It was just a few days later that Nathan's parents told him they weren't going to live together anymore. They told him they were still a family.
He never believed them.
A single tear forced its way out and Nathan wiped it angrily from his cheek. He'd promised himself he wasn't going to cry again, and now he was mad at the dark, mad at his parents, and mad at himself for being so scared.
He started to slow down as he neared the stairs. His heartbeat slowed and suddenly his breathing didn't seem so loud.
Something smelled awful. Worse than a dozen skunks. Nathan tried to cover his nose, but the smell was everywhere. And he recognized it.
Even as he turned to look down the stairs, he knew what he smelled. Whom he smelled.
"Hello, runt," the awful creature said, and though he didn't laugh, there was laughter in his voice. "I was hopin' we'd get some time to ourselves."
The stinking steam that came from the split over the ugly thing's eye blazed up into sudden life, green fire spouting from the space where his brain ought to be.
Nathan froze, bit his lip, and refused to scream. Refused to cry. Instead, he just whispered the monster man's name.
"Cragskull."
CHAPTER 11
In the back of the ambulance, Emily sat very still, jostled about by every bump and pothole on Broadway as they sped toward the hospital. The siren was wailing, and though the EMT had offered her vague answers, Emily knew they were hurrying for a reason. Thomas was in bad shape.
"Why?" she whispered.
The EMT, who was continually monitoring Thomas's condition, didn't even look up. He hadn't looked up at anything she said, and this was a question she'd asked her unconscious ex-husband a dozen times since he'd been loaded into the ambulance.
Her mascara had left black streaks like war paint down her cheeks. Emily knew they were there, but she ignored them. She had nothing to wipe her face with at the moment, and there would be more tears, she knew.
"You bastard!" she snapped, her voice brittle, and brought her open palm down on Thomas's chest.
Finally, she had the E.M.T.'s attention. The lanky man stood as best he could in the cramped rear of the ambulance and reached both hands out to restrain her gently.
"Ma'am, I know you're not yourself at the moment," he said, quietly but with much gravity. "But if you do that again, I'll put you out in the street."
Emily wanted to scream at him. To explain to him exactly what had happened here. How Thomas had failed her, and failed Nathan. They needed him now. Now! More than ever, Nathan needed his father. More than she ever had when they were married, Emily needed Thomas Randall to hold on to.
She knew it wasn't an attack. The EMTs had assured her of that. The angle made it clear it was a fall, probably when he passed out. Passed out from the overdose of barbiturates he had taken with a tumbler full of Wild Turkey. This was something he had done to himself.
"Why?" she said, her voice a harsh whisper, and she stared at the slack flesh of Thomas's face, at the total lack of awareness there. Beneath his eyelids, there was no movement. No dreaming, at least. He didn't deserve it.
Emily brought both hands up to cover her face, sighed deeply, and forced herself to stop crying. She knew her anger toward him was only a defense mechanism. The knowledge didn't do much to deflate her rage, because the rage was the only thing keeping her together. She didn't want to live with Thomas anymore, didn't want to be his wife. That didn't mean she was prepared to have him gone from her life. Without taking her hands away, she spoke to Thomas again, still in a whisper.
"I can't do this alone," she told him, and herself. "I can't lose you both."
* * * * *
Strangewood was never silent. It was never supposed to be. There was such life and color in the wood and in the creatures who lived there that silence would be tantamount to death.
It was very silent in Strangewood.
The Peanut Butter General's eyes were narrowed to sticky, spider-webbed slits and his nostrils flared. Each of his senses was taut, sensitive to the slightest change in their surroundings. He pushed his way through the trees, moving ever eastward, though there were no real paths in this part of the forest.
Legendary for their screaming, the Orange Pealers moved through the undergrowth and over exposed roots without uttering a single sound. The only noise they made as they passed through the deep heart of Strangewood was the gnashing of their teeth and the scrape of branches and leaves on the citrus skin that covered their entire bodies.
Savages. Most of the denizens of Strangewood had thought of the Pealers as nothing more than that. And the Peanut Butter General had shared that opinion for a very long time. But when he had explained to the Orange Pealers what was at stake, the tribe had pledged their lives to the General's cause. Several of them had already paid that ultimate price.
Yet they marched at his side. For if the General failed, they might well all be dead.
But the silence of the Orange Pealers, though amazing, was not nearly as extraordinary as the silence of the small orange and green dragon who sat on top of the Peanut Butter General's shoulder. The General had asked Fiddlestick to come along mainly because if navigation were ever needed, the little dragon's wings would become indispensible. It would take an emergency, however, to get to that point, for when Fiddlestick flew, he made music. It was impossible for them to know precisely what agents and monsters the Jackal Lantern might have roaming about Strangewood searching for opposition. But the melody of the dragon's wings would most surely draw unwanted attention.
So, for now, Fiddlestick sat on the General's shoulder, his talons stuck in peanut butter. Despite the dragon's generally polite demeanor, he'd complained about this fact no fewer than half a dozen times since their journey had begun. The General had promised him that, when the time came for him to fly, not an ounce of the sticky stuff would stay on the dragon's feet. Fiddlestick did not seem comforted by these assurances.
The General was growing tired of giving them.
The General was, in point of fact, growing tired of a great deal regarding this scenario. Though nothing mattered to him more than the safety of the boy, sneaking about in the forest was not, in his opinion, the proper way for a soldier to behave. A terrorist, perhaps, but not a soldier.
Still, he knew enough about soldiers in jungles to keep him alert.
They traveled in silence for another mile or so, slow going through the trees, and then the forest became less dense and there was more room to move. No trodden path, but space enough that one could stride freely beneath the canopy of branches that was woven together above them by nature or fancy. The General had never been quite certain which of those two made the laws in this place.
The dragon's wings fluttered slightly as he repositioned himself on the General's shoulder, and for only a moment, it was as though someone had run their fingers lightly along the strings of a harp. The General grunted in frustration, but said nothing. Fiddlestick had been, upon reflection, an excellent traveling companion. He kept silent when asked and was far more intelligent than the General would ever have given him credit for.
The dragon's scales rested against the peanut butter, and his tail lay along the General's back. The General felt it all. The imprint of each scale, the gentle question mark left behind as Fiddlestick's tail moved to take yet another shape. The talons in the peanut butter moved slightly, though this time the dragon controlled his wings.