The Collectors

by Jacqueline West

  The roar died away slowly, softly, like a cloud of smoke spreading out over a dark sky.

  Van didn’t get angry very often. In fact, it happened so rarely that he almost didn’t recognize the feeling. But now, all at once, he was filled with something fast and fiery and hard. He felt like he could punch a brick wall and crack it into a zillion pieces.

  It was a little like being SuperVan.

  How dare the Collectors bring helpless little creatures like Lemmy to a freezing, dark pit full of roaring monsters? How dare they?

  Van charged down the steps into blackness that didn’t scare him at all anymore. He switched off the flashlight and stuffed it back into his pocket. Checking each step was just slowing him down. He flew across another landing, down one more flight, and staggered forward onto a broad stone floor.

  There was no light. The air was as cold and damp as the spray from a waterfall. With both hands out, Van ventured straight ahead, his ears ringing. His toes landed on something small and brittle. It broke with a snap. Van crouched, patting at the floor.

  Bones. He was certain. The floor was littered with bones. Van tugged out the flashlight and flicked its little beam over the floor. His guess had been right. These weren’t wishbones, but tiny, straw-thin bones, left behind by mice or rats or birds and long ago picked clean. They clicked beneath his fingertips. Van looked over his shoulders. It was too dark to see, but he thought he heard the whistle of huge wings.

  Another muffled roar shook the darkness. Van could feel it in his teeth. The floor below him shuddered.

  He was very close now.

  His stomach twisted. His throat clamped.

  But someone had to know the truth. Someone from the outside. Someone who could collect and carry that truth out into the light.

  Van straightened up. From somewhere in the blackness, not far away, there came a thin band of light—the kind of light that slips under a closed door. Pushing the flashlight into his pocket, Van lunged through the blackness. His palms struck an icy metal surface that trembled with the waves of another roar. It was a door. It had to be. Van’s fingers touched a metal latch. He pulled it.

  The door creaked open.

  Van found himself staring down a wide, winding corridor. Lamps with oily orange flames sputtered along each curving wall. At first Van thought the walls were made entirely of stone, but as he inched inside, he saw that many of the stones were actually doors—gray metal doors, painted to blend into the walls themselves. Some were as small as an envelope. Some were as big as a washing machine. All of them were latched with thick metal bolts, and each was fitted with a tiny glass peephole.

  With a shiver buzzing inside his ribs, Van bent and put his eye to a bread-box-sized door.

  Inside was a tiny stone chamber. Something small and foggy was curled up in one corner.

  It wasn’t Lemmy. Its body was too long, more weasel-ish than lemur-ish. But it had Lemmy’s misty fur. And it was about Lemmy’s size.

  The creature barely had room to turn around. It had no toys. No food. No windows. It didn’t even seem to notice Van’s eye pressed to the peephole, or to hear him when he whispered, “Hello?”

  Van moved on to the next little door. Something small and fuzzy was balled up on the floor of this tiny cell too.

  Because that was what they were, Van realized. Cells. This place was built for imprisoning hundreds—maybe thousands, maybe more—of sad, lonely, hungry little Wish Eaters.

  And Lemmy had to be there somewhere.

  Van rushed to the next door, and the next, and the next. But the more he checked, and the farther he rushed, the more doors he saw stretching out ahead of him. He’d never have time to check them all. He’d only wished not to be noticed until he reached the Hold, and here he was, vulnerable, alone, and all too noticeable. He moved even faster. Ten more doors. Twenty more. Still no sign of Lemmy. His pulse was fast and painful now, thrumming in his ears. He barely noticed the floor below him beginning to slope steeply downward, or the doors on either side growing larger and larger.

  From somewhere at the corridor’s end, there came another roar. Van froze as it blasted past him, quaking the stones so hard he nearly fell off his feet. No wonder there were tremors in the Collection above. With no walls or stairs to muffle it, the roar sounded not just louder, but different, somehow. It sounded angrier. Rougher. Almost like a word.

