[Fablehaven 02] - Rise of the Evening Star

by Brandon Mull - (ebook by Undead)

  Seth looked away. It was too much. He heard a noisy combination of bones crunching and flesh tearing before clamping his hands over his ears. Part of him wanted to watch, but instead he kept his head down and his ears covered.

  “You’re missing it,” Coulter eventually said, kneeling at his side.

  Seth peeked. The buffalo no longer looked much like a buffalo. Sections of the hide had been cast aside, and jutting bones were visible. Seth tried to pretend that the leg Burlox was mauling was a gigantic spare rib, and that the feasting giant was drenched in barbecue sauce.

  “Not something you get to see every day,” Coulter said.

  “True,” Seth conceded.

  “Look at him, munching away — he can’t eat it fast enough. He rarely gets meat of this quality. He ought to slow down and savor it. But the brute can’t help himself.”

  “It’s pretty disgusting.”

  “Just one beast consuming the meat of another,” Coulter said. “Although I’ll admit I glanced away at the start myself.”

  “It was sadder than I expected.”

  “Look at him going after the marrow. He doesn’t want to waste a thing.”

  “I can’t imagine eating something raw like that,” Seth said.

  “He can’t imagine cooking it,” Coulter replied.

  They watched as the giant picked the bones clean and sucked them dry. “Here it comes,” Coulter said, rubbing his hands. “You’d think he’d be satisfied, but no matter how much fresh meat you give them, it just whets their appetite.” The fog giant began rooting around on the ground, apparently lapping up what he could from the mud. Soon his face was masked with sludge, and limp vegetation dangled from his lips. He began hammering his mighty fists against the soggy turf and throwing fragments of bone into the mist. He tossed back his head and let out a long, angry cry.

  “He’s going berserk,” Seth said.

  The fog giant wheeled toward the dome, scowling. He picked up his club and charged, eyes ablaze. Seth felt totally exposed. With glass on all sides, held together by narrow strips of metal, it felt worse than no cover whatsoever. One swing of the club and the dome would explode toward him like a thousand daggers. He recoiled and raised his arms to shield his face from flying glass. Coulter sat calmly beside him, as if watching a movie.

  Racing at full speed, the giant lifted the club high above his head and brought it down with terrible force. Just before the club connected with the surface of the dome, it rebounded sharply, making an unnatural pinging sound, and sailed out of the giant’s grasp. Burlox’s forward momentum instantly reversed, and the giant pitched violently backwards.

  Shaken and seething, the fog giant arose and staggered away from the dome. As a hulking silhouette in the mist, Burlox began brutalizing a tree. He tore down huge limbs, and was soon pounding his fists against the sturdy trunk. Groaning and growling, he seized the trunk in a terrible embrace, twisting and wrenching and wrestling until the bole began to split. With a final mighty heave accompanied by a tremendous crack, he toppled the entire tree and knelt panting, hands on his knees.

  “Incredible strength,” Coulter commented. “He should be cooling down by now.”

  Sure enough, after a few moments, the giant trudged over and retrieved his club. Then he came and stood towering over the dome. Much of the mud had fallen from his face. After the food and the exertion, his complexion was ruddier. “More,” he demanded, pointing at his mouth.

  “We agreed on a single buffalo,” Coulter called to him.

  Burlox grimaced, revealing weeds and bark and fur in his teeth. He stamped a massive foot. “More!” It came across as a roar rather than a word.

  “You said you knew a place Warren had been exploring before he turned white,” Coulter said. “We had a deal.”

  “More after,” Burlox grunted threateningly.

  “If we give you anything else, it will be out of kindness, not obligation. A deal is a deal. Was the buffalo not delicious?”

  “Four hills,” the giant spat, before pivoting and stalking away.

  “The four hills,” Coulter repeated softly, watching the enormous figure vanish into the mist. He clapped Seth on the back. “We just got what we came here for, my boy. A bona fide lead.”

