“Oh!” Sophie fell to one side as she felt something cold slide past her skirts. Taro, who was still behind her, grabbed her shoulders and helped her right herself.
Sophie turned back to Peter, who had yet to throw his rope. “Do you think you could hurry a little?”
Peter, however, did not answer. He was facing the far end of the swamp, his face set with alarm. “We’re not alone,” he whispered. “There’s someone else in the—”
“WORM!” A bellowing voice split the air.
Sophie turned around to see a large man in the bog behind them. The man was hardly dressed for the conditions, wearing only a vest and an open shirt, both of which were marred with mud and swamp weed. His face was a shifting blur of features that never quite settled into place.
“You miserable little worm.” The man took a step closer. “I warned you, if I ever saw you again, it’d be your head.”
Sophie at first did not understand what the man was referring to, but then she realized that he was speaking not to her but to Peter.
“Mister Seamus . . .” Peter said, almost in a whisper. “How could . . . How did you find me?” All the blood had drained from his face, and Sophie could see that he was trembling.
“Thought you could escape me, worm?” the man said with a snarl. “Thought you could leave me to rot in that stinkin’ fish heap?” The man sloshed through the bog toward him. “GET BACK HERE!”
“Don’t touch me!” Peter staggered backward, slashing his blade through the air.
“Peter, no!” Sophie cried. But it was too late. Peter had fallen into the bog.
Sophie grabbed his arm and tried to pull him free, but she succeeded only in dragging herself deeper under. Meanwhile, the man, who seemed to have grown even taller, was wading toward them, still screaming, “WORM!”
Peter huddled against Sophie, cowering. “Don’t let him take me,” he said, whimpering. “Don’t let him . . .”
“Taro, help!” she cried. “Stop him!”
Taro lunged for the man, but the second he touched his arm, the man disappeared into a wisp of pollenous smoke. Taro was left holding a creature that looked like a knot of seaweed with one large yellow frog’s eye. The creature croaked and slipped from Taro’s grip, wriggling back beneath the water.
“Peter,” Sophie whispered, “you’re safe. He’s not real. He’s not real.”
Real or not, the damage had already been done—Peter was up to his neck in the bog and struggling to keep afloat. Sophie and Taro tried to pull him free, but they succeeded only in getting themselves stuck, as well.
“Stay calm,” Sophie said. “If you struggle, you’ll only make it worse.” She felt another creature swim past her waist. Whatever it was, there were more than one of them. The bog was now alive with croaking sounds. She let go of Peter with one hand and drew The Book of What from her belt. She unclasped it and opened the cover. The pages were wet, but she knew that wouldn’t matter. “What creatures live in Kettle Bog?” she cried. The answer came quickly:
NIXIES: Freshwater sirens known to populate a marshy region of the hinterlands called Kettle Bog. Nixies possess a unique sensitivity to the fears and desires of those near them, which they often mimic to lure prey to its death. Famous victims include: Gunter the Large, King Hansel, and Peter Nimble (imminent).
~For more information, see: Book of Who, “Gunter the Large,” “King Hansel,” “Peter Nimble”; Book of Where, “Hinterlands,” “Kettle Bog”
“Nixies,” Sophie said, snapping the book shut. “Of course!”
Perhaps you have heard of nixies in your own reading? If you have, then you know them to be a breed of shape-shifting predators that appear to gullible fishermen in the form of scandalously shaped maidens or buckets of treasure in the hope of luring said fishermen to rocky shores. It is widely believed that nixies can change their appearance to reflect the innermost desires of their prey. These particular nixies, however, seemed to be doing the opposite—inciting panic so that their victims might be sucked into the bog. So far, it was working.
Sophie, Peter, and Taro were now up to their necks in the simmering mire. “Stay calm,” Sophie called. “They’re trying to drown us. If we don’t move, they can’t hurt us.”
She heard splashes as two more copies of the brutish man Peter had called Mister Seamus rose from the water. “Worm!” they both shouted, and they lunged for the boy.
