The Collectors

by Jacqueline West

  “But I just fed you yesterday!” whispered Van. “Was that wish too tiring for you?” He leaned closer to the little creature. “You need to eat again? Is that right?”

  Lemmy didn’t answer. Its misty body trembled a little bit harder.

  Panic started to slosh in Van’s chest.

  Could Lemmy really be hungry again so soon? And why had he already used that stupid wishbone? What was he going to do?

  There was only one person who might be able to answer any of these questions.

  Van bolted out of his bedroom.

  “Mom, can I use your phone?” he panted.

  His mother glanced up from a musical score spread out on the table. Her arching eyebrows rose. “Why do you need it?”

  “Um . . .” Van groped for a good answer. “I was just going to call Peter.”

  The surprise on his mother’s face brightened into delight. “Really? Of course you can!” She held out her phone. “The Greys’ home number is in my contacts.”

  Van rushed the phone back to his room and shut the door.

  As a rule, Van hated the telephone. The flat, faceless voices were hard to understand. But now there was no choice. Tucking the phone under one arm, he dug through his treasure box until he’d uncovered the little white card printed with Mr. Falborg’s phone number.

  “Hallo?” Gerda’s voice answered on the second ring.

  “Um . . . hello?” Van stammered. “Um—Mrs. . . . Gerda? This is Van Markson. Is Mr. Falborg there?”

  “Sorry . . . noction . . . won’t be back . . . dayofter tomorrow . . . off raid.”

  “He’s at an auction?” Van repeated. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow?”

  “. . . Zit emergency?”

  The last word was perfectly clear. Van halted. It certainly felt like an emergency. But could he trust Gerda? How much did she know? And how could he explain the awful mess he’d already made?

  “Um . . . ,” he swallowed. “No. I’ll just—I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”

  “. . . Airy way. Nye, Mr. Markson.”

  Gerda hung up.

  Now the panic in Van’s chest was starting to freeze into a dry, cold lump. What could he do? What would SuperVan do?

  Van dug through the treasure box again.

  The blue glass bottle was still there, wrapped in its drawstring bag, at the very bottom. Van lifted the bottle to the light. The glass glimmered. The silvery wisp twirled inside like a dreamy ballet dancer. Peter Grey. April 8. Twelfth birthday.

  Peter had said he wished that his father would stop dating Van’s mother. If Van had had another wishbone, he might have made the very same wish. But what if Peter hadn’t told him the whole truth? Van remembered the way Peter had glared at him from the other side of the birthday cake just before blowing out the candles. What if he had wished for Van and his mother to disappear? Or worse?

  Van paused, feeling the lump of panic grow even icier. What if Peter’s wish really shouldn’t come true?

  Van glanced down at Lemmy’s box. The Wish Eater was still crumpled in one corner, but it followed every twinkle of the blue glass bottle. Van saw hunger and hope in its foggy little eyes. It couldn’t wait. Not for days, until Mr. Falborg came back. Not even for the next few hours, while Van tried to come up with another plan. It needed him.

  He had to take the risk. He had to hope that Peter had told the truth. And he had to hope that the way the wish came true was as unterrible as possible.

  Maybe Mr. Grey and Van’s mother would have an argument. Maybe Mr. Grey would find another girlfriend. Maybe Van’s mother would realize that Mr. Grey was an obnoxious snob, and that she would rather not spend time with him anymore, and that she and Van should do fun things alone together again instead. That wouldn’t be terrible at all.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Van whispered to Lemmy. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Like he was trying to scoop up a soap bubble without popping it, Van gathered Lemmy into one hand. He’d never held anything so light.

  With his other hand, he tugged the cork free. The bottle opened with a little pop. The wisp of smoke twirled out of the glass and straight toward Lemmy’s mouth, like a chilly breath in reverse.

  Van felt a shimmery softening in the air. In his hand, the Wish Eater stopped shaking. Its fuzzy outlines already looked firmer. Its face wasn’t fearful and hungry anymore. It turned toward Van with a tiny, grateful smile.

  “Did it work?” Van whispered.

