by N. D. Wilson
Frank tied the sheath to his belt, at the small of his back, and grabbed an old, sweat-lined blue baseball hat with a red H stitched to its front. Then he hurried out of the room.
On the landing, he dropped into a crouch, bouncing on his legs, then stood and twisted his torso back and forth, breathing deeply.
“Francis,” a voice said behind him. “You’ve grown.”
Frank spun in place. At the bottom of the attic stairs stood a woman, not tall but beautiful, holding a mangy cat. The cat looked at Frank, but the woman’s pale eyes stared past him. She smiled, and her smooth olive skin glowed. Her hair, black as obsidian and straight, collected the light from the landing and shone as she moved.
“Where is the boy?” she asked. “Another sleeps in his bed.” She stroked her cat. “And he had little strength to give.”
Frank’s throat tightened. He coughed. “What boy?”
The woman smiled and stepped toward him. Her voice was quiet, a cold breeze. “The boy who lives beside my cage. The boy who roused me from the maddening dark. The dream walker. The pauper-son. I have sampled his blood.” Her eyes widened, looking through the walls around Frank. “Such blood!”
Frank’s hand drifted toward his back.
“I could name his sires two centuries past. Fine bait you set for me, Francis, fifth of Amram’s sons. A blood-vintage with strength enough, with life enough, to waken hope in a dried-up queen. Where is the boy?”
The woman stepped closer. Frank backed carefully across the landing toward Grandfather’s room, gripping the knife handle behind him. He opened his mouth to yell, to warn his wife. No sound came. His tongue knotted, cramped, and tightened behind his teeth.
The soft chill of her voice washed over his face. “Your eyes betray you, Francis.” She stood in front of him. “You would warn him? He cannot be far.”
Frank struggled against the tangle in his tongue, against the numbness drifting through his limbs. He found an old strength.
Surging forward, Frank brought around his blade, a blade older than Kansas, older than the magic in the door behind him, as old as the evil he faced.
Words from another lifetime climbed up his throat and freed his tongue.
Dotty seemed almost surprised that she was done. She looked like she was still thinking.
“But I thought the boy was Dad,” Penelope said. “Didn’t you marry him? Why did you say he only stayed for a while?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I married the boy. He’s your daddy. But he left Henry first. He went away to college in Cleveland and studied literature. After a year, I followed him.”
“What happened?” Anastasia asked. “I didn’t know Dad was the boy. Why didn’t you just say that instead of calling him ‘the boy’ the whole time?”
Dotty shrugged. “I thought you’d figure it out,” she said. “As for the rest, Henry uncovered the little cupboards in the attic, and he and Henrietta have gone through them. Your dad’s looking for them.”
“But does he know where they probably are?” Anastasia asked.
She didn’t get an answer.
Old windows rattled with her father’s voice. Above them, the ceiling shook.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Henry sneezed, waited, sneezed again, and squirmed closer to the mouth of whatever it was he was stuck in. At least there was light.
Someone was speaking. It was a man’s voice, and he ended loudly. People applauded.
Henry got his face to the door as the music began and blinked in surprise. He saw what Henrietta had seen, though the dance and song had changed. His eyes followed the swirling colors, ran over the walls and up to the vaulted ceilings, where chains suspended three enormous gold candelabras lined with hundreds of flicking tongues of flame.
His eyes watered as another sneeze welled up in his head, and he buried his face in his arm to stifle the noise. Then he blinked and looked back into the sparkling hall.
“Who’s there?” It was a girl’s voice. In all the noise, he had barely even noticed it. Henry didn’t say anything. He slid forward and stuck his head out into the room.
Instantly the world was black. He blinked again, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Some moonlight filtered down through the gapped roof, but no roof was visible. Henry scooted back into the cupboard. The laughter, the music, the light, and the noise of dancing feet all flooded back at once. He squinted and slid forward again, this time clipping his head on the top of the doorway. Darkness.