  * * *

  Kendra reached into the sack and then sprinkled raisins into the glass cylinder. The orange mass at the bottom oozed toward the raisins like living pudding, covering them and slowly darkening to a deep red. “You have gross pets,” Kendra said.

  Vanessa lifted her gaze from the journal she was studying. “Wizard slime looks unappetizing, but no other substance can equal its ability to draw out the poison from infected tissue. All of my darlings have their uses.”

  Unusual animals occupied most of Vanessa’s room. Cages, buckets, aquariums, and terrariums contained a stunning variety of inhabitants. Whether they looked like reptiles, mammals, arachnids, amphibians, insects, sponges, fungi, or something in between, all were magical. There was a colorful lizard with three eyes that was nearly impossible to pick up because it could see slightly into the future and avoid your every move. A hairless mouse that transformed into a fish if you dropped it in water. And a bat who shed her wings biweekly — if the discarded wings were quickly pressed against another creature, they would take hold and grow. Vanessa had used them to create a flying rabbit.

  Aside from the dozens of life forms in their respective containers, stacks of books dominated the room. The majority were bulky reference books and leather-bound journals of previous Fablehaven caretakers. Bookmarks protruded from the journals, marking pages of interest Vanessa had discovered during her research.

  “I’m not sure I could sleep surrounded by so many freaky animals,” Kendra said.

  Vanessa closed the journal she was reading, marking the page with a silk ribbon. “I’ve rendered the truly dangerous whirligigs harmless, like the drumants. None of the creatures I brought into Fablehaven could cause anyone serious harm.”

  “I got nipped last night,” Kendra said, holding out her arm to show the bite marks in the crook of her elbow. “Slept right through it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vanessa said. “I have fifteen in the cage now.”

  “Which means four are running loose,” Kendra said gruffly, imitating Coulter.

  Vanessa smiled. “He means well.”

  “He’s not winning any points by taking off with Seth and leaving me behind. If he gave me the choice, I would probably volunteer to skip some excursions. I mean, I could probably go my whole life without seeing a buffalo eaten alive and be just fine. But being told to stay behind feels different.”

  Vanessa stood up and crossed to a chest of drawers. “I suspect I would feel the same way.” She opened a drawer and started rummaging. “It seems only fair that I should share a secret with you.” She removed a candle and what looked like a long, translucent crayon.

  “What are those?” Kendra asked.

  “In rain forests around the world, you can find tiny sprites called umites that make honey and wax like bees. In fact, they dwell in almost hivelike communities. This marker and candle are both composed of umite wax.” Vanessa wrote on the front of the drawer with the clear waxen marker. “See anything?”

  “No.”

  “Watch.” Vanessa struck a match and lit the candle. Once a flame burned on the wick, the entire candle glowed yellow, as did the marker, as did a vivid message on the front of the drawer:

  Hi Kendra!

  “Cool,” Kendra said.

  “Try to wipe it off,” Vanessa said.

  Kendra tried to wipe away the words to no avail. As soon as Vanessa blew out the candle, the message vanished. Vanessa handed the crayon and the candle to Kendra. “For me?” Kendra asked.

  “I have spares. Now we can send each other secret messages, and none of the boys will know. I always carry one of those markers on me. They write surprisingly well on nearly any surface, the messages are difficult to erase, and only those with a properly enchan
ted umite candle can read them. I’ve used umite wax to mark myself a trail, to send a sensitive communiqué to a friend, and to remind myself of important secrets.”

  “Thanks, what a great gift!”

  Vanessa winked. “We’re pen pals.”

  * * *

  Seth watched Coulter mount the steps to the back porch and enter the house. He knew his window of opportunity might be brief, so he hurried past the barn to a tree beside a path into the woods. It was the same path that led to the greenhouse where he and Kendra had harvested pumpkins the previous year. That morning, before anyone was awake, Seth had left a note at the base of that tree under a rock.

