Peter and the Secret of Rundoon Read online

  ALSO BY DAVE BARRY AND RIDLEY PEARSON

  Blood Tide

  Cave of the Dark Wind

  Escape from the Carnivale

  Peter and the Shadow Thieves

  Peter and the Starcatchers

  Science Fair

  ALSO BY RIDLEY PEARSON

  Kingdom Keepers—Disney After Dark

  Kingdom Keepers II—Disney at Dawn

  Steel Trapp

  For Rob, Sophie, Paige, and Storey: May you always have a little starstuff left.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that

  this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed”

  to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received

  any payment for this “stripped” book.

  Copyright © 2007 Dave Barry and Page One, Inc.

  Illustrations copyright © 2007 by Greg Call

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of

  Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

  without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue,

  New York, New York 10011-5690.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Disney • Hyperion paperback edition, 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-4097-9

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We thank J. M. Barrie, who imagined one of the most wonderful stories ever, and Paige Pearson, who, upon hearing that story for the first time, asked her father how Peter Pan met Captain Hook in the first place.

  Paige’s question led us to write Peter and the Starcatchers, which led to Peter and the Shadow Thieves, which led to the book you’re reading now. Our editor for all these books has been Wendy—yes, Wendy—Lefkon. We thank her for her unfailing support of these books, and for her gentle reminders that she cannot publish them until we actually finish them.

  We thank our amazing illustrator, the quietly brilliant Greg Call, for bringing our words to life.

  We thank the people who keep us organized, or at least less disorganized than we’d be without them: Nancy Litzinger and Judi Smith. We thank our copy editors, David and Laurel Walters, and Judi again, for finding and rooting out our many boneheaded errors. Any remaining mistakes in this book are solely the fault of the evil Lord Ombra.

  We thank Jennifer Levine for flying us all around the country to talk about a flying boy, and always getting us back home for birthdays.

  We thank our smart and beautiful wives, Michelle and Marcelle, for letting us go, and welcoming us back.

  Above all, we thank our readers, the young ones and the less-young ones, but especially the ones who came to the bookstores dressed as pirates.

  —Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1: The Gathering

  CHAPTER 2: The Scouting Party

  CHAPTER 3: Worrying Questions

  CHAPTER 4: “They Will Be Back”