  As if in answer, his mother’s cell phone began to flash. Van set Lemmy on the floor and jumped to his feet.

  “Mom!” he called, rushing the phone down the hallway before his mother could come to get it. “Your phone is ringing!”

  “Ah. It’s Leola,” said his mother, glancing at the screen. “We need to discuss extending my contract here. Thank you, caro mio.”

  “You’re welcome!” called Van, streaking back to his room.

  By the time he stepped inside, Lemmy had climbed onto the floor of the miniature stage. The Wish Eater clambered around the figurines Van had left there: SuperVan, the china squirrel, the White Wizard. Its nubby fingers patted playfully at the wizard’s robes.

  “You look like you’re feeling better, at least,” said Van, as the Wish Eater hopped to the wizard’s other side. And it was true. Lemmy looked more solid—and perhaps slightly larger—than just a minute before. The Wish Eater’s happy little face sparkled like dew in sunlight. “Are you feeling better?”

  The Wish Eater didn’t answer. But a moment later, the tip of the wizard’s white plastic staff began to glow.

  Both Lemmy and Van stared as the glow brightened, forming a ball of lightning-bug gold that lit the whole stage. The glow fell over the little china squirrel, who sat up, grooming its whiskers and flicking its tail, and over SuperVan—who raised both arms and took off into the air.

  Van let out a gasp.

  SuperVan spiraled toward the ceiling. His tiny black cape billowed behind him. Before his little plastic fists could hit the plaster, he turned and sailed back down to hover just in front of Van’s face. When Van reached out to touch the figurine, it zipped out of reach. Van laughed out loud. SuperVan circled his head, performing a series of perfect barrel rolls, one after the other.

  Van glanced at Lemmy. The little creature crouched on the glowing stage, looking back and forth between the enchanted toys and Van’s face. Each time Van smiled, it smiled too.

  This was too much fun, Van thought. Lemmy was too much fun. Not only could the little creature grant wishes, but it could make this kind of playful magic. How could Mr. Falborg resist letting them scamper around, making magic, all day long? Of course, Mr. Falborg had said that feeding them all was tricky. And Van was now completely out of food.

  “Lemmy,” said Van. “Don’t wear yourself out. I don’t have—”

  Before he could finish, the bedroom door flew open.

  Van felt the gust of air. He whirled around to see his mother coming in.

  The squirrel froze. SuperVan plummeted onto Van’s bed. The wizard’s staff went dark. Lemmy ducked behind the stage’s velvet curtains.

  “Giovanni!” His mother’s face was incandescent. “Such amazing news! They want me for the next opera at La Scala!” Van’s mother shouted those words the way most people shouted “Disney World!”

  Van blinked. “What?”

  “It’s very short notice.” His mother waved her hand. “Someone got sick, and someone else got fired, but that’s supposed to be a secret. Anyway . . . La Scala! That gorgeous opera house! Summer in Italy! Gelato!”

  “But . . .” Van felt as though time had picked him up, dragged him backward, and plunked him down in the middle of a problem he’d just solved. “But—when would we leave?”

  “As soon as possible. Charles will not be happy.” His mother’s sunny face clouded. “But our arrangements weren’t official yet. I think he’ll understand.” She waved her hand again. “I’ll speak with hi
m tomorrow, and then we’ll pack up and go!”

  Van wanted to seal both hands over his ears and scream. But he could only gape up at his mother, trying to look like he wasn’t crumbling into a pile of panic. “What about what you said—about settling down here for a while?”

  “Giovanni . . .” His mother bent down and ruffled his hair. “This is an opportunity I can’t pass up. There’s no telling what doors it will open.” She straightened up again. “Italy! Gelato!” She paused beside the door, her fingernails tapping the frame. “If Charles is really, really unhappy . . . it might be just a few days.”

  Something cold and hard clunked through Van’s chest.

  His mother threw him one more smile, and blew a kiss to go with it. “Don’t stay up too late, caro mio.”

  The door thumped shut.

  Van slumped against the side of the bed. He wrapped his arms over his head.

  What had he done?