  The year before, after Kendra had saved Fablehaven and while she slept for two days straight, Seth had held a private meeting with the satyrs, Newel and Doren. Most of the inhabitants of Fablehaven were not permitted in the yard uninvited, so the satyrs had stood at the edge of the yard and beckoned Seth over. They had agreed that when Seth returned to Fablehaven, he would bring size C batteries and leave a note under the rock. Newel and Doren would recover the note and leave instructions for a meeting, where they would exchange gold for the treasured batteries that would bring new life to their portable television.

  Seth squatted at the base of the tree. Even though he had left the note in the morning and it was now late afternoon, it was almost too much to hope that the satyrs would have already responded. Who knew how often they would check? Knowing them, maybe never. Seth picked up the rock. On the back of his note the satyrs had scrawled a message:

  If you get this today, follow this path, take your second left, first right, keep on until you hear us. You’ll hear us. If you get this tomorrow, it will say something else!

  Excited, Seth stuffed the note in his pocket and set off down the path. He had eight size C batteries in the bottom of his emergency kit. After he sold those, and the satyrs were hooked, he figured he could sell the rest for even more. If everything panned out, he would be retired before reaching high school!

  Walking briskly, Seth took about six minutes to reach the second left, and about four more to reach the next right. At least, he hoped it was the next right. It was a scant trail, less inviting than the fake one Coulter had shown him in the swamp. But the satyrs had said “first right,” so they must have meant this little trail. He wasn’t too far from the yard, so Seth felt confident it would be safe.

  The farther he went, the thicker the woods and undergrowth around the little trail became. He was beginning to consider doubling back and waiting for a second message from the satyrs when he heard shouting up ahead. It was definitely the goatmen. He jogged forward. The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear them.

  “Are you out of your skull?” one voice griped. “That was right on the line!”

  “I’m telling you, I saw daylight between the line and the ball, and it’s my call,” a strident voice answered.

  “Is that fun for you? To win by cheating? Why even play?”

  “You aren’t going to guilt me out of my point, Newel!”

  “We better arm wrestle for it.”

  “What would an arm wrestle prove? It’s my call, and I say it was out.”

  Seth had drawn even with the argument. He could not see the satyrs, but he could hear that they were not far off the path. He started shoving through the undergrowth.

  “Your call? Last time I checked, it takes two to play. I’m ahead; maybe I’ll quit right now and declare myself champion.”

  “Then I’ll declare myself champion too, because that would be an indisputable forfeit.”

  “I’ll show you an indisputable forfeit!”

  Seth pushed between some bushes and stepped onto a level, well-trimmed grass tennis court. The court had neatly chalked lines and a regulation-style net. Newel and Doren stood at the far side of the court, faces red, each clutching a tennis racket. They looked like they were about to come to blows. As Seth emerged onto the court, they turned to face him.

  Both of the satyrs were shirtless, with hairy chests and freckled shoulders. From the waist down they had the furry legs and hooves of a goat. Newel had redder hair, more freckles, and slightly longer horns than Doren.

  “Glad you found us,” Newel said, trying to smile. “Sorry you happened by when Doren was being a knucklehead.”

  “Maybe Seth can solve this one,” Doren said.

  Newel closed his eyes in exasperation. “He wasn’t here to see the point.”

  “If you both think you’re right, do it over,” Seth said.

  Newel opened his eyes. “I could live with that.”

  “Me too,” Doren agreed. “Seth, your new nickname is Solomon.”

  “You mind letting us finish this game?” Newel asked. “Just so we can keep momentum? No fun to start again cold.”

  “Go ahead,” Seth said.

  “You be line judge,” Doren said.

  “Sure.”

  The goatmen trotted into position. Newel was serving. “Forty-fifteen,” he called, tossing a ball into the air and hitting it briskly into play. Doren hit a hard crosscourt forehand, but Newel was in position and hit it back with a gentle slice that took a soft bounce with a lot of spin. It looked unreachable, but Doren dove and managed to get his racket under the ball before the second bounce, popping it over the net. Newel had read the situation well and was already charging forward. As Doren scrambled up, Newel slammed the ball into the far corner of the court, bouncing it deep into the bushes.