“They’re not real, Peter!” she called. “They can’t touch you.” But the boy had already disappeared into the bog.
Sophie spat out a mouthful of acrid sludge, struggling to keep her head above the surface. She could feel more nixies around her, swimming past her legs and waist. “Help!” she cried, her eyes blurring with tears as she slipped beneath the mire.
However bad drowning in water may be, drowning in mud is unquestionably worse. The feeling of thick sludge as it fills one’s nostrils, ears, and mouth is like a squishier version of being buried alive. A slow, muffling terror overtook Sophie as she felt her body slip deeper into the slough. Her heart throbbed in her head, and her limbs ached from the pressure of the mud, which was slowly crushing her. Her last thought was of the books of Who and What, which would also be lost to the bog. And with them would go all hope of finding the truth about her mother.
A loud splash jolted Sophie from her stupor. Something heavy—something real—had plunged into the mud next to her head. “Grab hold!” a voice cried from somewhere above.
Sophie felt something near her fingers and grabbed hold of it. It seemed to be a chain connected to a large slab of stone. She felt the tether go taut as it pulled the stone—and her—up through the suctioning mire.
Sophie’s head broke the surface of the bog. She gasped, tasting air again. She clung to the chain as it dragged her out of the water and onto shore. She collapsed on the peaty ground, coughing up muck and water and bile. She opened her eyes to see the line that had saved her life. The thin gold chain was bolted to a heavy stone that lay behind her. The other end of the chain snaked across the ground and out of view. Sophie’s eyes followed the chain until she found herself staring into the eyes of her rescuer. “You!” she said, still gasping.
Akrasia stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Sophie Quire,” the creature said. “It seems our paths cross once more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BLOOD FOLLOWS
Sophie and Akrasia worked quickly to rescue Taro and then Peter from the bog. Taro seemed relatively unharmed, but Peter had swallowed quite a bit of mud and was not breathing when they first pulled him out. When he suddenly started coughing and sat up, it was all Sophie could do not to throw her arms around him.
All three of them had dozens of nixies clinging to their bodies like leeches, and it was delicate work to remove the creatures. The books of Who and What were both wet but otherwise undamaged. Sophie cleaned them off as best she could with the hem of her cloak, which was itself muddy. Also muddy were her boots and hair and dress, and even the inside of her mother’s bell necklace.
“It is lucky I came when I did,” Akrasia said as Sophie wrung out her hair. “If I had found you a moment later, it might have been corpses I fished from the bog instead.”
“I don’t know why you keep saving me,” Sophie said. “But I’m grateful nonetheless.”
“It is I who should thank you.” The beast lowered her head. “I was condemned to spend my life chained to that library wall. As you can see, that wall is no more.” She pawed the block of rubble at the end of her chain. “I have your masked friend to thank for that. If he had not started that stampede in the menagerie, I would be chained there still, burned alive.”
“Burned?” Peter said, sitting up. “Did the animals start a fire?”
“They did not. A Bustleburgh officer and his men came after you escaped—he was looking for a girl who had assaulted one of his deputies. He had his men set fire to everything they found—books, artifacts, even the animals. They called it all nonsense.”
“Inquisitor Prigg,” Sophie said. “He must be following us. But why?”
“Perhaps the answer is closer than you realize.” Akrasia glanced down at the books of Who and What, which lay beside Sophie. “Where those books go, blood seems quick to follow.” Again, Sophie had the feeling that the creature knew more than she had chosen to reveal.
“What about Sir Tode?” Peter said. “Our friend who was stuck in the birdcage?”
“The hoofed cat. I remember him.” Akrasia bobbed her head as if considering whether to answer. “He was captured by the men. There was talk of forcing him to reveal your location.”
Peter chuckled. “Good luck with that.” The news that Sir Tode had been captured alarmed Sophie, but it seemed to put Peter at ease. Perhaps getting captured was something Sir Tode had experience with?
