Hunted (13 page)

Callum leaped over the back of Doom as if he were vaulting a stone wall. The cold air surrounding the great Grim's body clawed at his legs like wind off a frozen canal, and then he was out in the open.

The others followed almost as quickly. The rough ground of the old churchyard was treacherous underfoot. Callum tried to run and fell flat in two meters, cracking his elbow against the low iron railing surrounding the Victorian grave he'd tripped over.

Ancient monuments can be dangerous….

Seconds later Melissa stumbled on exactly the same railing. But Callum was on his feet again and didn't wait for her. He caught his jacket on the gate on the way out of the graveyard, ripped it free, and stumbled, cursing down the lane to the road. Stark in his mind he remembered the image of the hand—
his own hand
—closing over the round brass knocker on Gran's green door and rapping at it firmly.

He didn't need a premonition to tell him what would happen next. Gran would open the door. She would think the Fetch was Callum. She would invite it in. And all the charms and magic in the world couldn't keep the Fetch from crossing

Gran's threshold if she asked it in herself.

And then …

Callum sprinted down the lane, gasping for breath. What if he was too late, as he'd been again and again when the Fetch was ahead of him? Behind him he heard Melissa's running footsteps, and beyond that, the thud of Doom's paws on the road. He didn't look back to see how close they were, or whether Jacob was following too. His only thought was to get home.

Faster!

Reaching the cottage, Callum crashed through the little garden gate and raced up the path.

“Callum, wait!”

It was Jacob's voice, but Callum didn't stop. He had no idea how to fight the Fetch, but he knew he had to stop it before …

With Melissa on his heels, Callum slammed into the door, twisting the old-fashioned latch upwards. The door flew open and they stumbled into the room.

Gran was standing in front of the fire, her hands on her hips, a worried frown drawing her brows together. She did not look frightened. She looked concerned and frustrated. She was looking earnestly at the boy who stood facing her—a boy only a little shorter than Gran herself, broad-shouldered, in an anorak with a ragged hem identical to the one Callum was wearing.

For a moment, Callum stood frozen in amazement. It truly was like looking into a mirror.

Beware the dark reflection.

And then Callum cried out,
“Gran!”

The Fetch and Gran both turned at the same moment. Gran's eyes flew wide and her mouth dropped open in shock and understanding. Seeing Callum standing in the same room as his doppelganger, she knew at once what had happened.

Gran didn't hesitate. She stepped between the Fetch and Callum, holding her arms out to bar the monster's path.

“Callum, run!”

The Fetch reached out with Callum's arms. But the strength in those arms was far greater than Callum's own. In its rage, the Fetch's nails and teeth lengthened, so that suddenly it looked more like a demon than a boy; a parody of Callum with claws like talons and teeth like the fangs of a prehistoric monster.

With one of these hideous claws it seized Gran by the shoulder, and with the other it grabbed her by the hair. Then it lifted her off her feet, her face frozen in a wide stare of astonishment and horror, and hurled her like a doll across the room. Her body crashed hard against the wall and she slid to the floor and lay still.

“Callum!” cried a voice.

Callum half turned. Jacob stood on the path, Doom crouched at his side, growling like a demonic tiger, showing teeth like sabers in the moonlight. Twin trails of black blood dripped like sweat down Jacob's temples and along his palms. The pair had kept pace with Callum on the road, but the barrier he had thrown up against the spectral boy and his dog still prevented either of them from moving even a fraction of an inch over Gran's doorstep.

“Quick,” cried Melissa. “You have to invite them in!”

But the Fetch was too fast. Crossing the room in two quick strides, it slammed the door in the faces of the two ghosts. From beyond the solid wood, Doom let out a frenzied howl.

The Fetch stood for a moment, flexing its clawed talons, its alien features settling back into a face that looked like Callum's, although the fire did not leave its eyes, and in its twisted smile the teeth remained sharp and pointed.

Then it lunged forwards with its hands spread, ready to grasp and tear.

Focused only on Callum, the Fetch paid Melissa no attention. With all the strength in her body, she threw herself at Callum and pushed him out of the Fetch's path.

It was only a distraction—a brief one. The Fetch turned to follow Callum as he tumbled backwards. Melissa stepped sideways towards the hearth. Grabbing Gran's mug of cold tea, she hurled it at the back of the Fetch's head. The mug smashed against its skull, but Melissa might as well have hit the monster with a dandelion clock for all the notice it took.

“Rowan!” Callum cried, scrambling out of the way on his hands and knees. “Throw the rowan!”

Melissa seized the jar of hazel leaves and rowanberries from the table. Sensing she was about to attack with something more effective than cold tea, the Fetch turned to face her. Melissa hurled the jar at its head, but her aim was less accurate this time. The twigs and berries flew harmlessly past the Fetch's face and smashed at Callum's feet. He grabbed a slender twig of rowan as he got to his feet. It was the flimsiest weapon imaginable.

The Fetch stood still, its head tilted sideways, contemplating Callum. It was utterly unnerving to be stared at by his own face, seeing such burning hatred there.

The Fetch licked its lips and smiled. Then stepped forwards again, claws raised.

Callum flourished the rowan, and the Fetch stopped, its burning eyes narrow.

Then it laughed, a hideous gurgling sound, as if its throat were being rubbed raw with sandpaper.

“Pitiful,” it said in a hoarse voice. “Can this world do no better than you as its champion? A frightened child, cowering behind a handful of twigs?”

It
had
flinched, though. It had backed away from the touch of the rowan as though it feared it. Callum raised the twig higher, even though it felt like trying to meet a switch-blade with a safety pin. If only he had a more substantial weapon.

That was it!

