Brom - The Child Thief

Searing pain and white-hot light sent Nick reeling, fighting to keep his feet. And still the Devil came.

Nick tasted blood, touched his lip, and was shocked by the amount of blood on his hand. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Nick screamed, as though he didn’t know, as though he expected anything other than being brutally beaten to death.

The Devil just continued to track him around and around, giving no answers, a predator intent on its prey.

“WHAT?” Nick screamed. “WHAT?” Nick spotted the hooked club lying in the center of the ring. His eyes shot back and forth between the hook and the Devil.

The Devil stopped and stared at him.

Nick dove for it, snatching the hook up off the stones. The weight of it surprised him and he almost dropped it. He held it in both hands and pointed the wicked hook at the Devil. “C’MON!” Nick cried, blood and spit flying from his lips. “C’MON YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

The Devil just stood there.

“C’MON!” Nick screamed, the club shaking as his arms quivered.

The creatures around him began to chant, “Blood, blood, blood,” on and on until Nick thought he would go mad.

“Enough!” He let out a howl and rushed the Devil, bringing the hook around in a wide overhand swing, intent on sinking it deep into the Devil’s skull.

At the last possible second, the Devil caught Nick’s arm at the wrist and wrung the club away. The weapon bounced off the stones with a loud clank and the chamber fell silent.

“Good,” the Devil said and pushed his mask back.

Nick found himself looking not at a beast, but a boy.

The boy smiled at Nick. “You did good.” He clasped Nick’s hand in his own and raised it up. “NEW BLOOD FOR DEVILTREE!” he shouted, then threw his head back and howled.

The creatures joined in, howling and beating the floor; the entire chamber rung with their fervor. They slid off their masks and now Nick could plainly see that beneath the wild hair and body paint, they were just a bunch of stupid-ass kids.

He caught sight of the blue pixies leaping up and down among the rafters, mimicking the boys like little blue monkeys, adding their feral shrieks to the cacophony. The whole chamber rung with hooting, braying, and cackling. The world seemed a spinning kaleidoscope of insanity, and Nick knew that he’d gone stark raving mad.

The child thief sat on a bench near the playground. Buildings loomed over him on all five sides of the large courtyard. As morning pushed into noon, the beehive of apartments began to wake up. He scanned the balconies, alert for any sign of wayward youth, but mostly found himself confronted with the same tired, hungover faces of the adults. They congregated in small clusters, lounging listlessly about the balconies, often with their apartment doors propped open and stereos blasting out into the courtyard. There was laughter here and there, but for the most part it sounded mean. Many of the people just stared blankly, their eyes glazed over, reminding Peter of the dead in the Mist.

A gleeful squeal caught Peter’s ear, followed by a burst of spirited laughter that drew him like candy.

A few younger kids had braved the drizzle to slip down the slide and climb the monkey bars. They formed teams and began an energetic game of tag.

The child thief watched them, smiling. Here, among so much drudgery—oblivious to the profane graffiti marring every available surface—these children could find joy. They can always find joy , he thought, because they still have their magic .

Peter found himself wanting nothing more than to run and play with them, the same deep desire he had when he first came across children all those long years ago. Only things hadn’t gone so well then. His smile faded. No, that had been a day of hard lessons .

HE WAS SIXyears old by then, slipping silently through the woods in his raccoon pelt. It flapped out behind him like a cape, the long striped tail bouncing in rhythm with his stride. He wore the head pulled over his face, like a hood, and his gold-flecked eyes peered out from the raccoon mask, scanning the woods, searching for game. It was spring, so he wore only a loincloth and rawhide boots beneath his coon skin. He carried a spear in each hand and a flint knife tucked into his belt. His body was painted with berry juice and mud to disguise his scent. Goll had taught him that, as well as the importance of always carrying two spears: a light one for game and a stouter one for protection against the larger beasts in the forest.

Peter placed a handful of walnuts in the center of a clearing, then ducked beneath a tall cluster of bushes. When he spied two brown squirrels in a nearby tree, he cupped his hands and mimicked a turkey foraging. Goll had taught him this trick too, that it was better to mimic an animal other than the one you were hunting, because rarely could you fool an animal with its own call, and nothing brought game quicker than the sound of other animals feeding.

Sure enough, both squirrels scurried his way. Peter slowly set the larger spear down and hoisted the light spear to his shoulder. The squirrels saw the nuts, saw each other, and raced for the prize.

Peter stood and threw. The spear hit its mark, leaving one squirrel behind as the other raced away, chattering angrily at Peter.

Peter whooped and leaped up. No spider soup for me , he thought. Tonight I get squirrel stew .

A wolf trotted into the clearing and stood between Peter and his prize. The wolf had only one ear.

Peter froze.

The beast locked its dark eyes on Peter. Its lips peeled back as though it were actually grinning.

Peter snatched up his heavy spear and thrust it out before him. “No,” Peter said. “Not this time.”

A low growl rumbled from the wolf’s throat.

Peter held his ground. The wolf had plagued him relentlessly over the last several months. Every time Peter made a kill, the wolf showed up and stole his meal. Peter was tired of spider soup. Today he would keep his prize.

The wolf’s eyes laughed at Peter, taunting the boy, daring him, as though it would like nothing better than to tear his throat open.

Peter swallowed loudly, his mouth suddenly dry. Goll had told him there was only one way to master the wolf: to attack it head-on. “Wolf is hunter,” he’d said. “When you hunt wolf, wolf get mixed up. No know what to do. Then you beat wolf. You will see. Show fear,” Goll had laughed. “Then wolf will eat you. A-yuk.”

Now , Peter told himself. Rush in. Stab it through the heart .

The wolf lowered its head and began to slowly circle the boy. Peter knew what the wolf was up to, they’d played out this dance many times. The wolf was trying to cut off his retreat, trying to get between him and the nearest tree. Peter knew if he took his eyes off the wolf, even for a second, it would attack.

The wolf let loose a loud snarl.

Peter glanced toward the tree.

The wolf charged.

Peter yelped, dropped his spear, and ran. Fortunately, even at six, Peter was as fleet and agile as a squirrel. He dashed across the clearing and leaped for the tree, catching a low branch, then swung up. There came a loud clack of teeth and a sharp tug that almost pulled him from the branch. Peter scampered up a few more limbs before daring a glance below.

There, looking up at him, was the wolf, the raccoon tail dangling from its jaws.

The wolf circled the tree a few times, then trotted over to the dead squirrel.