“They also found the potion seller,” Akrasia continued. “She promised to lead them to you in exchange for her life.” Upon hearing that Madame Eldritch was alive, Taro looked up. Sophie thought she caught the hint of a smile behind his stitched mouth, as though he was gladdened to hear of her survival.
“How would Madame Eldritch even know where we were going?” Sophie asked.
Akrasia turned toward Taro and growled. “How, indeed?” she said, stepping near. “Perhaps this one is leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?”
Sophie rushed between them. “Taro’s with us,” she said firmly. “Don’t hurt him.”
The tigress bared her teeth. “I am not accustomed to being ordered about by children.”
Sophie felt herself pulled backward as Peter stepped in front of her. “If you touch Sophie, I will skin you alive,” he said to Akrasia. Sophie was surprised to see Taro standing beside Peter, hands raised—they were both protecting her.
Akrasia, for her part, looked completely unmoved by the display. “Spare me your posturing,” she said, licking a paw. “If I wanted the girl dead, it would be as simple as letting you lead her down another waterfall or through another bog.”
Sophie touched Peter’s arm. “Akrasia saved our lives,” she whispered. “She won’t hurt us.”
Peter remained where he was for a moment, clearly torn. He stepped back. “If she makes one false move, I’m going after her.”
“You are welcome to try,” Akrasia said. The tigress turned from him, sniffing the air. “We should keep moving if we value our freedom.” She pushed into the brush, the chain and stone dragging behind her. “The Bustleburgh soldiers have horses and wagons and fresh supplies. I venture to say they will overtake us by sundown tomorrow.”
“Us?” Sophie called.
Akrasia stopped at the bend, looking coyly over her shoulder. “Of course, little bookmender. You and your companions have liberated me from my cell, and I must repay the debt.” She flicked an ear. “If your swim with the nixies has proven anything, it is that you three would not survive the hinterland marshes without a guide. I can take you to the one who wields the next book.”
“Scrivener Behn,” Sophie said. “You know where he is?”
“I know where he was, and that is enough.” Akrasia raked her claws against a tree trunk. “I excel at finding things that wish to remain hidden.”
Sophie put her books away and climbed onto the rock next to her. “How will you find him? Did he tell you where he was going?”
“He did not have to. I am a hunter. I can follow his path.”
Peter, who was some distance behind them, made a scoffing sound. “You’re telling me you can still tell where he went. Twelve years later?”
“Perhaps not his exact footsteps, but the direction he traveled, yes.”
“She’s lying,” Peter said, catching up to them. “Even I couldn’t smell a trail that old.”
“I am a tigress. We do not hunt by smells or sounds or footprints in the grass. We hunt fear. We are drawn to fear as a bee is drawn to nectar, as a child is drawn to her mother’s breast, as deep is drawn to deep.” She turned to Sophie, her eyes wide. “And Scrivener Behn was very afraid.”
“Why was he so afraid?” Sophie said.
“I do not know,” Akrasia said, peering into the haze. “He came to me on the night of the last Evensong.”
“The what?” Peter said.
“Evensong is the sacred ritual of the Storyguard,” Akrasia said. “Storyguard are meant to live solitary lives. Their duty is to keep the Four Questions safe and separate—even going so far as to keep their locations unknown from one another. Every so often, however, the Storyguard gather for a sacred ritual during which they summon an entry from the books. It is a way of restoring magic that has been lost.”
“Do you remember it?” Sophie said. “The last Evensong?”
“It was twelve years ago,” she said. “I was but a cub then, but I could still perceive that there was something dangerous on the horizon. I could smell it on the wind, like so much blood. And then there was your mother’s warning.”
“About the fourth Storyguard,” Sophie said. She could suddenly feel her mother’s necklace heavy on her throat.
“Your mother feared the Storyguard was plotting something foul, something that involved the Four Questions. She warned my mistress to protect herself, to take precautions against betrayal.”
“And did your mistress listen?” Peter asked.