  The roar died away. Van lunged onward, stumbling as his foot slipped over a ledge. He threw out both arms, catching his balance just in time.

  The sloping floor had become yet another flight of stairs. Beyond Van’s toes, shallow stone steps led down to a huge, round, open chamber.

  Van and his mother had visited the Colosseum when they were in Rome. The chamber below reminded him of that ancient arena. But this arena was underground, and its sides weren’t lined with archways and stone benches. They were lined with doors. Monstrous doors. Doors large enough for two semitrucks to squeeze through side by side.

  A dozen Collectors formed a circle on the stone floor. They held sharp spikes and open, silvery nets. In the center of the circle, with his back to Van, stood a huge man with glinting hooks in each scarred hand. Razor.

  And rearing up in front of Razor was the most terrible thing Van had ever seen.

  It was a giant, roaring, rippling beast. It was shaped like a stretched-out crocodile, with a thrashing tail, a triangular head, and a long . . . long . . . impossibly long snout full of jagged, needle-shaped teeth. Its skin was a dead, cloudy gray. It was larger than a city bus. It made the people around it look like tiny plastic toys.

  The beast let out another ear-piercing roar. Van heard it again: a word.

  The word NO.

  The beast lashed its tail.

  Three people in the ring fell backward.

  Razor lunged to one side, swinging his metal hook.

  The beast edged back. It gave an angry growl.

  “To my left!” Razor shouted. “Stitch! Key! Back it up!”

  But the monster had gone still.

  It sniffed the air.

  The Collectors crouched, watching.

  The beast’s huge head swung and snuffled across the arena, toward the steps, straight up to the spot where Van stood. Van stopped breathing. For an instant, the monster froze too. Its eyes were two balls of white smoke, but Van could tell they were staring at him. Into him.

  Then, with a bellow, the monster charged.

  Van whirled around. His slippers pounded up the sloping corridor. He could hear himself shrieking, not caring if everyone else could hear him too.

  Behind him, the beast charged up the staircase. Its running feet shook the floor. Van could hear its huffing, hungry breath. Pumping his legs faster, faster, he glanced over his shoulder. The monster’s cloudy body filled the entire corridor. It was gaining on him. Cell doors rattled as it charged by. Burning lamps flickered.

  Van ran faster than he’d ever run before. Now he could hear and feel the monster coming closer, the wet chill in the air that wrapped around his heels. He shoved the Hold’s outer door just as a massive force threw him forward, launching him straight out into the blackness beyond.

  Van landed on his stomach. He slid through grit and splintered bones, his palms stinging, the wind crushed out of him. The pocketed wishbone jabbed him in the thigh. His heart hammered. His breath hissed. Somewhere behind him, the monster growled again. There was too much noise; it was making him sick. He wanted to rip these terrible sounds back out of his ears, along with every memory they left behind. He flipped onto his back, trying to breathe, trying to see through the fireworks that exploded across his vision.

  The beast lumbered through the open door. It glowed against the dark like static on a black screen. Its teeth glimmered. Its smoke-white eyes didn’t blink. Van scrambled backward, but there was no place to hide, and not enough time to get there anyway. Something frigid and sparkling filled the air. Through the freezing mist, Van watched the beast barrel closer. Its needle-nosed
jaw opened wide.

  “Now!” shouted a voice.

  Someone lunged in front of him.

  Lamplight glittered on a swinging hook.

  Van stared as the hook scraped straight through the beast’s translucent body, releasing a trail of smoke. The creature let out a roar.

  “Nets! On my right!” the voice shouted.

  Dark-coated figures flew through the shadows, forming barricades of bodies and rope. The beast wheeled, but the figures closed in, driving the beast back through the Hold’s open door. Someone grabbed Van by the arm, pulling him along.

  In a knot, the Collectors forced the beast along the corridor, past the sputtering lamps, to the top of the staircase. The hand let go of Van’s arm.

  “All together!” shouted the deep voice. “Forward!”