“Melissa!” Callum cried. “The logs—they're rowan too!”

Melissa snatched up one of the stouter branches piled in the fire basket and tossed it to Callum. He dropped the twig and caught the branch.

The Fetch sneered.

“A sharpened lance might harm me, but not that stick. Fight with your hands, little boy, not with leaves and berries! Is the strength of your body mere illusion? Shall we test it?”

The Fetch leaped forwards, its wicked talons slashing for Callum's throat. Callum fell back, lashing out, using the rowan branch as a cudgel to strike at the Fetch. The blow connected with the side of its head and the Fetch gave a snarl of pain.

The instant the charmed wood touched its skin, all illusion fell away. Callum's likeness vanished and the Fetch became itself once more, the skinless creature of vein and muscle that Callum had first seen in the garden. Its lipless teeth were clenched in fury, the naked cords of its throat tensed for attack. The wide, lidless eyes stared wrathfully at Callum.

With the speed of a striking viper, the Fetch seized Callum around the wrist. It moved so fast that Callum realized all the creature's earlier dodging and weaving had just been to lead him on. With a vicious wrench, the Fetch twisted Callum's arm until he was forced to let go of the branch, then brought its other hand flashing towards his head. Callum desperately flung his right hand out to block, but he couldn't get a grip on the slick surface of the Fetch's body. Almost carelessly, it tossed Callum across the room. He fell hard against the floor.

All the air was knocked out of Callum's lungs and he couldn't breathe. But blind instinct, his own reliable chime child Luck, made Callum roll aside as the Fetch's talons thrust at his face. A blade-like claw missed his eye by millimeters and scythed open a bloody gash in his skin from his cheekbone to his hairline. Callum gasped, clapping one hand to his torn face, and saw that behind the Fetch's back, Melissa had again taken advantage of being ignored long enough to seize the poker from the fireplace.

Callum shook his head desperately. He knew the Fetch was too strong for him—probably too strong for both of them together. Melissa's only hope was to avoid attracting attention.

Iron,
Melissa mouthed.
It's iron
.

Of course—Callum remembered now that Gran's iron horseshoe and the rails that reinforced the brick wall were wards against the Netherworld.

The iron poker was not a sharpened lance, but it did have a hooked point for raking coals. As the Fetch loomed over Callum, ready for the kill, Melissa stepped up behind it and stabbed the hooked end into the back of the demon's neck with all the force she could muster.

The Fetch roared in fury, and whirled to meet Melissa, jerking the poker out of her hands. Reaching behind itself, it wrenched the poker free, sending a jet of clear fluid spurting from the wound in its neck. With one clawed hand, the monster seized Melissa by the throat, hauling her off her feet, raising the other to gouge at her eyes.

Still on the floor, gasping for breath and half-blinded by the stinging wound across his face, Callum's mind raced.

Didn't this creature have any weakness, even with a hole in its neck spurting whatever strange liquid ran in its veins instead of blood?

And then the answer struck him. Melissa had known it%—that was what had impressed Jacob, the thing that had changed his mind about her and made him decide she might be a useful ally. She had known the Fetch's weakness—
its own reflection
.

Desperately, Callum scrambled towards the full-length curtains at the other side of the room.

“Hey!” Callum yelled. “Hey! I'm the one you want to fight! I'm the last chime child! Let her go!”

The Fetch's dagger-like nails froze in front of Melissa's face. She clawed at the other taloned hand, the one that held her by the throat in its crushing grip, choking and sobbing for air, trying to twist her face away.

Callum could only count on having the Fetch's attention for one second. He didn't have time to open the curtains. Instead, he swung around and ripped them off the wall.

All the lights that Gran had turned on to guide Callum home were burning brightly—the fire, the lamps, and the overhead ceiling light. With so much light focused against them, the full-length glass doors reflected the entire room. Their bright surface doubled the cottage as clearly as a mirror.

The Fetch, still holding Melissa by the throat, found itself face to face with its own reflection.

It stared, frozen, its eyes bulging.

Then its talons went lax and Melissa fell in a gasping heap on the floor at its feet.

Outside the cottage, Doom howled. The noise rose around the little house like a storm of screaming wind. Melissa cowered. The Fetch stumbled forwards, shaking its ghastly head, like a dreamer waking from a nightmare.

But it was too late. Callum was already behind it, hurling himself into a rugby tackle. His body slammed into the Fetch's knees, sending the monster flying. Almost in slow motion, Callum saw it reeling across the room towards the door. The glass shattered in a cascade of crystal shards, like an icy waterfall, as the Fetch fell through the door and out into the night.

Still barred from entering the house, Jacob stood in the garden, illuminated in the light flooding from the broken window. In his echoing voice, he rapped out a command that rang through the besieged cottage.

“Doom, destroy!”

The howling Grim wakes the Hunter from its trance.

It feels pain—the first time it has known the sensation for countless years. It does not remember staring at its reflection, but it knows it has been tricked. It has been thrust outside the cottage walls against its will. It spins with teeth bared—it can see the treacherous boy. It reaches, snarling, towards the broken threshold of the shattered glass door.

But the great Grim hound is as fast as the Hunter. Unleashed, with eager and violent delight, the black dog leaps.

The Hunter goes down beneath the shadowy body like a bundle of sticks. It raises its claws to fight, but the Grim has it in its jaws, fangs sparkling in the silver moonlight, savaging and tearing as the Hunter struggles beneath it.

The Hunter makes no sound, but it knows it has met its match at last.

Despite the shining redness of its skinless face, its blood is clear as water. There is no gruesome gore to paint the ground, nor are the Grim's white teeth marred by any stain as it lowers its jaws to the Hunter's neck, and …

Darkness.