“Who’s there?” the voice said again. This time it was the only noise in the room, and it ricocheted off the walls, filling the huge place.
“Henrietta?” Henry asked. “Is that you? Where are you?”
Henrietta laughed. “Henry? I’m way over here. The floor’s all rotten, so I’m a little stuck now that it’s dark. Do you have a flashlight?”
“Nope,” Henry said. He slid all the way out and dropped to the floor. “Richard,” he said back into the cupboard. “Richard? Come all the way through. What you’re seeing isn’t real.”
Richard didn’t say anything.
“Who is Richard?” Henrietta asked.
Henry didn’t answer. “Richard? Richard? Oh well, it will be easier without you anyway.”
Henry turned and looked around the ruined hall. He could see a few stars and the dim shapes of clouds, and he could make out the windows. “Where exactly are you?”
“I’m by the balcony.”
“Where’s the balcony? Are you by a window? I can only see windows.”
“I’ll try and come to you,” Henrietta said. “Just keep making noise. I think I’ll have to crawl.”
Henry sat down with his back to the hutch. “You know you’re a complete nut, don’t you?”
“Takes one to know one,” Henrietta said.
“Oh, shut up,” Henry said. “Why would you go through a cupboard without telling anyone? I had no idea which one you went through.”
The sound of cracking wood echoed around the hall, followed by clattering on the story below.
“Are you okay?” Henry asked. “Be careful.”
“I’m fine,” Henrietta said. “Close one, though. You were right. It wasn’t a dream. There was this little man living in Grandfather’s room. I was chasing him. If it helps, I’m glad you came. This place was getting spooky. Eli said it all got wiped out in one night, the night you can see from inside the cupboard, and now it’s haunted.”
“Who said?”
“Eli. The little man. Weren’t you listening? He said this place gets freaky after dark.”
Henry looked at the black shapes of the windows. “He was right.”
“I’m standing up now,” Henrietta said. “Can you see me?”
“No.”
Light surged through the hall. Henry yelped and fell to his side.
“What’s wrong?” Henrietta said. “Oops. I think I need to crawl again.”
Henry sat up and shaded his eyes. The three huge candelabras that he’d seen lighting the dance were all suspended in the air, fully lit. The room was still in complete decay. There wasn’t even any ceiling left to hold two of the three lights. Henrietta was near the end of the room on her hands and knees. She stuck out one hand and felt around the floor for holes, then slid forward carefully and did it again.
“Henrietta?” Henry asked.
“Yeah?”
“Can you see?”
She laughed. “I thought my eyes would get used to it, but they didn’t. This is crazy dark.”
“I can see you,” Henry said. “I can see everything. The big chandelier lights are on.”
Henrietta stopped. She was only about sixty feet from Henry. Her eyes were wide and she turned her head, staring blankly around her.
“I’m going to come get you,” Henry said. He stood up and looked over the floor. The larger pits were all near the center of the room, but the distance between where he stood and where Henrietta crawled was littered with smaller gaps and cracks.
Henry walked caut
iously around the split and sagging wood, trying to keep above beams and supports. Henrietta kept crawling.
“Stop,” Henry said. “Just wait. I’m halfway there.”
Six feet from her, he stepped over the last gap and touched her on the back. She stood, groping blindly for his hands.
“Okay, I can kind of see you now,” she said. “At least, I can see your shape.”
Henry looked around for an easier way back. Then he heard something, a few notes from a violin. A burst of laughter. Something swished behind him.
Henry spun, almost knocking Henrietta over, just in time to watch a dark woman, shorter than he was and wearing a fire-orange gown, swirl past him, arms out, embracing an invisible partner. Her eyes were shut and she was laughing.
More and more people appeared, usually dancing alone, occasionally in pairs. The music came rarely and in short bursts. The people danced regardless, breaking the silence of the hall with the rustling of fabric.
“What’s going on?” Henrietta asked. “I thought I heard something.”
“The people are dancing,” Henry whispered. He shivered. “C’mon. I want to get out of here.”
