The werewolf wrinkled its muzzle and showed its teeth in brave defiance. Milo fumbled in his pouch for one more grenade.
At which point Milo did something that changed the world forever.
Not just his world. But all worlds.
Sometimes it isn’t the action of presidents or kings; it isn’t what soldiers or statesmen do that changes the course of history. Sometimes a single person, one who is not a hero in any conventional way, can do or say a thing that starts a chain reaction. This is how the universe turns.
Milo looked the monster in the eye and said, “No.”
The Huntsman ignored him.
So did everyone else.
Which was not surprising. Milo Silk was eleven years old. Sixty-seven pounds. Short and skinny and nobody’s idea of a hero. Certainly not his own.
Not even at the moment when he became one.
“Yo, freakface!” he yelled, stepping closer to the master of the Stingers.
This time the Huntsman did look at him. It was a look of disinterest and annoyance. Like Milo—his life and everything he was—did not matter to this creature.
Milo held out the grenade.
The Huntsman looked at that, too. Everyone did, and for a moment the entire field of battle was silent. The werewolf turned and gaped at him, surprise written in its pale eyes. The sprite on her hummingbird mount hovered in the air, her body twisted sideways as she, too, stared.
“I won’t let you,” said Milo in a voice that quavered and cracked. Shivers rippled along every limb; sweat beaded his face and ran down inside his clothes.
The only part of him that didn’t tremble was the hand holding the grenade.
The Huntsman looked from Milo to the grenade and back again. “Kill me and kill yourself, boy.”
Milo swallowed what felt like a mouthful of dust. “I know. I get that. And right now I pretty much don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You were inside my mind, but I was also inside yours. I can smell your fear. You are nothing and you know it. You can’t do this thing.”
Milo gripped the arming cap between his fingers. He really wanted to say something cool. Something Shark would appreciate.
All he could manage was, “Yeah . . . well, bite me.”
He twisted the cap and threw the grenade.
Several things happened at the same time. All of them were part of the wheel of destiny that Milo’s action had started turning.
A Stinger leaped into the air to try to catch the hand grenade.
The werewolf jumped at Milo and knocked him sideways.
The shocktroopers dove for cover.
And the scattered rocks and stones that were all that was left of the rock boy—flew up from the ground and slammed together into a humanoid shape. Mook. He spread his arms wide and stood between Milo and the blast.
The blast was horrific.
It was a big fist of fire and noise that seemed to punch the whole world. The ground jumped and rocked. The shock wave scattered everyone.
The leaping Stinger was blown to bits.
The rock boy—for the second time in five minutes—was smashed to gravel and strewn across the clearing.
The werewolf and Milo hit the ground and rolled away from the blast. Dazed and cut in a dozen places by flying splinters of stone—but alive.
The Huntsman and three of the shocktroopers lay sprawled on the ground.
Milo could not hear or see, and he could barely breathe. He felt like his head was inside a metal drum and some maniac was hammering at it with a big metal spoon.
Well, he thought, that was stupid.
It was a little late to remember that the heroes in a lot of the books he read died saving the world.
Ah, well.
The sky was unnaturally bright for nighttime.
And then it was all really, really dark.
FROM MILO’S DREAM DIARY
How come in my dreams I’m never a hero?
I don’t have superpowers.
I don’t know how to do karate or kung fu.
I don’t know guns.
I can’t pilot a jet fighter.
I can’t do any of that in real life, but I thought in dreams you were supposed to do anything.
Not me.
I’m always just me in my dreams.
PART THREE
MILO AND THE NIGHTSIDERS
Six Years from Next Wednesday . . .
“A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer.”
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
When Milo opened his eyes, his first thought was, I’m dead. Again.
He waited for the moment when his consciousness would float free of his body again. He wondered what he’d see this time.
He waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
He realized that he was looking at something, and it took his fuzzy mind a few seconds to sort it out.
Rocks.
A rocky ceiling.
A cave?
In Louisiana?
A cave in bayou country?
Milo was sure that wasn’t possible. If there were caves here, the Earth Alliance would have been using them for protection, building labs, housing refugees.
The rocky ceiling did, however, look very cavelike.
Milo turned his head. That hurt. A lot.
He saw a rocky wall, too. It was lit by candlelight, and he had to work up the nerve to turn his head in the other direction to see the candle.
It was there. A crude silver candelabra with five tapers on it from which wax ran down and made a white landscape on the table.
Table?
His mind was clearing slowly, but, yes, there was a table. Heavy, ornate wood. Very old. Like tables he’d seen in abandoned mansions and museums. Several matching chairs, too.
In a cave.
He tried to speak. Croaked. Licked his lips and tried it again.
“Wh-where . . . ?”
And his creaking voice continued that question and turned it into a different word entirely.
“Werewolf.”
His brain replayed that word over and over again.
Werewolf . . . werewolf . . . werewolf . . .
He thought, Well, Lizabeth would really love this.
It was so silly a thought that a crooked little laugh bubbled out of his mouth.