  Van wobbled at the top of the steps, gasping, as the line of Collectors charged. The beast backed down the staircase to the stone floor, with the Collectors in pursuit. Hooks whizzed through the air. The monster roared. The stones trembled.

  The beast spun. Its whipping tail knocked several people off their feet. Its teeth snapped at two others, catching and tossing them backward. It came to a stop, snorting, head low. Its bone-white eyes homed in on Van.

  The monster rumbled low in its throat.

  Van could have sworn he heard another word within that rumble.

  MINE.

  Once more, the beast surged up the staircase. Van stared, petrified, at the opening jaw coming closer and closer.

  Just before its teeth could close around him, a black silhouette flew into its path. There was the whoosh of a swinging hook, followed by one more skull-crushing roar, and the beast skidded back down the steps. The knot of people tightened around it, forcing it into the open cell, and the huge metal door thundered shut.

  Van let out a gasp that was almost a sob.

  He was alive. He was safe.

  The black silhouette in front of him turned around.

  Maybe he was safe.

  Razor towered over him. He was breathing hard, but his scarred face was calm. His voice was deep and surprisingly gentle.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I . . .” Even with his sharpened hearing, Van couldn’t catch the word over his own pounding heartbeat. “What—what was that thing?”

  Someone in the crowd below let out a short laugh.

  Razor’s face didn’t change. He gazed down at Van as he slid the hooks back into their shoulder straps, his eyes black and bright.

  Inside its cell, the beast gave a last muffled growl.

  Razor tilted his head toward the door. “That?” he said. “That’s a Wish Eater.”

  24

  Predators

  “THAT—that’s a Wish Eater?” Van choked. “But they’re—I thought they were tiny!”

  “The more they feed, the larger they get,” said Razor. “And the hungrier.” His eyes glinted with reflected lamplight. “What’s in your pocket?”

  Van gave a jerk. “My . . . ?”

  “Your pocket.” Razor pointed to Van’s pajama pants, his voice still calm. “That pocket.”

  Shakily, Van drew out the flashlight and, after another second, the wishbone.

  Razor nodded. “That’s what it was after.” He glanced down at one of the other Collectors. “Eyelet, take care of it.”

  A woman with a tight black braid climbed the steps. She whisked the bone out of Van’s hand and strode away.

  Van watched her go, feeling suddenly small and silly and dangerously lucky all at the same time.

  Razor crossed his arms. “You’re the boy Pebble brought down here.”

  “I’m Van.” Van swallowed. “Van Markson.”

  “And you see us.”

  “Yes. I see you.”

  “And you see them.”

  “Yes.” Van swallowed again. “But I—I’ve never seen one that big.”

  “They start out small. Like everything else.” Razor looked steadily into Van’s eyes. “If they don’t feed, they shrink back to manageable size.” His mouth shifted with the hint of a smile. “Eventually.”

  “So . . . you put them in cells until they shrink?” said Van.

  Razor nodded at the others. “That’s our task, as Holders. We contain them. Keep everyone safe.”

  “You mean—you’re starving them?”

  Razor didn’t blink. “Are you starving a fire if you don’t let it burn you?”

  Van’s mind turned this question around. “I don’t . . .”

  “We don’t hurt them,” Razor went on. “Unless we have to.” He touched one of the hooks. “Eaters hate sharpened iron. And they can’t get through spiderweb. That’s what these are made of.” He gestured to the nets slung over his arm. “We use tools to confine them. Once they’re completely enclosed, they get groggy and docile. But we don’t kill them. They can’t die.”

  Van’s head was starting to feel like an overstuffed suitcase. The noise and the panic and all the things he’d seen and heard were smashed inside together, and he couldn’t find anything he needed amid the mess.

  “So all those roaring sounds were . . . ,” Van began. “I didn’t think they could make any sound at all.”

  A few of the Holders laughed. Razor grinned back at them, his scar twisting. “Oh, they can. When they want to.”

  Van shivered. “What else can they do?”

  “When they’ve just fed, almost anything.”

  “Can they hurt you?”