  “Go fetch it, nitwit!” Doren said. “You didn’t have to wail it into the woods. You had an open lane.”

  “He’s sore because I just went up five games to three,” Newel explained, twirling his racket.

  “I’m sore because you’re trying to show off for Seth!” Doren said.

  “You’re saying you wouldn’t have slammed it if I’d hit you a pathetic lob?”

  “You were at the net! I would have just tapped it at a brutal angle. Better to win with finesse than to hunt for balls in the shrubbery.”

  “You’re both really good,” Seth said.

  The two goatmen looked pleased by the compliment. “You know, satyrs invented tennis,” Newel said, balancing his racket on the tip of his finger.

  “They did not,” Doren said. “We learned about it on TV.”

  “I like your rackets,” Seth said.

  “Graphite, light and strong,” Newel said. “Warren got us our equipment. Back before he went all Boo Radley on us. The net, the rackets, a few cases of balls.”

  “We built the court,” Doren said proudly.

  “And we maintain it,” Newel said.

  “The brownies maintain it,” Doren corrected.

  “Under our supervision,” Newel amended.

  “Speaking of tennis balls,” Doren said, “most of ours are flat, but with the supply dwindling, it always kills us to open a new can. If our battery arrangement works out, think you might be able to score us some new balls?”

  “If this works out, I’ll get you whatever you want,” Seth promised.

  “Then let’s get down to business,” Newel said, setting down his racket and rubbing his palms together. “You have the merchandise?”

  Seth scrabbled through his emergency kit and pulled out eight batteries, lining them up on the ground.

  “Would you look at that,” Doren marveled. “Have you ever seen such a gorgeous sight?”

  “It’s a start,” Newel said. “But let’s face it, they’ll run out before long. I assume there are more where those came from?”

  “Lots more,” Seth assured him. “This is just a test run. If I remember right, you said something about batteries being worth their weight in gold.”

  Newel and Doren shared a glance. “We think we may have figured out something you’d like more,” Newel said.

  “Follow us,” Doren said.

  Seth walked with the satyrs over to a little white shed not far from the net. Newel opened the door and ducked inside. He came out holding a bottle. “W
hat do you say?” Newel asked. “A bottle of fine wine for those eight batteries.”

  “Potent stuff,” Doren confided. “It’ll put hair on your chest in no time. Good luck getting something like that from your grandparents.”

  Seth looked back and forth at the two satyrs. “Are you serious? I’m twelve years old! Do you think I’m an alcoholic or something?”

  “We figured something like this might be tough for you to get,” Newel said with a wink.

  “Good wine,” Doren said. “Primo.”

  “That might be true, but I’m just a kid. What am I going to do with a bottle of wine?”

  Newel and Doren shared a nervous glance. “Well done, Seth,” Newel said awkwardly, ruffling his hair. “You… passed our test. Your parents would be very proud.”

  Newel elbowed Doren. “Yeah, um, sometimes we test people,” Doren said. “And play jokes.”

  Newel went back into the shed. He returned holding a blue frog with yellow markings. “Seriously, here is what we really had in mind, Seth.”

  “A frog?” Seth asked.

  “Not just any frog,” Doren said. “Show him.”

  Newel tickled the frog’s belly. Its air sac swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe, and the frog let out a tremendous belching sound. Seth laughed in surprised delight. The satyrs laughed with him. Newel tickled the frog again and the thunderous belching sound repeated. Doren was wiping away mirthful tears.

  “So what do you say?” Newel asked.

  “Eight lousy batteries for one incredible frog,” Doren said. “I’d take it.”

  Seth folded his arms. “The frog is pretty cool, but I’m not five years old. If it’s between gold and a burping frog, I’ll take the gold.”

  The satyrs frowned, clearly disappointed. Newel nodded at Doren, who slipped into the shed and returned holding a bar of gold. He handed it to Seth.