  CHAPTER 5: Molly’s Plan

  CHAPTER 6: Rumor Spreads

  CHAPTER 7: The Secret

  CHAPTER 8: The Fire Goes Out

  CHAPTER 9: A Mysterious Gentleman

  CHAPTER 10: The Jackal

  CHAPTER 11: The Unseen Enemy

  CHAPTER 12: St. Norbert’s

  CHAPTER 13: The Pod

  CHAPTER 14: The Other Train

  CHAPTER 15: Hook’s Plan

  CHAPTER 16: A Liability

  CHAPTER 17: The Attack

  CHAPTER 18: Tink’s Search

  CHAPTER 19: Helpless

  CHAPTER 20: Peter’s Promise

  CHAPTER 21: No Time to Lose

  CHAPTER 22: King Zarboff the Third

  CHAPTER 23: The Jackal Commands

  CHAPTER 24: The Man in the White Robe

  CHAPTER 25: Bad Things

  CHAPTER 26: Cap’n Smee

  CHAPTER 27: A Desert Conversation

  CHAPTER 28: James’s Promise

  CHAPTER 29: Urgent News

  CHAPTER 30: Franklin

  CHAPTER 31: Jibran’s Reward

  CHAPTER 32: The Battle in the Dungeon

  CHAPTER 33: The Alliance

  CHAPTER 34: The Borrowed Camel

  CHAPTER 35: The Night Caravan

  CHAPTER 36: Pursuit

  CHAPTER 37: The Heavens Explode

  CHAPTER 38: Tink’s Idea

  CHAPTER 39: An Ugly Smile

  CHAPTER 40: A Voice in the Sky

  CHAPTER 41: Oasis

  CHAPTER 42: Questions

  CHAPTER 43: Shining Pearl’s Idea

  CHAPTER 44: A Leak in the Universe

  CHAPTER 45: Doomed

  CHAPTER 46: Tink’s Message

  CHAPTER 47: Molly’s Decision

  CHAPTER 48: The Ship We Want

  CHAPTER 49: The Appetizer

  CHAPTER 50: Unanswered Questions

  CHAPTER 51: Not All Right

  CHAPTER 52: The Gold Suits

  CHAPTER 53: Greasing the Rollers

  CHAPTER 54: The Launch

  CHAPTER 55: The Giant Eye

  CHAPTER 56: The Second Launch

  CHAPTER 57: The Creeping Cold

  CHAPTER 58: The Roar in the Sky

  CHAPTER 59: The Struggle

  CHAPTER 60: Brighter than Day

  CHAPTER 61: The Cell Door

  CHAPTER 62: Under Fire

  CHAPTER 63: The Golden Moon

  CHAPTER 64: The Only Hope

  CHAPTER 65: The Secret Weapon

  CHAPTER 66: A Miserable Night

  CHAPTER 67: Bad News

  CHAPTER 68: The Alarm

  CHAPTER 69: Revolt

  CHAPTER 70: Fight or Flight

  CHAPTER 71: The Monstrous Maw

  CHAPTER 72: Hook’s Dream

  CHAPTER 73: The Promise

  CHAPTER 1

  THE GATHERING

  THE OLD MAN TRUDGED ALONG THE DIRT PATH, pulling his worn coat tighter to ward off the cold wind moaning across the Salisbury Plain. Dusk was near, and the man was glad to see his destination, the village of Amesbury, come into view.

  The man glanced toward the cluster of massive dark stones looming in the distance to his left. He had lived near Stonehenge his whole life, and until recently he had considered it an unremarkable feature of the landscape. But in the past few weeks—since the night of the strange lights in the sky—he found that his eyes were drawn to the stones.

  The old man turned his head away, disgusted with himself. He was a sensible person; he was not one to believe the stories that had been swirling through the village since that night—stories of evil spirits roaming among the stones, of animals behaving oddly, of people experiencing strange sensations.…

  “Rubbish,” the man muttered to himself as he quickened his pace.

  CAW! CAW! CAW!

  The bird’s cry startled the man. He looked up and saw a large raven swooping across the plain. The man stopped and watched as it passed low in front of him. He was watching the bird, not the ground, so he did not see its shadow pass across his.

  But he felt it.

  He didn’t know it was a shadow; he thought it was a chill. A shudder went through his body, and he drew his coat even tighter. He felt suddenly light-headed and staggered
sideways. Catching himself, he started walking again—but not along the path. He veered to the right, toward a clump of trees. He didn’t know why he did this; he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  He reached the trees and saw the strangest sight: animals, a dozen at least—a fox, a rabbit, two dogs, some squirrels, several birds, and a cat. They were lined up in a neat row, perfectly still, ignoring each other, watching the man approach.

  The old man stopped about ten feet away; again, he had no idea why. For a moment he stood facing the animals. Then the fox trotted forward, but not directly to the man; it passed by him, such that its shadow crossed his. As it did, two things happened: the man felt another shuddering chill, and the fox looked at him as if suddenly aware of his presence, then ran off.

  Next, one of the dogs came forward, and it repeated the fox’s actions—crossing shadows with the man, then running away. It was followed by the other dog and, one by one, the other animals.

  Each time, the man felt the chill. But now he also felt something else—a new presence…a presence growing inside him. It was weak, but the man could feel it grow stronger as each animal scampered away, and he understood that whatever it was, it was coming from the animals into him. He understood this, but there was nothing he could do about it except watch, as if in a dream.

  When the last animal was gone, the old man returned to the path and, still in his dreamlike state, resumed trudging toward Amesbury. He reached the village as the sun dipped below the hills. But instead of going to his house, where his wife would be cooking his dinner, the man went to the George Hotel, the oldest accommodation in the village.

  The old man didn’t enter the hotel; he stopped in front of one of the windows. By the lamplight from inside, the man cast a shadow on the road in front of him. He had stood there for less than a minute when a woman walked past. The two knew each other, but neither spoke. The woman crossed in front of the man, her shadow touching his. The man felt the now-familiar chill. The woman let out a soft gasp, stumbled, then recovered and walked quickly away without looking at the man.

  In a minute, another woman came by, then a man, then another woman, then a child, each crossing shadows with the man, then departing quickly into the darkness. Now the old man was acutely aware of the presence in him. It was still weak—wounded, the man realized—but it was also fiercely determined. And angry. Very, very angry.

  In his dream state, the man understood somehow that he was not the target of the anger: whatever the presence was, it was only using him as a means to achieve its ultimate goal. The man did not know what that was. Nor did he want to know.

  From down the road came the sound of hooves clopping and wheels creaking. The old man turned his head to see the London-bound coach pulling up to the hotel. The driver, a big, red-faced man in a heavy wool coat, reined in the horses, set the brake, and climbed down from his perch. He nodded to the old man, and getting no response, shrugged, then went into the hotel. He emerged two minutes later with a passenger, whom he helped into the coach. The driver was about to climb back up to his seat when the old man felt himself suddenly step forward and to the side, causing his shadow to cross the driver’s.

  In that instant, the old man felt the presence rush from him. He staggered back and almost fell, catching himself against the wall of the hotel. He turned from the driver and stumbled away up the street toward his house. He did not look back. He had already decided that he would not tell his wife what had happened to him. He would never tell anyone.