  Peter’s wish had come true. Van’s mother and Mr. Grey weren’t just separating. Soon they would be an entire ocean apart. And Van would be crossing that ocean too. The chance to save the Wish Eaters, to help both Pebble and Mr. Falborg, to be part of the magic of the Collection, would be over.

  The wish had ruined everything. He was back where he’d started, with no wishes to spare. And now he had even less time.

  Lemmy peeped around the curtain.

  Van dropped his arms. “Why did you make it so we’d have to leave?” His voice threatened to become a shout. “I can’t take you with me! And now all the other Wish Eaters will still be stuck, and I’ll be—” His throat clenched. “I’ll be gone.”

  The Wish Eater cowered. It stared at Van around the strip of velvet. Its foggy eyes seemed to shimmer with tears.

  Maybe it was those tears that did it, because Van’s anger suddenly sizzled out. This wasn’t Lemmy’s fault. It was his. Pebble and Kernel had warned him about how unpredictably wishes could come true. And he hadn’t listened. Or he hadn’t cared. He sagged down to the floor, bringing his eyes to the creature’s level.

  “I’m sorry, Lemmy,” he murmured. “You didn’t try to make things worse. You just did what you do.” He leaned over and buried his face in his arms. “But now what do I do?”

  Van stayed like that, head bowed, holding himself, for a very long time. The room grew darker. The night beyond the windows grew quieter. At last, Van felt a pair of dewy little hands on either side of his neck. Lemmy was holding him too.

  And Van made up his mind.

  19

  Footsteps in the Dark

  VAN lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, as wide awake as he’d been two hours before.

  Thoughts fizzed inside of him like soda pop. His brain whirred. His toes twitched. His hearing aids lay in their nighttime spot on the table, and still his head was full of an impatient buzz.

  He rolled onto his side. In the gap beneath his bedroom door, he could see a yellow band of light, which meant that his mother hadn’t yet gone to bed.

  Van counted the breaths that whooshed in and out of his body. He felt the rumble of his pounding heart. He pressed a hand against Lemmy’s box, tucked under the covers beside him.

  At last the yellow light winked out. The hall went dark.

  Van slid out of bed. He wedged Lemmy’s box under one arm and shoved his feet into a pair of loafers. He dropped a penny into his pajama pocket. He left his hearing aids on the table. He didn’t want the distracting blur of sounds in his head tonight. He needed his eyes to be sharp and his mind to be clear.

  Slowly he inched the bedroom door open. His mother’s door was shut. Van tiptoed out of his bedroom and slunk along the hallway, through the kitchen. He’d had practice at this now. He felt like an actual spy: stealthy, confident, senses honed for a secret mission. He slipped through the apartment door.

  “Giovanni?” his mother’s drowsy voice called.

  Van didn’t hear it.

  He pattered down the stairs, across the lobby, through the big brass-handled doors, and out into the night.

  The air was cool and dewy. It slid under his cuffs and into his sleeves like the water in a shallow stream. Holding Lemmy’s box tight, Van broke into a run.

  In daylight, the streets around the park bustled with shops and sidewalk cafes. At night, the same streets looked abandoned. The shops were dark, with cages pulled across their windows and doors. The café chairs had been piled up and put away. There were no noisy, strolling, jostling crowds—just one boy in plaid pajamas, racing down the sidewalk.

  Van slipped through the gates. It was damper and darker here inside the park. The scents of earth and water and blooming flowers wound around him with the breeze. The fear thumping in his chest began to fade.

  Of course he couldn’t hear the footsteps padding through the darkness behind him.

  Van hurried across the cool grass. Thorns snagged on his pajamas as he cut through a rose bed. A stem scratched his ankle, but Van didn’t look down. Collectors could be watching him at this very instant. If he was about to be grabbed by Jack and his men, at least he would make his wish first.

  In the blackness over Van’s shoulder, a twig snapped.

  Van didn’t hear it.

  He pressed close to the basin of the fountain. Falling droplets spattered his hands. He set Lemmy’s box on the basin and lifted the lid. In the dimness, he could just make out the misty little creature craning up, sniffing at the breeze.

  Van fished the penny out of his pajama pocket.

