The Toymaker's Apprentice (33 page)

ZACHARIAS'S BEAR HUG
threatened to turn Stefan into sawdust. But he did not care. “Father
!
”

“You're awake
!
” his father cried. He released his son, taking in how much Stefan had grown. “And very brave, besides. Your mother would be—”

“Horrified,” Stefan said. “She hated mice.”

Zacharias laughed and brushed the sweat-dampened hair from his son's forehead. “She would be very proud.”

They clambered downstairs with the others to take stock of their situation in the living room before the great Christmas tree.

Stefan inhaled the scent of crushed pine needles and sought that same calm that had allowed him to confront the enemy.

“Wait. What's that smell?” he asked.

Christian sniffed the air. “Take this.” He thrust a sack into Stefan's arms. “This is your weapon.”

Stefan raced after him to the foyer. Smoke came seeping under the front door, and with it, the glow of orange flame.

“For God's sake, Stefan, stay back. Tell Marie we need buckets. They're setting us on fire.”

TO ARTHUR,
it was like moving in a dream—in a nightmare.

The bodies of the wooden soldiers had been gathered and placed along the base of the townhouse. The makeshift bonfires burned brightly beneath a top layer of freshly gathered leaves. The foliage sparked as it burned, sending smoke swirling high above the square to block out the stars. The smoke smelled sweet—oak leaves and pine—like the incense his mother used to burn when he and his brothers were newborn and only half-made. It was making Arthur light-headed, clouding his vision.

But the fires had worked. The humans had come to the front door.

Arthur and his brothers mounted the steps, each one thirsty for the blood of the boy within.

They would face him in the parlor, Hannibal had said, brandishing his sword with his brothers behind him.

The King of Mice would kill this killer, and then, with the strength gained from that victory, he would resurrect his army of manikins and conquer all of Nuremberg. Tonight the bad dreams would end.

The door opened and the clockmaker came running out, a bucket of water in each hand. Two other men followed. The smoke was thick. They didn't see the Mouse King on the stairs. Lunging forward, Arthur and his brothers darted into the pitch-black parlor, swallowed into the very depths of the beast.

STEFAN RETREATED
to the parlor, towing the sack behind him. Fire was instant death to a boy made of wood.

Marie took point, slogging buckets of water from the kitchen to the front door. She lined them up and refilled them as quickly as she could.

In the Stahlbaums' family parlor, Christmas waited to begin. The great evergreen tree towered over the center of the room while the fireplace burned low, giving off heat and a flickering light. The debris of Christmas Eve gift-giving littered the floor—colorful paper, boxes, cloth wrappings. There was even a bit of orange peel from the treats stuffed in the stockings above the mantel.

Stefan tugged at the strings of his cousin's bag. Christian had said there was something besides fireworks inside. A weapon. He fumbled to undo the ties, but his fingers were stiff and tired from the battle.

A breeze stirred the wrapping paper littering the floor.

Marie emerged from the kitchen with yet another bucket of water. She smiled bravely at Stefan. “We're beating it back,” she announced, and carried on.

The paper rustled again. This time, from behind the Christmas tree.

Stefan frowned. What breeze could do that? The windows
were shut, the only gusts coming from the front door each time Marie opened it.

An icy chill ran up Stefan's spine to his scalp, where it froze in a lump of dread.

Something was inside the house.

Stefan's hand went to his scabbard, but his sword was no longer there. He edged away until his back was against the wall opposite the tree. To his left, the room opened onto the foyer where Marie labored. To his right, a great mirror hung the length of the wall, reflecting the fireplace. It gave the impression of a much larger room with two trees, two sofas, many scattered chairs, and two strangely carved young men.

“Show yourself
!
” Stefan said.

The rustling stopped. He could hear small footsteps beneath the furniture.

He struggled again to open the sack, but the bag would not yield. Frustrated, he grabbed an unlit candlestick from a side table and hefted the pewter base in his hands.

He could hear breathing across the room, close to the fire. He waded through the wrapping paper, edging toward the sound.

“Ah
!
” Something sliced at him below the knee. His pant leg tore. He stumbled backward, swinging the candlestick toward the ground, hitting only the floor.

“Marie
!
” he called out, his back against the tree.

Snickt
!
A flash of blade and tassel fell away from his shoulder, and a dull ache stabbed the small of his back. They were in the tree
!

Stefan spun, eyes darting from star to garland to cross-shaped
base, seeking the enemy. He could see nothing but the gleam of ornaments and shadowy branches.

He backed away again, coming close to the fireplace. Too close.