  Five hours later, the coach reached the London waterfront. The passengers were confused and angry; this was not where the coach was supposed to take them—their stops had all been bypassed. They had been complaining increasingly loudly for some time now, shouting and pounding on the coach roof. The driver had not responded at all. It was as if he didn’t hear them.

  The coach stopped on a street near St. Katherine’s dock. The driver climbed down and walked away, abandoning the coach and its shouting passengers. It was midnight and the docks were quiet, save for the creaking of lines and the slapping of water against the hulls of ships.

  The coach driver walked purposefully along the dock to a ship called Le Fantome. He walked up the gangway and boarded the ship. A sailor on watch tried to block his path, but the coach driver, a much larger man, shoved him aside easily. The driver strode to a companionway, descended into the ship, and walked toward the stern along a passageway until he reached a door. With a massive fist, he pounded on it five times.

  “What?” bellowed an angry voice from inside the cabin. “What is it?”

  The door opened, and there stood the captain of Le Fantome, a man named Nerezza. There was a hole in the middle of his face where his nose should have been. Usually he wore a wooden nosepiece, but not when he was sleeping.

  Nerezza stared at the coach driver, his face a mix of surprise and fury.

  “Who the devil are you?” he said, his right hand reaching back for the knife he kept on his bedside table.

  The coach driver opened his mouth, but no words came out. Something else did come out, however. It looked like a tendril of smoke—thin and wispy at first, but then thicker, darker.

  Nerezza froze, his eyes on the man’s mouth. The smoke was billowing out now, forming a thick column, flowing downward toward the floor. Nerezza looked at the coach driver’s eyes and saw terror; the man clearly had no idea what was happening.

  But Nerezza did. He stepped back into his cabin, away from the dark thing. In a few moments it had fully emerged from the driver’s mouth. The big man fell backward, hitting his head against the wall of the passageway. The dark thing was now a swirling black cloud on the floor of Nerezza’s cabin. Nerezza stepped carefully around it into the passageway, closing the door behind him. He yelled for his men, and in seconds, several sailors appeared.

  Nerezza pointed at the driver.

  “Get him off the ship,” he said.

  The men obeyed, though it took four of them to carry the coach driver up the companionway. They carried him down the gangway and left him lying on the dock, unconscious. He would awaken the next day with no idea how he’d gotten there, remembering nothing but a vivid, hideous nightmare.

  Belowdecks, Nerezza stood outside his cabin door. He dreaded going inside, but he had no choice. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. His cabin was cold now. The dark swirling shape had moved to the corner. It was rising slowly, beginning to take the shape of…not a man, exactly, but a cloak with a man inside. Or something inside.

  Nerezza watched the thing rise, watched it take shape, waited.

  Finally the thing spoke. Its voice was weaker than Nerezza remembered, but there was no mistaking it—a low, inhuman moaning sound. Nerezza leaned close to make out the words.

  “We sail tonight,” the thing said. “For Rundoon.”

  “Yes, Lord Ombra,” said Nerezza. “For Rundoon.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE SCOUTING PARTY

  THREE DUGOUT CANOES, EACH PADDLED by four hard-muscled men, slid through the rolling indigo sea, which was empty from horizon to horizon. The afternoon sun blazed in a radiant blue sky that was equally empty, save for a low white cloud to the east.

  The paddlers wore only loincloths. Their skin, sun-baked to a deep bronze, glistened with sweat. Each man’s back was almost entirely covered with what appeared to be a large tattoo—a random pattern of dark swirling lines. Closer inspection, however, revealed that the “tattoos” were in fact scar tissue.

  The scars had been caused by the tentacles of a particularly nasty type of jellyfish, the poison of which inflicted agonizing pain. Each of the warriors in the canoes had endured an excruciating initiation ritual: as he stood before the tribe, a large, living jellyfish was draped across his shoulders and back, its toxic tentacles searing his flesh like fire. Some men crumpled immediately to the ground, screaming; others passed out. Only those who stood still for a full minute, soundlessly enduring the agony, were allowed to become
warriors in this tribe.

  Poison played an important role in the tribe’s culture. In battle, the warriors sometimes hurled venomous snakes and spiders at the enemy; they also coated the tips of their arrows with a special mixture of toxins that caused horrific, paralyzing pain. It was this practice that gave the tribe its name, the most feared name in this part of the ocean: Scorpions. It was a name that meant misery and death.

  The warriors in the canoes made up a scouting party. They had been at sea for three grueling days, searching for an island that, according to their tribal lore, was somewhere in these waters. Their leader, the only man not paddling, sat in the prow of the front canoe. He was a large man, a bit older and thicker than the others, but still very strong. His earlobes stretched nearly to his shoulders, indicating his rank. A braided, black beard hung from his chin like a rat’s tail. His dark eyes were fixed on the distant cloud.