She was so close that the drumbeats thudded through her body and the rattle hissed in her ears. Gryff was absolutely still beside her, his eyes locked on to the cloaked figures. They were moving faster now, a whirl of faceless black. But there was one figure who wasn’t stirring; instead he squatted by the fire like an enormous spider, making something from a ball of wax.
Suddenly the figures stopped, their heads bent, the drum and rattle silenced.
Unfolding his body, the squatting figure stood upright. Firelight fell upon his face which was hidden completely by a white mask. A shiver tore through Moll’s body. And then a horrible feeling seeped into her. She’d seen that mask before, heard that drum and rattle, not just locked inside her nightmare, but outside it too – in real life.
The mask was white and it shone in the firelight like polished bone. Dark holes marked the eyes and two lines of jagged bones jutted out below in a grim smile. Moll knew right away that this was Skull, his mask a sign of the witch doctor’s name. And, although Moll could see the mask had been carved from wood then painted white, it shone out with all the horrifying sickness of a skull.
Skull held up the wax, now moulded into a shape: the unmistakable outline of a person. The chant began to grow again, pulsing in time with the drum and the rattle, and an eerie coldness rippled through Moll. Skull raised the wax figure into the air and squeezed it in a clenched fist. The wax, still warm, squirmed between his fingers like glue.
Moll felt the breath drain from her body, as if an iron fist was crushing her lungs. Beside her, Gryff shivered. A laugh slid out between Skull’s teeth, coiling its way between the trees. The chanting rose and once more Skull gripped the small figure, punching his fist into the air. The wax squeezed through his fingers until it was a mangled lump once more.
Then Skull’s voice came, slithering and cold, seeking them out like a chill. ‘Come, beast, come, child. Come, beast, come, child . . .’
Moll felt it, as if he’d called them by their names. The chant was for her and Gryff. She was sure of it. But stranger than all of that was the feeling growing inside Moll. She almost wanted to step forward into the clearing towards Skull. She clutched at her talisman.
‘Keep me safe,’ she murmured. ‘Keep me safe.’
Then a horse brayed, snapping her from her trance. She drew breath sharply and staggered backwards.
‘Jinx . . .’
She knelt down by Gryff, but he stared ahead, his body shaking, as if the chant was holding him prisoner.
Moll’s heart raced. ‘Come on, Gryff!’ she whispered.
Gryff jerked his head back behind the tree. His eyes were wild and his hackles wet with sweat.
Moll breathed deeply. ‘Skull – he’s – he’s calling me – he’s calling us both! We’ve got to move!’
She scanned the trees around the clearing, trying to block the chant from her head. To her right, beyond the fire and battered wagons, was a canvas tent propped up against a tree. Gryff skirted round towards it and Moll followed. Behind the tent was a huddle of larger shapes and she’d know those silhouettes anywhere: they were gypsy cobs.
Like a shaking fledgling, Moll pressed her body into the trees, and Gryff slunk through the shadows beside her. They crept past the canvas tent and there, just metres away, was Jinx.
She was easy to spot – smaller than the rest of the cobs – her palomino coat glowing in the darkness. And she was edging forward in tiny, fragmented steps, her eyes wide with fear. Moll’s heart hammered. Had Jinx seen her? Her halter was still on and her tethering rope trailed on the ground. Why hadn’t they tied her up? Why hadn’t she run off? Moll tiptoed forward until she was behind the closest tree, clutching her catapult tight.
She stopped sharp. Jinx wasn’t coming towards her; she hadn’t even seen Moll. Emerging from the shadows, just metres in front of the tree Moll was hiding behind, was a boy. And he was tiptoeing towards Jinx with his hand outstretched. He was taller than Moll, with a tattered waistcoat and a faded blue shirt stained with saddle polish and dirt. But he looked about her age – twelve, thirteen at most.
Moll frowned and squinted at the boy through the darkness. He was no gypsy . . . He had fair hair and a pale complexion. What was an ordinary boy doing in Skull’s camp? And yet beneath the scruffy blond hair was a bright feather earring, blue and black striped. Only one type of person wore a jay feather earring: a Romany gypsy.
A ball of jealously grew within Moll; Jinx was her cob and this boy was beckoning her. And he had no right.
Jinx paused, her ears pricked, her tail stiff. She looked straight at Moll whose heart quickened. Jinx had seen her but the boy hadn’t realised.
‘Here, girl, come on then, a little more,’ he urged, taking a step closer in his scuffed leather boots. He stretched out his hand as far as it would go. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
His voice was softer than Moll had expected and she could hear the pieces of carrot turning over in his hand. But Jinx was no longer interested because she knew that Moll had come for her.
Like a shadow to the unknowing boy, Moll raised her own hands. But they were not filled with carrots; they were clasping the catapult. Gryff crouched low beside her – ready, like a hunter. The pebble was in the pouch and she raised it to her chin. Closing one eye, she placed her thumb on the Y-frame and pulled back. The rubber strips stretched until taut and then she took aim at the back of the boy’s head.
Everything was still beneath the chanting.
For a second, Moll wavered. She’d never used her catapult on a person before. There were rules back in the Ancientwood. But Skull’s camp was a place without rules and she needed to get away, fast.
She drew the pouch back, a notch further.
Then fired.