Keep it together, he warned himself even though it was all totally crazy. Keep it together.
Werewolf.
Rock boy.
Tree boy.
Fire salamander.
Exploding color sprite.
“Oh, yeah,” he said to the empty room. “I’m nuts.”
And a voice replied, “No, you’re not.”
Milo turned way too fast, craned his neck too far up, and yelped in both pain and shock when he saw a group of people standing there. He jerked upward from the floor and turned as he scuttled backward on hands and heels.
Evangelyne stood there. She was human again. Her arms were folded, and she wore an expression of concern and consternation.
To her left stood a pile of rocks. To her right was what looked like a small tree with a face. Seated on a branch of the tree was a hummingbird, and standing next to the hummingbird was a little girl who was less than three inches tall.
Oakenayl.
Mook.
Halflight.
Milo said, “Yeep!”
Or something like it. Even he wasn’t sure.
The tree said, “He’s not dead after all. Pity.”
The little sprite said, “He looks like he is about to faint.”
The rock said, “Mook.”
And the girl said, “We need to have a long talk, boy.”
Milo sat on one side of the table and the others were across from him. Evangelyne produced a plate of fruit from a small cupboard Milo had not noticed before, and she pushed it across to him. Mook poured water into a tin cup and set it down so hard it sloshed.
&n
bsp; “Mook,” he said, leaving any interpretation of that to Milo.
They all studied one another across the table as the candlelight flickered and threw bizarre shadows onto the walls.
“Well,” said Halflight in a voice that was so high and small it was almost a musical note, “somebody should start talking.”
Milo shook his head. “Sorry . . . I got nothing.”
No one smiled. No one else spoke.
Milo pointed at Oakenayl. “I saw you die.”
Oakenayl scowled. “You don’t understand anything, do you?”
Milo ignored that statement as being too obvious. He pointed at Mook. “And I saw you die like . . . twice, I think.”
“Mook,” said Mook, as if that explained everything.
“So,” concluded Milo, “like I said . . . I got nothing. I’m so freaked out I don’t even know how to talk about this.”
“Well, then, let’s start with you answering some questions,” said Evangelyne in the same imperious tone she’d used when they first met. “Like . . . how do you know my name, boy?”
Milo started to say something, stopped, and smiled.
“What—?” she asked.
“Funny, I almost said ‘you wouldn’t believe me,’ but, you know, that would be stupid.”
No one smiled.
“He’s not going to tell us,” said Oakenayl. His face was covered with tree bark in places, but where it was smooth, there was a complex pattern of wood grain. “Give me a few minutes alone with him and he’ll beg to tell us everything he knows.”
Milo shrank back because it was very clear the tree spirit was not joking. Oakenayl’s face was stern.
“No. Stay your hand,” said Halflight quickly. “We cannot do that.”
“No, we can’t,” agreed Milo.
Halflight glared at Oakenayl. “Please. Let us try to be civilized about this.”
“I’m not civilized,” insisted the tree sprite.
“Then pretend it for now,” snapped the tiny sprite. “This human was willing to sacrifice his life to save ours. Show him some courtesy or go sit outside.”
Her tone was stern, which sounded funny coming from a finger-sized person with fiery hair. Even so, the tree boy grunted and flapped a branch at her.
“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Have it your own way.”
Milo smiled at Halflight. “Thanks.”
Evangelyne interrupted. “Don’t thank her yet. If you don’t tell us what we want to know, then I’ll be happy to let Oakenayl make you talk.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk,” Milo said with heat. “Give me a second, will you? Five minutes ago I thought I was dead. Now I’m having a conversation with a bunch of people I’m pretty sure can’t be real. Let me catch my breath.”
Oakenayl snorted, but Evangelyne nodded. “Fine. Take a breath, boy. Then talk.”
“Are you really going to keep calling me ‘boy’? We’re the same freaking age.”
Evangelyne colored and made a small, meaningless noise. Milo saw that Halflight smiled and turned away, and Oakenayl seemed to suddenly find the wood grain of the table very interesting. Milo guessed that the wolf girl’s attempt to always sound like the adult in the room wasn’t something directed just at him.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “You want to know how I know your name? Well, pretty much you told me.”
“What?” she said. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. It was in a dream. You told me your name was Evangelyne Winter.”
They all gasped, except for Mook, who said, “Mook.”
“That’s impossible,” protested Evangelyne. Her composure was shaken, but she firmed it up and in that fake adult voice began, “I would never—”
“Don’t worry,” interrupted Milo with a half smile. “I won’t conjure with it.”
“Wait,” cut in Halflight. “What kind of dream was this? Was it a prophecy? Were you in a trance?”
“No,” said Milo. “I was in my hammock.”
There was no reaction to that other than blank expressions.
“No?” asked Milo, looking for some trace of humor in the group. “Nothing? Oh well.”
So he explained. He told them about his dreams and how sometimes the things he dreamed about came true. He told them about his dream diary—which he realized was probably nothing but ashes now at the ruins of the camp. He told them about the nightmares of the hive ship invasion.