  He needed this wish to come true and stay true. He needed his mother to remain in the city, and the longer the better—but not because of snooty Mr. Grey. And he needed her not to change her plans if a better job came along. Could he squeeze everything he wanted into one little wish?

  Van closed his eyes. He clasped the penny so hard that its edges left dents in his palm.

  I wish that my mother and I would stay here for a long time.

  Van opened his eyes and threw. The penny hit the water. Now, glowing around the coin, Van could see the green-gold light of the waiting wish.

  Lemmy pawed after it like a bear cub catching salmon. Its nubby fingers grabbed the glowing disk. The coin, stripped of its light, sank to the bottom of the pool, and the Wish Eater sat down in its box again, its hands wrapped around the luminous disk. It opened its mouth.

  The air stilled. Everything shimmered. The wish disappeared into Lemmy’s mouth.

  At the same instant, out of the corner of his eye, Van saw the bushes shiver.

  A tall, dark shape—a shape dressed in a long dark coat—lurched toward him.

  Van’s heart shot upward.

  He crammed the lid onto Lemmy’s box. A tiny part of his brain, somewhere far in the back where panic hadn’t quite swamped everything, realized that the lid could barely close. Clutching the box, he darted away from the fountain, away from the shape in the long dark coat that was already running after him.

  Van raced across the grass. He steered for the shadows, even though they could hide roots to trip on and trees to crash into and things with staring, sharp black eyes. He knew he couldn’t outrun a Collector—not a grown-up one, anyway. But maybe he could outmaneuver one.

  Van lunged through a row of shrubs. A twig flicked his left eye. His vision bleared. Wincing and blinking, he stumbled onward—straight into a wrought-iron fence.

  He’d reached the edge of the park. There was no time to find a gate. Pinning Lemmy’s box under one arm, Van climbed up onto the crossbars. His feet were narrow enough, and his body was light enough, that he could use the iron whorls near the top for another foothold. From there, he jumped down to the pavement on the other side.

  His feet hit the sidewalk with a painful thwack. Van almost lost his grip on the box. He straightened up, his eye burning, his legs throbbing. Bushes and shadows rippled behind him. The Collector was only a few steps away.

  Van lunged across the street. Maybe he could hide in an alley. Maybe he could make it around the corner and
disappear before the Collector saw where he’d gone.

  He pounded up onto the opposite curb. The sidewalk was deserted. No one was there to notice one small boy tearing down the street. No one was there to save him.

  Behind him, he thought he heard someone shout.

  But his blood was thundering in his ears, and he knew his imagination was running away with him.

  His burning eye refused to stay open. Shutting it made Van lose his balance. And his good eye was behaving strangely too. He could see his reflection in the dark windows beside him, looking small and terrified—but he could have sworn his reflection was dressed in a superhero’s bodysuit, with a long black cape flying out behind. Van ventured one quick glance down at Lemmy’s box. The Wish Eater’s head was thrust out below the lid, its eyes wide, a tiny smile on its face.

  Van skidded to an intersection. The cross street was a busy one. Cars zoomed past, their headlights leaving streaks on his watery vision. Without waiting for the light to change, Van plunged out into the street. He felt the whoosh of a car just behind him, and saw the glint of another car just in front of him, and then he was staggering safely onto the sidewalk.

  He’d just had time to let out a breath when, through the blur and the pounding and the darkness, there came one clear, powerful scream.

  Van knew that scream.

  He spun around.

  His mother lay beside the curb. She’d thrown a long dark coat over her silk pajamas. Coils of coppery hair spilled around her face. Her leg was bent at an impossible angle. A taxi rolled to a stop beside her, its driver’s door already swinging open. More cars slowed. People began to appear, popping out of doorways, collecting like ants around a spilled ice-cream cone.

  Van inched nearer.

  His mother was still screaming.

  “Giovanni!”

  Her voice seemed to come from very far away, even while Van tiptoed closer and closer, until finally she could reach out and grab the hem of his pajama pants. He didn’t hear the sound of the sirens until he and his mother and the box in his arms were all washed with the pulses of blue and red light.