Peter and the Sword of Mercy Read online

  Molly shook her head. “I’m sorry, James,” she said. “But this is simply too far-fetched. Perhaps something did happen to von Schatten in Rundoon. Perhaps he has a strange relationship with the king. But to say that he’s being inhabited by that creature—how can you possibly know that?”

  James leaned toward Molly, and when he spoke, his tone was urgent.

  “I told you that on one occasion I managed to get close. I won’t go into the details of how I did it, save to say I’m fairly skilled at picking locks. And late one night, through some luck and some lying, I managed to get to the hallway outside the king’s bedchamber. The door was open and the hallway was dim; if I stood in the right place, I was able, without being seen myself, to observe the king, von Schatten, and Revile, and to overhear some of their conversation. Von Schatten did most of the talking, and he seemed to be talking to Revile—almost as if the king weren’t there.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “The king’s coronation,” said James. “Von Schatten was very concerned about the date. He stressed several times that they needed to have something ready for the coronation. Then he talked about something else, and I didn’t follow most of it, but it had something to do with Belgium, and the missing piece.”

  “The missing piece of what?”

  “I don’t know—only that von Schatten wants it found soon. He was speaking softly, and I was missing some of the words, so I decided to try to move a little closer. And that was when it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “He felt me, Molly.”

  “What?”

  “He felt my presence. And…and I felt his. It was Ombra.”

  “But how can you be certain?”

  “Molly, Ombra took my shadow once; he controlled me. I shall never, as long as I live, forget that horrible feeling, the cold filling my body, and this…this unspeakable evil filling my mind. This was the same sensation, Molly. And the worst of it was that as I sensed him, he sensed me. He knew exactly who I was. I’m sure of it. He stopped talking immediately and walked quickly toward the doorway.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran. I admit it, Molly: I was terrified. I ran down the hallway and kept running until I was out of the palace. I felt such a coward. But I couldn’t help myself.…It was as if I were a boy again, a frightened little boy.”

  “I don’t blame you at all,” said Molly, remembering her own experiences fleeing from the dark shape. “But what did you do then?”

  “I went back to the Yard, first thing the next day,” said James. “My intention was to report to my superiors.” He smiled ruefully. “That did not go at all well.”

  “What happened?”

  “Molly, think about it. They’re police officers; they live in the world of crime and criminals. Of fact, and evidence. They know nothing about starstuff, or the Starcatchers, or the Others, or Ombra. When I tried to suggest to them that von Schatten was no ordinary man, that he was influenced by something evil, something inhuman, they looked at me as if I were a madman, or a child telling ghost stories. They don’t believe me, Molly. They would never believe me. I’m facing disciplinary action simply for having brought this up.”

  “Oh dear,” said Molly. “How awful.”

  James waved his hand. “My career at Scotland Yard doesn’t matter. This is far more important than that. Whatever von Schatten—or Ombra—intends to do, he must be stopped, Molly. And only the Starcatchers can stop him.”

  “James, the few Starcatchers who are left are old and feeble.”

  “But your father …”

  “My father is very ill, James. He is in no condition, mentally or physically, to cope with something like this.”

  “But there must be somebody,” said James.

  Molly shook her head. “When the starstuff falls stopped, the group you knew as the Starcatchers gradually ceased to exist. Essentially there are no Starcatchers anymore, James.”

  James studied her for a moment, then softly said, “There’s you, Molly.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’m not a Starcatcher anymore, James. I’m a mother of three and the wife of a prominent barrister who does not approve of talk of starstuff and evil creatures and the like. Childhood fantasies, he calls them.”

  “But they were real, Molly. Surely George knows that. He was there, at Stonehenge, in Rundoon. …”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “He was there. But he is determined that we put that part of our lives behind us.”

  “We can’t, Molly. It has come back. We must confront it.”

  Again, Molly shook her head.

  “I don’t think so, James,” she said. “I know you believe you felt something in the palace, but what if you were mistaken? I can’t just give up the life I’ve been leading all these years to chase after something you might have imagined.”

  “I didn’t imagine it, Molly.”

  Molly looked down. “I’m sorry, James,” she said. “I can’t.”

  James stared at her for a moment, then said, “I can’t believe that Molly Aster would say such a thing.”

  Molly looked up and met James’s gaze. “I’m not Molly Aster anymore,” she said. “I’m Mrs. George Darling.”

  James looked at her for a few moments, then nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “Then I’ll ask a favor of you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just think about what I’ve told you tonight. Perhaps something will occur to you—someone else I could go to, someone who might be able to help.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Please, Molly. I’ve nobody else to turn to. The coronation date is approaching. And I fear that von Schatten, now that he knows who I am, will use his position against me. Just give it one day of thought, Molly.”

  “All right,” said Molly reluctantly. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

  “Thank you,” said James, rising. “I’ll come back tomorrow evening for your answer, if that would be all right.”

  “All right,” said Molly, remembering that her husband had yet another social function the next evening. As she walked James to the door, she said, “Do you need a taxicab?”

  “No,” said James, “I’ll take the Underground.”

