Peter and the Shadow Thieves (30 page)

“What’s the matter here?” he said.

“It’s none of your business what the matter is,” growled the big man, tightening his grip on Peter.

The smal man looked at Peter. “Is that true?” he said.

Peter started to open his mouth, but was silenced by a violent yank from the massive hand on his shoulder.

“I said it’s none of your business,” said the big man, stepping threateningly forward.

The smal man seemed unfazed. “Isn’t it?” he said. “Here, Porthos!”

In a moment, the reason for the smal man’s confidence appeared in the form of an enormous dog bounding down the walk. It was a Saint Bernard, but to Peter it looked more like a bear. It raced toward Peter and the big man, barking ferociously. The big man drew Peter in front of him as a shield. Trotter ducked behind them both.

“Porthos, halt!” said the smal man. The huge dog skidded to a stop, growling in a deep, threatening rumble, teeth bared, its eyes trained on the big man.

“Now,” said the smal man mildly, speaking to Peter. “Is this man bothering you?”

Peter nodded.

“Let the boy go,” said the smal man.

The big man tightened his grip on Peter’s shoulder.

“I said
let him go,
” said the smal man. He took a step forward, and the dog moved forward with him, its growl becoming more menacing.

Peter felt the big man bracing, as if he were about to attack. But apparently he thought better of it, for suddenly he removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder.

“Now, get out of here,” said the smal man, “and don’t come back.”

The big man backed away, glaring. “You wouldn’t be so brave if you didn’t have that dog,” he said.

“Ah,” said the smal man, smiling, “but I
do
have the dog, don’t I?”

The large man spat on the ground, then turned and, with Trotter behind him, skulked off into the night.

The smal man chuckled, then turned to Peter. “Are you al right?” he said.

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Peter. “And thank you for rescuing me.”

“Happy to do it,” said the smal man, petting the now-docile Porthos. “You look cold and hungry. Would you like to come inside for a hot meal by a warm fire?”
Yes!
said Tinker Bel , from under Peter’s shirt.

“What was that sound?” said the smal man.

“Nothing!” said Peter, clapping his hand over his shirt.

“Are you sure?” said the smal man. “I could swear I heard bel s.”

“No!” said Peter. “That is, I mean…
I
didn’t hear anything.”

“Odd,” said the smal man, looking at Peter’s shirt. “Anyway, would you like to come inside?”

“No, thank you,” said Peter, tightening his grip on Tink. “I need to go. I need to find…Oh, no!” Peter looked up Bayswater Road; it was almost deserted now. There was no sign of Hawkins the postman.

“Oh,
no,
” repeated Peter, bringing his hand to his forehead.

“What is it?” said the smal man.

“I’m trying to find somebody,” said Peter, his voice breaking. “The postman was going to her house, and now I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“Who are you trying to find?” said the smal man.

“Mol y Aster,” said Peter, looking up Bayswater Road.

“Aster?” said the smal man. “Is she related to Lord Aster?”

Peter’s head snapped around. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Of course,” said the smal man. “Everyone does in this neighborhood.”

Peter’s heart leaped. “Is it near here, then?”

“It is,” said the smal man. “Quite near. It’s on Kensington Palace Gardens, not a mile from here.”

“Up this street?” said Peter, pointing up Bayswater Road.

“That’s one way,” said the man, “but if you’re in a hurry—”

“I am!” said Peter.

“Then there’s a shortcut through Kensington Gardens.” He pointed across Bayswater Road. “There’s a path that begins just there. You fol ow it, and it wil cross two others. You want the second path to the right, then straight on ’til you see a row of fine mansions. The one you want is the largest, grandest, white one, with two towers, one at each end.”

“A white house with two towers,” repeated Peter. He turned to go, then turned back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” said the smal man, stil petting the huge dog. “Good luck to you.” Then, looking directly at Peter’s shirt, he added, “To
both
of you.” Peter put his hand on his shirt, at a loss for words. The smal man smiled.

“By the way,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Peter,” said Peter.

“Ah, yes, Peter,” said the smal man. “A fine name. I’m cal ed James…James Barrie. But to my friends, it’s Jamie.” Peter, not knowing what to make of this, said nothing.

The man extended his hand, and Peter shook it. “We’re friends now, you and I.”

“Thank you, again,” Peter said.

“My pleasure.”

Porthos whined. The man scratched the dog’s head and said, “And let’s not forget Porthos! Credit where credit is due.” He smiled. It was a wide smile, surprisingly big for such a smal face. “Wel then, Peter,” said the little man. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Peter as he turned and ran across the road.

“Don’t forget,” cal ed Jamie, “second path to the right!” Then he turned and, with Porthos padding behind, went back to his house, muttering to himself.

“Peter,” the man said. “A fine name indeed.”

H
OOK SAT INSIDE the fort wals, brooding by the fire. He watched the two boys in the bamboo cage, their lips cracked and puckered, their sad, fearful eyes trained on the cage floor. Next to them, untouched so far, sat their daily meal of starfish mush and coconut juice.

Hook was not pleased. His initial excitement over the capture of the boys had subsided into grumpiness when several days had gone by without an attempt to rescue them. It was not the caged boys Hook wanted. It was the cursed flying boy who had taken his left hand. It was Peter he dreamed of seeing strapped to a pole with a fire lit beneath him.

Hook brooded some more, his baleful gaze on the two captives. And then, as it so often did, a plan came to him.