  Razor’s grin lingered. He gave the scar a playful tap. “They sure can.”

  Van’s mouth went sour. “The one that was chasing me . . . What would it—would it have—”

  Razor’s hand landed on Van’s shoulder. It was heavy but comforting, and Van suddenly realized he’d been shaking.

  “Why don’t we take a little walk?” said Razor.

  Razor steered Van along the corridor, keeping that steadying hand on his shoulder. When they were out of sight of the arena, halfway down the hallway of doors, Razor stopped. He turned to face Van again.

  “We know why you’re here,” he said.

  Van’s stomach, which had just started not to feel like a sack full of fighting weasels, suddenly started twisting again.

  “We know you were keeping one of the Eaters,” Razor went on, saving Van from having to confess. Or lie. “We had to confiscate it, for your safety. For everyone’s safety.”

  “But Lemmy is so little.” The argument flew out before Van could bottle it. “He’s just a tiny lump of fuzz. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “You think he wouldn’t. But nobody can predict exactly what an Eater will do. Not how they’ll grant a wish. Not how they’ll change. Not what they’ll do when they’re fed and full of power.” Razor’s black eyes stared into Van’s. “You’ve seen what they do then. Haven’t you?”

  Van remembered SuperVan zooming around his bedroom. He remembered Mr. Falborg’s swinging chandelier.

  “The longer they’re free, the more they feed, the larger and more dangerous they become,” Razor went on. “They get vicious. Volatile. Impossible to control.”

  A lump was forming in Van’s throat. “All of them?” he managed.

  Razor gazed back at him. There was nothing cruel in his black eyes. He pointed to a small door just over Van’s shoulder. “Look.”

  Van put his eye to the peephole.

  Inside a cell just a bit larger than a shoebox, a small, fuzzy shape was curled up on the floor. It was sleeping peacefully, its tail curved around its body. Wide, ruffly ears folded around its face.

  “Lemmy!” Van gasped.

  The creature didn’t wake.

  “You can see for yourself,” said Razor. “We just keep them safe.”

  Van placed his hands against the cold metal of the door. Every impulse in his body told him to yank it open. But Razor stood right behind him. “So . . .” His eyes prickled. “Once you’ve got them, what happens?”

  “We let them sleep,” said Razor. “
It’s hibernation, really. They can stay in that state for years. Centuries. With time, they shrink until they finally disappear.”

  Van stared at the little gray ball. “That’s what will happen? To Lemmy?” He couldn’t meet Razor’s eyes. He didn’t want the big man to see that his own were blurry with tears. “It will just be here until . . . until it isn’t anywhere?”

  “Think about what would happen if we didn’t keep it here,” said Razor, instead of answering. He nodded toward the arena. “On the loose, it would grow into something like that. It’s their nature. Cubs grow into grizzlies. Kittens become cats. Predators eat.”

  Van let out a long breath. Even if Razor was right—and Van had the horrible, confusing feeling that he might be—he had still failed. He had promised to keep Lemmy safe. And he hadn’t. He felt empty and sore inside, like his body had been hollowed out and scraped clean.

  “It was brave of you to come here.”

  Now Van looked up at Razor, even though one tear had leaked out and was starting to dribble down his face. “What?”

  “You could have just let it go. But you put yourself in danger instead. Even more danger than you guessed.” Razor smiled. “You’re brave. And you’re loyal. You would make a good Collector, Van Markson.”

  Slowly, a small and watery glow began to fill the emptiness inside of Van. Having a man like Razor call him brave had never happened before. For a second, Van wished that Razor would put a hand on his shoulder again.

  Instead, a howl tore through the air.

  Both Van and Razor whirled toward the Hold’s outer door.

  The door swung open. “We’ve got a big one!” a woman shouted into the corridor. Beyond her, Van could make out a flock of birds whipping through the darkness, wheeling and screeching around the stone staircase. “They’re lowering it now!”

  “Holders!” Razor’s voice boomed through the corridor. “Everyone to the stairs! We’ve got an arrival!”