  “Do be careful, then,” she said. “Those awful disappearances …”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” said James.

  He turned and gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s good to see you again, Molly.”

  “And you, James. Do you ever see the others? Prentiss? Thomas? Ted?”

  “We get together from time to time,” said James.

  “They’re all doing quite well. Ted, if you can believe it, is a fellow at Cambridge. Dr. Theodore Pratt.”

  “Good for Ted,” she said. “Give them all my best.”

  “I will,” said James. He hesitated, then said, “Do you ever think about…Peter?”

  Molly blushed. “Sometimes,” she said. “And you?”

  “Quite often,” he said. “I find myself wondering if I’ll ever see him again.”

  “I don’t know,” said Molly slowly, “if that would be such a good thing, after all these years.”

  James looked at her for a moment, then said, “Well, good night, then, Molly. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “Tomorrow.”

  James opened the door and stepped out into the fog-darkened London night; in a moment he was gone. Molly closed the door and stood looking at it, her mind swirling with troubled thoughts. She jumped at the sound of a footstep behind her.

  “Wendy!” she said, turning to see her daughter at the base of the stairs. “What are you doing down here? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  Wendy responded with questions of her own.

  “Mother,” she said, “what is a Starcatcher?” She stepped forward, her green-eyed gaze fixed on her mother’s face.

  “And who is Peter?”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE RESCUE

  T
HREE MEN SPRAWLED in a small white boat, adrift under a glaring sun. Only one of the three, a huge black man, was awake, his eyes scanning the vast empty sea. The other two were slumped over, dozing, the noon heat raising blisters on their already red backs. A fourth man was in the water behind the boat, clinging to the transom, seeking relief from the heat in the tepid tropical water.

  The boat bore the name Inganno. Its sail, sewn of red-and-white-striped canvas, was meant to both move the boat and be visible to distant rescuers. But now it hung in tatters from a broken mast, useless. There were no oars; the boat bobbed in the gentle swells, carried by the current.

  Suddenly the huge man, whose name was Cheeky O’Neal, sat up and pointed.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  One of the dozing men, whose name was Frederick DeWulf, raised himself up and squinted through a salt-crusted right eye. “Don’t see nothing,” he said.

  “There!” said O’Neal, pointing toward a dark speck on the horizon. “That’s land!”

  “Are we there yet?” said the other dozing man, Rufus Kelly, waking up from his nap.

  “Paddle!” shouted O’Neal. DeWulf and Kelly leaned over the sides and started paddling with their bare hands. O’Neal turned to the man in the water, whose name was Angus McPherson, and said, “And you: kick!”

  Propelled by the men, the boat began advancing, very slowly, toward the island. O’Neal’s gaze was riveted on the distant speck. Then he saw something else—something moving. He shaded his eyes for a better look.

  “There’s something flying toward us,” he said softly.

  “A bird?” said DeWulf, peering into the bright sky ahead. All four men were looking now, and one by one they saw it, a dark shape swooping across the water toward them at astonishing speed, growing larger and larger. …

  “That’s no bird,” said Kelly. “That’s …”

  “That’s a boy,” said O’Neal. “A flying boy!”

  McPherson quickly hauled himself into the boat for a better look. The four men stared as the boy zoomed toward them. As he drew near, they saw a second flying shape—a tiny, brilliant ball of light, as if a piece of the sun had broken loose. The glowing orb darted and zipped about the boat, and the startled men heard the sound of bells.

  The boy swooped to an easy midair stop, hovering a few feet above the men’s heads. He looked to be twelve or thirteen years old; he had red hair, and freckles still visible in his deeply tanned face. He was studying the men in the boat but listening to the sounds coming from the shimmering, darting orb, which had perched on his shoulder, and which the men could now see was what looked like a tiny winged woman.

  “No they’re not, Tink,” the boy said. “They’ve just been at sea for a while.”

  More bells, and then the boy said, “I can’t just leave them out here.” Speaking to the men, the boy said, “My name is Peter. Who are you?”

  The men in the boat looked to O’Neal, who said, “We’re crewmen from the freighter Inganno. She sank three weeks and two days ago. Terrible storm. We lost our oars, and our mast broke, as you see. We’re in a bad way…Peter.”

  More bells, ominous in tone. Peter looked at the tiny flying woman, then shook his head.

  “They need help, Tink,” he said. This was not what Tink wanted to hear. She flashed red and flew off.

  “We’re trying to get to that island,” said O’Neal, pointing. “Is that your island?”

  “I live there,” said Peter. “With the Mollusks.”

  “The Mollusks?”

  “You’ll meet them.”

  “Then you’ll help us get there?”

  Peter, hovering, studied them a moment, then said, “I will. You’ll get food and water. But the Mollusks won’t let you stay.”

  “Fair enough,” said O’Neal. “Men, paddle for the island.”

  Peter smiled and said, “You don’t need to paddle.”

  “What do you mean?” said O’Neal.

  “My friends can help you.”

  “What friends?” asked O’Neal, his eyes searching the sky.

  “These friends,” said Peter, gesturing toward the water.