“Smee!” he bel owed, causing the two boys to jump.

The fat little man trundled over. “Yes, Cap’n?”

“You ever been whaling, Smee?”

“No, Cap’n.”

“Timing is everything.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“Timing’s the difference between a hold ful of blubber, or a whole lot of nothing.”

“Are you a little close to the fire, perhaps, Cap’n?”

“The whale comes up for air, you see. You have to anticipate that moment. You need to have the harpoons al set and ready.”

“Yes, Cap’n. But—”

Hook glared. He did not like to be interrupted in mid-plan. “What is it, Smee?”

“We have no harpoons.”

Hook clapped his hand to his forehead.

Smee, misinterpreting this act, went on: “We have some pistols, but they mostly don’t shoot. We have the swords, of course, but I ain’t heard of nobody kil ing a whale with a sword.”

Now Hook had his hand
and
his hook on his forehead.

“Maybe,” said Smee, “you could poke the whale in the eye with a sword. Of course he’d stil have the
other
eye, but I b’lieve, in a whale, the other eye is way over on the other side of the head, so your one-eyed whale would swim in a circle, and you could—”

“SMEE!”

“What, Cap’n?”

“You are an idjit, Smee.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“If you were to engage in a battle of wits with a sponge, Smee, my money would be on the sponge.”

“Aye, Cap’n, but al I’m saying is that if we’re going to catch a whale, we—”

“I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT CATCHING A WHALE, YOU IDJIT!”

Smee frowned, not wanting to contradict the captain, but quite certain that only a minute ago he had distinctly heard the captain talking about catching a whale.

“The point,” said Hook, “is that the whale don’t surface ’til it runs out of air.”

Smee nodded tentatively.

“We haven’t taken al his air,” Hook said. “That’s our problem. We haven’t got ourselves enough bait, y’see?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, though he did not see at al .

“Round up the men,” Hook ordered. “If two boys won’t do the trick, let’s take al his air. Let’s see what the boy does when al four of his mates go missing.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, waddling off, wondering how a conversation that had been entirely about whales wound up involving the boy.

J
UST AFTER SUNSET, when the sky was neither day nor night, five men boarded a black cab and rode the cobblestone streets from St. Katherine’s dock to Kensington Palace Gardens.

There was no talk in the cab, only a deep chil in the close air and an oppressive silence, as if the black-robed figure sucked the life from everyone and everything around him.

Final y, after a trip that had seemed interminable to Nerezza, Slank, Gerch, and Hampton, the cab slowed to a stop. Nerezza parted the window curtains and looked out. They were about twenty yards down the street from the Aster house, on the opposite side. Jarvis was standing out front. A tal postman walked past him and up the walk, deposited some letters, came back down the walk, and disappeared down the street.

“Jarvis is out front,” Nerezza reported.

“Is he…” said Gerch, “…is he one of the ones who…who were…” He stopped, glancing at the stil , silent form of Ombra.

“Yes,” said Nerezza. “He’s one of the two. The other one is Cadigan: he’s at the back entrance tonight. When we give the word, Cadigan wil cal the third one, Hodge, outside, with the dog, so Lord Ombra can…can meet him. Then we’l have al three.”

“And the staff?” said Gerch.

“The girl has taken care of them,” said Nerezza. “Are you ready, Lord Ombra?”

The dark form, which had been utterly motionless since they had left the dock, stirred, and instantly the other four occupants of the cab felt colder, much colder. The hooded head turned toward the window, but did not touch the closed shade.

“Too soon,” said the groaning voice. “Have the driver go around and return here.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Nerezza said, leaning out and passing the order along to the cab driver.

The black cab rumbled forward into the gloom. It passed the tal postman, who, uncharacteristical y, broke his stride as he felt a sudden, sharp chil shudder through his body.

For ten minutes, the occupants of the cab rode without speaking. Final y, the strain of the silence became unbearable to Gerch, who said, “There was the strangest report today, from the courthouse in Lambeth.”

“I heard about that,” said Hampton, nodding. “The flying prisoners.”

Slank’s head whipped around to face Hampton. “What did you say?” he said.

“I know it sounds absurd,” said Hampton. “You know how the newspapers are always exaggerating everything. It’s probably—”

“
What did you say about flying prisoners
?” said Slank, his face an inch from Hampton’s.

“I…it was in the newspapers,” sputtered Hampton. “Outside the courthouse, some prisoners flew into the air, then came back down again.”

“A very strange business,” added Hampton. “Hundreds of people claimed to have seen it. Hundreds!”

“They al came back down?” said Slank. “They were al captured?”

“I believe one of them flew away.”

“A boy?” said Slank, leaning now into Hampton. “Was it a boy who flew away?”

“I don’t know,” said Hampton. “Why?”

“He’s here,” said Slank. “He’s in London.”

“Who’s here?” said Hampton.

“You don’t know that,” said Nerezza.

“He’s
here,
I tel you,” shouted Slank, his face contorted in fury. “He’s—”

“Silence!”

Ombra’s voice instantly quieted Slank.

“We have work to do,” said Ombra.

“I’m sorry, Lord Ombra,” said Slank, hanging his head. “It’s just that—”

“I know,” the voice groaned. “You want the boy.”

Slank nodded.

“If the boy is here,” said Ombra, lifting his hooded head slightly—as if looking through the ceiling of the cab into the night sky, “and I believe you may be right about that, then you shal have him soon enough.”