The paper on the floor rustled again, and a high-pitched keening rose up around him.

A shadow grew along the far wall, spreading upward to touch the ceiling.

It's not a mouse,
Stefan thought. It couldn't be. For the shadow towering over him was bigger than a man, taller than the tree. And it wore seven crowns.

“Thee hast killed our mother,” seven voices spoke at once in smooth, archaic German. A shadow sword flickered at its side. “Now, boy, thee shalt pay.”

IT WAS A MISTAKE.
Arthur knew it as soon as they entered the house.

The Drosselmeyer they faced may have been a child by Man's standards, shrunken further by their mother's curse. But he was a giant in the view of mice.

“Mother was wrong,” he told his brothers. She had taught them to fight as if they, too, were men. But now, barely able to see above the floor, cleverly blocked by great wads of paper that made stealth impossible, Arthur could see they would not win in a direct fight.

“They have a
tree
,” he told his brothers. “What beast cuts down trees just to watch them die?”

“Coward
!
” Genghis accused. “If you will not fight, stand aside and let your brothers do their work.”

“I'll fight,” Arthur hissed back. “But not like a fool, out in the open. We are outmatched
!
”

“We have killed owls,” Charlemagne reminded him. “What threat is this boy compared to a raptor's claws? He doesn't even have a sword
!
”

“And we don't have our guards about us, either,” Arthur insisted. “To avenge Mother, we must fight like mice.”

There would have been more squabbling, but the Drosselmeyer called out, “Show yourself
!
”

The sound of that voice alone—as booming and hollow as a fallen tree—silenced his brothers.

Arthur took charge. He rushed across the papered floor and struck again and again from the depths of the tree. “He is wood
!
” he told his brothers. “We must drive him into the fire
!
”

STEFAN FROZE.
His mind struggled to understand what he was seeing. His nightmares. A beast with seven heads. Echoes of the priest's words at his mother's graveside. The book of Revelation. A chill wind blew through him. The Beast had risen.

He needed a weapon. He found the sack again and tore at it desperately.

“Stefan?” Marie stood in the doorway of the parlor. Water sloshed over the edge of her bucket.

He followed her gaze. Something—or someone—stood in the middle of the carpet, outlined by the smoky firelight. He had the impression that a pack of vermin was inching toward him.

And then the front door burst open as Stefan's father reached inside for the next bucket. The door slammed shut just as quickly, but in that burst of light, Stefan's heart leapt into his mouth and Marie screamed.

The ties on the sack finally fell away.

“Stand back
!
” Stefan cried. He rose from beside the sofa, shaking the weapon free from the bag. Suddenly everything became clear as day.

In his hands was a giant golden key worked with scrolls and fine, spidery script. A small bellows was seated inside the handle. Stefan waved it in the air. Dozens of tiny holes along the
length of the key sighed. The King of Mice cocked his fourteen ears at the sound.

“What is this?” the mouse asked. He hoisted his sword with a flourish, signaling his attack.

Stefan leapt into the air.

The King stopped short, jabbing upward, stabbing the sole of Stefan's foot.

The sword stuck in the surface of the leather.

The King yanked his weapon free, dancing backward.

Stefan climbed onto the sofa, buying time to study this new weapon. How it was meant to work, only his uncle knew for sure. But it had a handle and length to it. A clumsy sword, but a serviceable one.

He swiped down toward the King, but the beast was gone.

Again, a rustling in the papers.

“He's beneath you
!
” Marie cried.

Stefan clambered to the top of the sofa, balancing with one foot on the arm, and waited.

The room wavered in the firelight. The very walls were alive.

A china figurine shifted on the mantel and fell. Stefan turned. The Mouse King leapt from the shelf.

Sskit
!
He slashed at Stefan's face, the blade singing through the air.

If he had still been made of flesh and bone, Stefan might have bled. Instead, his curse protected him.

He flailed, tumbling sofa and all, into the fire.

“Stefan
!
” Marie cried out.

He scrambled away from the flames, his coat and hat already alight.

“Hold still
!
” she demanded. “You'll burn down the house
!
”

He collapsed on the hearth and she doused him with her bucket of water. The flames on his clothing hissed and died. Water sloshed everywhere, soaking his back like sweat.

All around him, wrapping paper collapsed into sodden lumps. Panic sat on his chest. He fought it back, struggling to catch his breath.

He clenched his hands. They closed around nothing. In falling, he had lost the key.

“Revenge
!
” the Mouse King roared, and ran from the shadows across the muck-covered floor, driving his sword toward Stefan's eye—

“Look out
!
” Marie shrieked, and hurled her slipper.