Maskelyne smiled, a little weary. “Quite the three-headed dog, aren’t you, Master Piers. But you needn’t worry. I’m not here to steal the mirror. At least not yet.”
Piers’s red waistcoat was striped with black. He scowled. “Just so we understand each other.” Then he turned his head, startled. “Is that roar the motorbike? Are they back?”
Maskelyne went to the window, opened it and leaned out. “All I can hear is the river.”
Piers turned pale. “Maybe I’d better check the cellars.”
“You do that.”
When the little man had gone, Maskelyne stayed at the window. The river must be in high spate, under the house. The floodwaters were rising. And there out over the clustered trees of the Wood, what was that? A gray cloud, rising and settling, splitting and re-forming. Rain? Or birds?
He watched them with a distinct unease.
The Shee were flocking. Something was happening, out there in that tangled wildwood. Something was disturbing the faery people.
Time and the world were drowning, the currents of the earth were streaming with strange energies; he could feel them in his very bones and veins. And deep below the house the black mirror pulsed like a pinpoint of dark silence, commanding him to come.
“All right,” he whispered. “I hear you.”
But still he stared out at the darkening sky.
Where was Rebecca? What was going on out there?
There was nothing wrong with the bike.
Rebecca stared at the dial in bewilderment. “It said empty. It was empty.”
Jake shook his head. “Let’s get back. I’ve done what I came for and now I’m going after my father.”
He grabbed the handlebars and as his sleeve lifted she saw a flash of silver; glimpsed the staring metal eye of the snake. “My God!” she stared. “How did you get that?”
He climbed on and kick-started the engine. “Get on.”
“Jake! To bring it out here! Are you crazy?”
But she had to jump to get on as the bike roared down the lane, and as she gripped her arms tight around him, she knew he was as scared as she was, that the disappearance of the children had knocked all confidence out of him.
They rode fast, down the lanes, under the deep banks of red earth, under tangled boles of hawthorn and ash, past branches that snagged and reached out for them.
Wintercombe seemed strangely distant, as if they had come farther than they’d thought; every time the lane twisted, Rebecca expected the ford, the pair of gates with their lion guardians, but there were only the endless hedges, until Jake stopped the bike abruptly, breathless.
“We’re lost. You’ve taken the wrong turn.” She wanted to scream at him.
He said, “No. I think the land is wrong. Summer has done something to it.”
They went on, more slowly. She saw that the fields were planes of red water; that trees and gates stood isolated. Sheep had been moved to high ground; cattle were missing. And in the west the sun was already wrapped in great piling clouds.
The gates, when they came suddenly upon them, were still open. Jake turned in and rode cautiously up the drive. He was more worried than he wanted to show because yes, it had been stupid to bring the bracelet out here. If Summer got her hands on it . . .
Even as he thought the thought, the engine died.
The silence was terrible.
They slid to a halt under a great oak that sprawled its boughs over the track. Jake dumped the bike, just as a starling landed on a branch with a bounce. Its beady black eyes fixed on him.
“Move,” he muttered. “Quick!”
Rebecca was already running. He flung the helmet at the bird and raced after her, but now the host were coming down like the rain, wings fluttering, beaks shrieking.
He leaped a fallen log, crunched through leaves, glanced back. And then he heard the beat of the drum, deep in the Wood, and his heart went icy with fear.
“Jake.” Rebecca had stopped. He crashed against her. She grabbed his hand.
The Shee were all around. They stood silent, an army of curious eyes. Of heads tipped sideways with sharp attention. Of intent greed.
Every bit of it was focused on Jake.
Could they sense the bracelet? Could they smell the silver, taste the amber? Did the snake speak to them in some secret hissing syllables?
“Keep walking,” he breathed. “Don’t look at them. Don’t stop.”
“I can’t.” Rebecca seemed frozen with terror. “What are they?”
He pulled her forward. They walked side by side down the track, between the clustering creatures with their silver hair, their beautiful faces. The Shee were assembling, leaping down from the trees, their wings becoming arms, their claws feet, their feathers fine clothes of dark glossy purples and green. As she walked, Rebecca saw them transform, a male with one wing still, a female face shivering from beak to sweet smiling mouth. Behind, in the thickets, shapes moved, slithered.
“Where’s Summer?” she gasped.
“Don’t ask.” If she came now, they were lost. “Hurry!”
But his feet stumbled; Rebecca slowed. The baneful silence of the Shee was working on them; they felt tired suddenly, so tired, that all they wanted to do was stop, lie down, sleep, be covered in leaves by the birds.
“Rebecca. Keep moving.” The words were blurred in his mouth. He slipped; almost fell.
Beside him, she crouched, her head bent.
“Can’t,” she whispered. “Too tired.”
They would fall. They would fall here and the Shee would flock down on them, beak and claw, snatching for the bracelet, for the prize their queen would scream with delight to own.
Jake knew it and he didn’t care. He slid to his knees.
It was over.
Until, like a pinprick of light, the voice stabbed him.
“Rebecca. Jake. Get up.”
It was calm, but the shock of it jerked his eyes open. He saw Maskelyne standing alone on the flooded drive before the Abbey. He saw Piers fidgeting with fear and anxiety on the steps behind.
“Rebecca! Do you hear me?”
She looked up. Dazed, as if he had woken her from death.
Jake grabbed her hand, dragged her up.
And as they stumbled past them, the Shee stepped back, drew away from Maskelyne’s voice and Maskelyne’s very shadow, and from their angry ranks a terrifying and eerie sound arose, a hiss that made the hackles on Jake’s neck prickle with raw fear.
And then they were at the steps, and Piers had run down and was hustling them up, staring over his shoulder at the bird army that rose in dark swirling flocks above the Wood.
They fell into the hall.
Maskelyne came last, and slammed and bolted the door.
Jake turned. “What the hell did you do? We were . . . Why were they so scared of you?”
Maskelyne shrugged. “Perhaps the scar frightened them. They hate ugliness.”
Rebecca stared at him. “It was amazing!”
“Lucky.” Piers seemed torn between relief and fury. “You were just lucky. Because if Summer had been there . . .”
“But she wasn’t there.” Maskelyne looked at Jake. “And that’s what worries me.”
“A well?” Wharton stared down at the black interior, appalled. “You expect me to climb down a bloody well?”
Venn was bending over the shaft. Now he looked up, his face pale with cold, his eyes hard and blue. “You were the one who asked to come. You can see the tracks. They went down here.” His gaze strayed anxiously to the Wood beyond. “Make up your mind. The Shee might not let you back now anyway. They’re hunting.”
Wharton growled in his throat. Then he knotted the school scarf tight, swung himself over, and spread a hand on the slimy bricks. “I thought the Summerland was some paradise of a place.”