Stefan Bachman - The Peculiar

The blade came down again, over and over, slicing Bartholomew’s arm, drawing blood. The elevator had reached the roof of the warehouse. The air turned warm as they sank into it.

“Now!” Mr. Jelliby shouted, from where he clung. “Let go! It’s not far anymore!”

Bartholomew saw the blade hurtling down toward him, glimmering like a streak of rain. It would kill him this time. It would meet its mark, go clean through his heart. But just as its tip bit into his skin, he slipped between the bars and fell, down, down into the warehouse.

The impact smashed the breath from his lungs. His knees buckled under him and he rolled, over and over, until he came to rest against a wall of crates. He heard the elevator clang against the floor. Then the patter of Hettie’s bare feet, the faery butler’s heels ringing on stone. When he opened his eyes he half expected to see the creature standing over him, knife poised to snuff him out.

But the faery butler seemed to have lost all interest in him. Nor was he paying any attention to Mr. Jelliby, who had dragged himself into the sea of crates and sat crouched there, gasping. With quick, efficient movements, the faery forced Hettie’s feet into the charred shoes and set to knotting the shoelaces, over and over, until there was not the slightest chance she could step out of them.

She tried to lift her feet, kick his hands away, but the shoes were hammered fast to the floor. His long fingers tugged at the knots, testing them. She scratched at his head, tried to pick at the laces herself, but the faery swatted her away.

Bartholomew began crawling toward her on hands and knees. Still the faery took no notice of him. The butler rose and took the greenwitch’s elixir from his coat. He placed it to Hettie’s lips, tipping up the bottle. She spluttered once, spat, but he clenched her little face in his hand and forced it skyward, and there was nothing she could do but cough the liquid down in great gulps.

When the bottle was empty the faery flung it aside. Without another word, he strode back toward the elevator.

Mr. Jelliby leaped out from among the crates, swinging a metal hook before him like a rapier. The faery didn’t even flinch. He dodged it gracefully, sliding around it like a snake, and spinning, he struck Mr. Jelliby a vicious blow to the side of the head. Bartholomew watched Mr. Jelliby stagger and then scrabbled toward Hettie. I’ll get her to the window. We’ll climb out while the faery butler’s distracted and-

He froze. The faery butler did, too. Mr. Jelliby dropped the hook.

A gentle breeze had sprung up out of nowhere, carrying on it the smell of snow. And something was happening to Hettie. A black line had begun to trace itself along her skin, starting at the top of her head and slithering down over her shoulders, down her arms and her legs.

“Barthy?” she said, her voice cracking with fear. The pale skin around her mouth was stained blackberry-dark. “Barthy, what’s happening? What are you looking at?”

The instant the line reached the nailed-down shoes, they disintegrated, turning to delicate flakes that scudded over the floor. The breeze became a wind, stirring the branches of her hair. And suddenly there was no longer a wall behind her, or crates, or a warehouse, but a great, dark wood extending into the distance. Snow lay on the ground. The trees were black and leafless, older and taller than any English trees. Far back among them, Bartholomew could see a stone cottage. A light was burning in its window.

Hettie wrapped her arms around herself and looked at him, eyes wide.

“It’s working,” a voice lisped from the ceiling. Bartholomew glanced up, whirling, and saw a small white shape in the gloom, perched at the end of one of the dangling chains. It was staring at the woods, at Hettie. Its mouth was wide and empty, and somewhere inside its cold, wet voice was the echo of Mr. Lickerish’s whispery one. “The door is opening.”

Bartholomew spun back to Hettie. The door was opening. Slowly the black line expanded, stretching into a ring, like a black flaming hoop for a tiger to leap through. And as the door grew so did its frame, until it was no longer only a thread but a writhing chain of angry, flapping wings. They looked like the wings that flew around Jack Box and Melusine wherever they went, only stronger somehow, blacker. And whatever they touched, they destroyed. The stone slabs of the warehouse floor curled and snapped as they brushed them. The crates nearest them exploded in showers of wood. And still Hettie stood rooted to the spot, a small figure against the woods and snow of the Old Country.

“Yes.” Mr. Lickerish’s voice came through the milk imp’s mouth, soft and sibilant. “Child Number Eleven. You have opened.”

The faery butler lurched toward the elevator, but Mr. Jelliby was upon him again, kicking and punching with all his might. Bartholomew started toward Hettie. He felt the wind, smelled the ice and rot of the ancient woods. The door was not very large. Mother always said the one in Bath had been the hugest thing the world had ever seen.

“Go to her, boy,” the milk imp said from the ceiling. “Go and get her and bring her home.” Its voice held a sly edge now, like silk wrapping a sharp knife. “Don’t worry. The sylphs won’t hurt you. Not one of their own.” The imp leaned down off its hook. “Go on,” it coaxed. “Go get her.”

Bartholomew did not need to be told twice. He broke into a run, dodging Mr. Jelliby and the faery butler. Then Hettie was in front of him and he was pulling her to him.

Hettie flew out of the black wings of the doorway. Her feet touched the stone floor. Bartholomew had her hand, was already starting to dash for the window, out. Behind them the door gave a horrible jolt. With sickening speed the wings shrieked outward, devouring everything in their path. Bartholomew felt them scrape against his skin, rough feathers and bones. But the imp had not lied. Whatever faery creatures were hidden inside those wings, they did not hurt him now.

“Bartholomew!” Mr. Jelliby screamed, ducking as the faery butler’s knife whizzed over his head. “Put her back! Put her back or you’ll kill us all!”

In a panic, Bartholomew pushed at Hettie, but the damage was done. The door had almost reached the warehouse roof, a vast tornado of wings swallowing everything in sight. The wind buffeted his face, sharp with snow. The forest seemed to fill the whole space, growing dark out of the crates and the river. Feet pounded the stone floor close by-Mr. Jelliby’s or the faery butler’s-but he didn’t see anyone.

Hettie was trying to reach him again, her hands grasping for his shirt. On the other side, the forest was no longer empty. Something had emerged from the cottage in the distance. The light was still there, but it blinked on and off as a figure darted in front of it, now hiding behind trees, now rushing forward, coming closer. Behind it, other shapes were approaching through the woods, dark and quick, curious eyes glinting in the moonlight.

The faeries. They were coming.

“Don’t you want your sister?” the imp mocked. “Oh, dear little Hettie, do you see? Your brother doesn’t like you anymore. He doesn’t want to save you.”

Bartholomew looked at her desperately. He wanted nothing more than to save her. He had traveled hundreds of miles, braved the Bath police and the Goblin Market and the rat faery to find her. But Hettie was peering at him, eyes round and uncertain.

“You know, if you push her back-if you shove her into the Old Country and that dark winter’s wood, with those wicked, wicked faeries approaching from all sides, the door will begin to shrink. Wouldn’t that be grand? Wouldn’t that be smashing ? It would become unbalanced. It would implode. I’m not lying. Try it. Abandon your darling sister for a world you don’t care a pennyworth for.”