“I feel sorry for them,” Henrietta said.
Henry tried to keep his eyes on the dancers and on the floor. Once or twice he collided with one. He had expected to wisp right through him, but he didn’t. He felt the bump, though lightly, and then the dancer, or dancers, would spin away. One even said, “Pardon.”
Henrietta saw none of it. She clung to Henry’s arm and placed her feet nervously wherever Henry told her the floor was strong. When only a third of the distance to the cupboard remained, the ballroom was nearly full, and collisions were almost impossible to avoid. Henry kept his arms out, and the dancers spun off to the sides as they came.
“Is that wind?” Henrietta asked.
“Yes,” Henry said. “The air is moving.”
He was guiding Henrietta in front of him when the two doors at the end of the hall burst open.
Henrietta grabbed at him. “What was that?” she whispered. “What do you see?”
Henry didn’t say anything. He and most of the dancers were frozen, staring at the doorway. Through it stepped a tall figure hooded and cloaked in wolf skin, holding a slender staff taller than he was. At the top, a long, narrow spike rose out of two cruel blades that bent back toward the shaft. Broad men, none as tall as the first, swarmed into the room.
Then the screaming began. Henrietta could hear it. She dropped out of Henry’s grip and covered her ears. Henry stood and watched, and felt that familiar sickness welling in his stomach. Some of the men held lean wolves on chains, and when the tall man gestured, they released them, snarling, into the crowd.
The wolves attacked a few, but mostly they herded the dancers to the center of the room. A few still danced alone, and the wolves either did not see them or were unable to touch them. As the people gathered, Henry pulled Henrietta to her feet. Whatever was going to happen next, he didn’t want to see it. The hall was filled with screams and weeping, and Henry did not turn around. Henrietta cried while Henry shuffled her toward the wall with the hutch, and as he watched his feet and the floor around them, he saw a man running from a wolf. He was tall, not one of the short people, and he was running toward the hutch. He looked over his shoulder, and Henry blinked. The man had his mother’s face. He threw open the cupboard, and the wolf snapped at his feet as he dove inside.
When he was gone, the wolf turned, still snarling, and surveyed the room. It looked directly at Henry, raised its hackles, and pulled its lips back.
“Silence!” The tall man’s voice rose above the din. The broad men all began whistling, and wolves from every corner of the room returned to them. The wolf in front of Henry ran to its handler, guarding the perimeter of what was now a crowd of several hundred gathered on the dance floor. One of the small men broke away from the group and ran for the doors. Two wolves pulled him down from behind, and the screaming began again.
“Silence!” The man’s voice was thunder. This time he gestured with his staff, and the great windows exploded into shards, showering the crowd with glass.
“You have long kept out the Witch-Queen with your tokens! Nimiane now sees that your tokens are gone, and so will you be. We are the Witch-Dogs, and she feeds us well.”
Henry tried not to listen. He tried not to watch. He pushed and dragged Henrietta to the wall and then shoved her into the cupboard.
“Hurry!” he said. He had to yell as the noise mounted again. “Close your eyes and push through!”
Henrietta crawled in, but her feet never disappeared. “It won’t open for me!” she shouted back at him.
Henry burrowed in next to her. “Okay, scoot to the side as much as you can. When I’m most of the way through, grab onto my legs and crawl after me with your eyes shut.”
Henry levered himself up, gripped the rope, and tried to pull himself forward. The rope slid toward him. The end was cut cleanly.
The two of them lay in the cupboard while wolves howled and glass shattered, while people screamed and men laughed. In the end, the voices were silent. The ceiling crashed and the timbers burned.
Dotty jumped up from her chair and ran to the stairs. Penelope and Anastasia followed her up.
On the landing, she slowed and looked around. Grandfather’s room was still open, but nothing seemed wrong. She looked back and saw both girls behind her holding their breath.
“You two stay,” she whispered.
