said his master would never forgive him. He didn’t do what he was supposed to do. Instead he gave up when he saw the ghost cat. Who, by the way, has not a word to say about any of it.” Colin buried his face in Canut’s fur.

  Now that the screech had stopped, Isaac wanted to see what they were talking about. He knelt next to Kat, who was poking at the tiny mouse with a wooden spoon.

  “What did he say he was supposed to do, Colin?” Kat asked. “And who’s his master?”

  “I don’t know,” Colin said through his tears. “He never finished telling me.”

  Kat said softly, “The mouse is partly mechanical.” She looked up and exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Gumble. “Reminds me of . . . you know. Her.”

  Gumble pinched her lips together and whispered to MacLarren.

  Isaac looked more closely. Memories flooded back. Models and drawings in his grandfather’s small cottage, covering every surface. “It is really clever,” Isaac said. He flexed the tiny copper wing that was attached to the mouse’s back. “Look how it is put together. But so sad. So cruel.”

  “Yes,” Kat whispered. “Just like before.”

  Isaac went on, “My grandfather loved mechanics. He studied the astronomical clock in the Old Town Square for years. It was his dream to build a clock like it, so he made these little parts and tried to show me how they all went together.”

  “But not in animals,” Colin said, his voice in a hitch. “Not like that.”

  “No,” Isaac said.

  “Not like that,” Kat echoed, grim. She said to Gumble, “You know what this
may mean.”

  “Is it dead?” Lark asked with a sob. “It was horrible, the way that ghost kitty chased it. It squeaked and squealed . . .” and she buried her head against Amelie again.

  Colin whispered feverishly into Canut’s neck, “I know. Don’t worry. We have each other. I won’t let it happen to you. Never.”

  MacLarren cleared his throat. “Mr. Falstone, ye’d best get dressed. That MI-Six chap’ll be here soon. Got to get him through the wards.”

  “Right,” Leo said, and left the kitchen.

  Gumble said, “We’d best dispose of it. It is partly organic after all.”

  “And then find out who or what was responsible,” said Kat.

  “Aye,” MacLarren said.

  Isaac said, “I don’t mind. I can take care of it.” He picked up the little beast in his hands. It was soft and limp, but the mechanical parts were angular and sharp, and Isaac felt sorry for the poor mouse.

  “Into the garden, perhaps,” Kat said. “I’ll go with you.” She led Isaac out through the kitchen to the garden door.

  “MI-Six chap?” Isaac asked as they went.

  “We got word last week that they were sending someone. Some kind of evaluation. We get them from time to time.” Kat opened the door for Isaac and then she gasped. “Look at the forest,” she whispered. “Look at the garden.”

  The forest was right up against the garden wall, and thorny vines crept over the wall into the garden.

  “It is not always like that?” Isaac asked. He heard a low surge and wondered whether he could hear the waves that pounded the shoreline some distance away.

  “No. Never. The forest should be half a mile back.” Kat was rigid, staring. “This isn’t right.”

  Isaac moved past her to a place where he could put the little creature into a deep pile of mulch. When he turned around again, Kat was holding her hand out in front of her, her eyes closed, her lips moving.