  The men looked down and saw, poking out of the water all around the boat, the heads of a dozen lovely long-haired women, looking at them with interest. Then, moving as one, the heads ducked under, and long green tails flicked the surface.

  “Mermaids,” whispered DeWulf.

  “Aye,” agreed McPherson.

  “These are interesting waters,” said Kelly.

  “The mermaids will swim your boat to the island,” said Peter. “But don’t try to touch them. They don’t like to be touched, and you wouldn’t enjoy their bite.”

  “Put your hands inside the boat,” said O’Neal, but the others, eyeing the mermaids warily, had already done so. The mermaids gathered at the stern of the boat and put their hands on it. Moments later, propelled by a dozen powerful tails, the boat was skimming toward the island, faster than it had ever moved by sail. Peter flew ahead, following Tink, an angry red dot out in front.

  Cheeky O’Neal, with a glance back at the mermaids, lowered his voice, so that only the other three men could hear him. “Mermaids,” he said. “And a flying boy.”

  The other three nodded, their eyes on the distant speck of land, which was growing steadily larger.

  The island was breathtakingly beautiful, its jungle green volcanic mountainsides rising steeply into the vivid blue sky. As the mermaids expertly navigated the lifeboat through an opening in a coral reef, the four men looked across a placid lagoon to a vertical rock cliff with a foaming waterfall plunging hundreds of feet onto a jumble of boulders below. To the left of the cliff stretched a curved beach, easily a mile long, its bright white sand leading up to a line of tall palms guarding the entrance to the jungle.

  Peter had flown ahead to tell the Mollusks about the men in the lifeboat. Now he stood on the beach with a dozen bronze-skinned warriors, all holding spears, all watching the approaching boat.

  “Look friendly, men,” said Cheeky O’Neal.

  As the boat reached the island, some of the warriors waded into the lagoon and hauled it up onto the beach. The mermaids, with a flash of tails, disappeared. The four men climbed out of the boat; O’Neal was almost a foot taller than the other three. The four stood on the sand, watching the Mollusks, waiting.

  An older warrior stepped forward. He was tall and broad-chested, and although there were age lines at the corners of his deep-set dark eyes, his hair was glistening black, and he had the look of a man who could still hunt, or fight. Speaking to O’Neal, he said, in flawless British-accented English, “I am Fighting Prawn, chief of the Mollusks. Who are you?”

  “My name is O’Neal. This is DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson.” The men nodded as their names were spoken.

  “Peter tells me your ship sank,” said Fighting Prawn.

  “That’s right,” said O’Neal. “We …”

  “How long ago?” said Fighting Prawn.

  “Three weeks and two days.”

  Fighting Prawn studied the four men for a moment, his eyes lingering on the red, sunburned flesh of DeWulf, Kelly, and McPherson. Then he nodded and said, “You must be thirsty and hungry.” He said something in an odd-sounding language to his men, then told O’Neal, “These men will take you to our village. You will be given food and drink. When you are fed and rested, we will see about repairing your boat and giving you supplies so that you can be on your way.”

  “With all respect, chief,” said O’Neal, “we’re a long way from anywhere. I don’t know if that little boat can …”

  Fighting Prawn raised his hand, silencing O’Neal.

  “You will not stay here,” he said.

  O’Neal bowed slightly. “As you say, chief,” he said, glancing at his three companions.

  Surrounded by warriors, the four men started up the beach. Peter turned to follow, but Fighting Prawn caught him by the arm. The two had become close friends, having known each other for mo
re than twenty years, although neither had aged in that time.

  “Peter,” said Fighting Prawn. “When you found these men, did you see any sign of fresh water in the boat?”

  “Not that I recall,” Peter said. “Why?”

  “Fish bones? Seaweed?”

  Peter shook his head. “Why?”

  “They claim to have been in the boat for more than three weeks. What did they eat and drink? Why are their lips not cracked, their bellies not swollen? And why is their skin so red, instead of brown, like yours?”

  “So you think …”

  “These men have not been in that boat more than three days. Certainly not three weeks.”

  “But why would they lie?” said Peter.

  Fighting Prawn’s eyes traveled up the beach, to the men in the company of his warriors.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But 1 want to watch them closely.”

  His gaze returned to Peter’s.

  “Something is not right.”

  CHAPTER 5

  REVILE’S REPORT

  AT THE END OF AN ENDLESS HALLWAY on the third floor of Buckingham Palace was a room the servants knew better than to enter. The room was impressive—high ceiling, marble floors, gold-leaf furniture—but none of these features were visible now, for the room was also quite dark. Black velvet curtains covered the tall windows completely; the only light in the room came from a single flickering candle.

  Simon Revile stood close to the candle, drawing what comfort he could from it. Revile was a short, stocky man with a remarkably toadlike face, his unnaturally wide mouth underscoring a flattened nose that separated his huge eyes, a bit too far apart.

  Adding to the effect were Revile’s cauliflower ears, attached flat to his head like a pair of large dried apricots.

  Revile knew he was unpleasant to look at. This did not trouble him. In fact, he enjoyed causing discomfort in others. He enjoyed even more causing fear, and pain. Especially pain.