“Alas, she did. The ceremony was set to be held in Bustleburgh, beneath a pregnant moon. My mistress left me behind in her carriage, fearing for my safety. It was the last I ever saw of her. If your mother had not intervened, my mistress would have taken me with her to the ceremony, and I could have protected her from harm.”
“Or,” Peter said, “you would have died with her.”
“What happened at Evensong?” Sophie asked.
Akrasia shook her head. “I do not know, for I was not there. Some hours after my mistress left me, a man appeared at the door of my carriage. The man was another Storyguard, a Scarabian named Scrivener Behn. He had with him the books of What and Where. His face was drawn and trembling, and he was very frightened. When I asked him what had happened, he only told me that my mistress had died—that they had all been betrayed by one of their own. He took the carriage and fled the city, riding straight to an abandoned tower at the edge of the Grimmwald—a place he had seen described in The Book of Where. He placed The Book of What under my care, and, to ensure that I did not abandon my post, secured around my neck the widow’s might.” The beast lowered her broad head. “I never saw my mistress again.”
“But who was the Storyguard who betrayed them?” Sophie said.
“Eldritch,” Peter said. “It has to be.”
Sophie looked at Taro, but his face betrayed nothing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Madame Eldritch has an entry in The Book of Who. But when I asked it who killed my mother, the book turned to an entry that had been torn from the spine.”
“The final Storyguard’s identity is the least of our troubles,” Akrasia said. “It would be very bad for all of us if he or she found the remaining books before you did. For that reason, we should keep moving.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter to you,” Sophie said, “but to me it’s everything. I need to know what happened to my mother—why it happened. And these books can do that.” She hoped that these books could do much more than that, but she did not dare speak that hope aloud.
Akrasia studied Sophie, as though she might be able to read the things within her heart. “It seems we all have our reasons,” she said, turning away.
Sophie watched the beast. Something about her story wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t that she was lying, but it definitely felt as if she weren’t telling them everything. “Akrasia,” Sophie called after her.
The tigress looked back at her. “Yes, my cub?”
Sophie clasped the leather strap of her book harness. “Why are you really helping lead us to Scrivener Behn?”
The tigress almost showed a hint of a smile, as though she was grateful for Sophie’s directness. “Scrivener Behn imprison
ed me against my will for twelve long years. Had you not intervened, I would be there still. In exchange for this, I am going to lead you to him so you might find The Book of Where. And then I am going to kill him.”
Sophie and the others trudged through the marshes on foot, following whatever trail Akrasia claimed to sense. The matter of Akrasia killing Scrivener Behn plagued Sophie, but she knew well enough that there wasn’t much she could do about it until they found the man. After the bog, the river had managed to reconstitute itself into an actual river—albeit a broad and swampy one—and they followed its course as best they could. Sophie’s legs ached from walking, and the harness carrying the books cut into her shoulder. It did not help that her clothes were still muddy from the bog, and all she had eaten for two days was eel and part of a snail the size of Sophie’s head that Akrasia had brought back from goodness knows where. (The Book of What identified it as a “hermit tongue.”)
The group ventured deeper into the marshes, which seemed to grow ever more dense. Strange animals chirped and gurgled and howled just out of sight, probably kept at bay by Akrasia. Sophie considered using The Book of What to identify the animals but thought she might prefer ignorance. The haze that permeated the land seemed to grow denser by the hour. Soon Sophie could barely see twenty feet in front of her, and she started holding the middle of Akrasia’s chain for fear of being left behind.
Evening came and with it fog so dark even Akrasia could not see a way forward. The group decided to set up camp on a knoll near the river.
Akrasia went off to hunt some food for supper, and Taro waded into the reeds to catch some of the sprites that had appeared in the cool of night. Sophie watched him trying to catch the little flickering lights that whizzed and blinked above the rippling water.
Peter had taken it upon himself to build a fire, which he was currently doing with little luck. Sophie found him crouched over a pile of soggy thistles. He held a small flint in his hand, which he was trying unsuccessfully to spark against the rocks. “It’s too humid for a flint,” Sophie said. “You’ll never get a fire that way.”
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