Then he told them about the Witch of the World.
That, he realized, was the equivalent of throwing another hand grenade right onto the table.
You know the witch?” gasped Evangelyne, her eyes bugging wide. “How? I mean, you’re only a boy. How’s that even possible?”
“It’s not like I know her,” said Milo awkwardly. “We don’t hang out. It’s just that I sometimes, um, dream about her.”
Oakenayl made a low, unpleasant noise. “He’s a sorcerer, Evangelyne. You were right the first time. We should bury him in the dirt with an iron spike through his heart.”
“Hey!” yelped Milo. “How about you go and—”
“Enough!” snapped Halflight. “We need to understand this, not fight about it. Oakenayl, behave yourself. And—Milo, is it? You mind your manners as well.”
The two of them shut up, and Milo felt his cheeks burning. The oak boy’s wood-grain face seemed to darken as well.
Evangelyne chewed her lip and looked uncertain.
“No, he is not a sorcerer,” said Halflight in her tiny voice. “There is magic around him, though. I can see it, but it is not in him.”
“What’s that even mean?” asked Milo.
The sprite pointed at him. “If you were a sorcerer, you would glow a different color.”
Milo held his hands up to inspect them. “Glow?”
“You cannot see it,” said Sprite. “And that is even more proof. A sorcerer could see his own aura. No, Oakenayl; no, Evangelyne. This is just an ordinary boy, a child of the sun.”
“That’s what she calls me,” insisted Milo. “That’s what the Witch of the World calls me in my dreams.”
Everyone looked at Milo, each of them reevaluating him. Oakenayl still wore his hostility like a cloak, though. It hung from him like Spanish moss.
Mook broke the silence to say, with no uncertainty, “Mook.”
Halflight nodded as if that made sense, which to Milo it did not.
“You see magic around him, Halflight?” asked Evangelyne.
“Oh yes,” the sprite assured her. She hopped onto her hummingbird and flitted around in front of Milo. “It is all around him.”
“How?” asked Milo. “How could I have anything like that on my whatchamacallit?”
“‘Aura,’” supplied Halflight.
“Right. Aura. How?”
Halflight looked at Oakenayl, who stared at Evangelyne.
“The witch,” they said at the same time.
Milo looked at each of them and said, “Huh?”
Evangelyne was nodding to herself. “The witch you dreamed about was no fantasy.”
“Yeah, I pretty much figured that,” said Milo, who was no longer as surprised as he would have been a few hours ago. “What is she, though? Some kind of telepath or something?”
“No,” snorted Oakenayl. “Telepaths require a physical body.”
“What?”
“The Witch of the World was never alive,” said Halflight. “She is not even a person. Not the way you are. Not even the way we are. She exists within the shadows; she drifts in thoughts and comes to us in dreams.”
“Is she a ghost?”
The orphans exchanged another few moments of silent looks. Finally Evangelyne shrugged. “We . . . don’t actually know what she is.”
“Well, great,” said Milo. “That’s a big help.”
“It is what it is,” said Oakenayl.
“Mook,” agreed Mook.
“No,” said Milo loudly, “stop all that. You guys keep talking
crazy stuff. It’s not fair. Tell me what is going on.”
“He is right,” said Halflight after a moment. “We have the advantage over him, and we are being unkind. This must all be a little strange to him.”
“A little strange? Really?” said Milo. “You think ‘a little’ covers it?”
“Okay,” said Evangelyne, holding up a hand. “You’re right, Halflight. This isn’t fair. Boy . . .”
“Milo,” he corrected.
“Milo, we’ll explain what we can, but we don’t have much time.”
“Sure, but if you’d just come out and said it before, we’d have had time for the long version and a nap.”
It took a moment, but a small smile bloomed on her lips. “You’re a weird boy.”
“You’re a werewolf,” replied Milo. “You outweird me by miles.”
There was a creaking sound from Mook that might have been a laugh. He said, “Mook.”
“Maybe. But the world is always stranger than even we think it is.” She took a breath and began her story. “This world is old, Milo. Very old. Our people were here first. We call ourselves the Nightsiders. Not because we can’t come out during the day—we can—but we like the darkness. We like shadows.”
“Mook,” agreed the stone boy, nodding.
“Our world is bigger, too. Bigger than the things you can see and touch.”
Halflight murmured, “There are worlds within worlds within worlds.”
Evangelyne nodded. “Life among the Nightsiders takes a lot of different forms. I’m a lycanthrope—a werewolf—but there are other shape-shifters. Were-tigers and were-foxes and were-just-about-anything-you-can-name. There are the realms of faerie and there are as many kinds of sidhe as there are stars in the sky. There are cave trolls and bridge trolls and rock spirits like Mook.”
“Mook.”
“And natural spirits, like Oakenayl, who is a wood spirit.”
Oakenayl said nothing, but he did summon enough manners to give a tiny bow of acknowledgment.
The Orphan Army Page 17