She walked softly across the landing and came to Grandfather’s halfway-open door. She saw Blake, and then she saw Frank’s feet. He was lying flat on his back. She stepped closer and pushed on the door. It swung slowly, and she saw Frank’s legs, his waist, his chest, his face. His eyes were shut. One arm lay flat, the other was bent, the hand clutching something above his hip. It was his knife. The blade was smeared red.
With a gasp, Dotty threw the door open and rushed to him. Dropping to her knees, she grabbed at his throat, feeling for a pulse.
“Dorothy,” a voice said.
Dotty spun and went white when she saw the speaker. The witch was fingering her cat and staring above Dotty’s head. She was smiling
“Mom?” Anastasia’s voiced drifted in the door.
“Shhh,” Penelope said.
Dotty tried to yell, to tell them to run. Her tongue was frozen.
The witch laughed. “They can’t hear you.” Her laughter grew, and then broke. She coughed. With each hack her image changed, and Dotty glimpsed what she already knew was there—the shriveled form of a tiny eyeless hag. Dotty lunged for her feet but landed heavily on the floor. She tried to stand, but a smell like foul eggs surrounded her and she couldn’t breathe. She half stood, dizzy, and her knees gave. Her elbows went limp. “Run,” she whispered.
Anastasia and Penelope had seen their mother hurry into Grandfather’s room. All they’d heard was laughter, then coughing.
“Mom?” Anastasia said again. Penelope bit her lip.
A woman like they had never seen emerged from the doorway, smiling sadly and carrying a cat. Both girls stepped back, and Anastasia grabbed Penelope’s arm. The woman was dressed heavily, as if for the cold, with a gray cloak. But her throat was bare. It was a long throat, and delicate. The face above it was just as rich as it was fine, the olive skin as smooth as it was warm. She was beautiful. Her cheeks were high and her nose long, how Anastasia thought a queen’s should be. A queen in any land, in any country.
“Children,” she said softly. “Your father has been winded, but your mother is tending him.”
Penelope swallowed loudly. “Who are you?”
“I am called Nimiane. I am a friend of your father’s from another place. He has asked me for my help. It is important. There was a boy. Do you know where he is?”
“Henry?” Anastasia asked. “He’s lost in the cupboards.”
“Can we see our parents?” Penelope asked.
“Soon enough,” Nimiane said.
“Show me these cupboards. Are they the small gateways in the room above?”
“Mom?” Penelope called. “Can we come in?”
“Hush. Hush,” Nimiane said. “We must leave them for a few moments.” She tried to look at Penelope’s face but missed, looking just above her head.
“Your cat looks sick,” Anastasia said.
The woman turned her face toward Anastasia. “Yes. He has been sick for some time, but I am able to keep him alive.”
Anastasia stared into the cat’s eyes. Then she looked up at the woman’s perfect face. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked. “Why don’t you look at us?”
“My eyes are strong,” Nimiane said, her tone suddenly harsh. It softened quickly. “I have a little magic, and I do not always need to look in order to see. Now, will you take me to these cupboards? I would ask you about them.”
Anastasia stepped to the attic stairs, but Penelope didn’t budge. “We’ll stay down here,” she said.
“Your father asked that we hurry,” the woman said. “This boy Henry is not in a pleasant place.”
“C’mon,” Anastasia said. “We’ll come back in a second.”
“Mom?” Penelope said. “We’re going into the attic. We’ll be right back.”
Anastasia stood at the top of the stairs and waited. Nimiane waited for Penelope to climb first. When Nimiane did move onto the stairs, she held the cat low, and her steps were not smooth.
In the attic, Anastasia pulled the two doors open and stepped into Henry’s room. “Oh, I forgot about Richard,” she said. “He’s still asleep.”
The witch walked into the room behind her.
“Who’s Richard?” Penelope hung back, but then she saw Richard’s face. His flesh was gray. A purple blotch stood out on his forehead. “He doesn’t look asleep,” she said. “Is he okay?” She slid past the woman’s robes and put her hand on his cheek. “He’s cold.”
