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  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group.

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  Copyright © 2012 by Broken Foot Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  ISBN 978-1-101-61791-5

  ANDREA CREMER

  STOLEN SOULS

  A NIGHTSHADE Short Story

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Stolen Souls

  FROM WHERE THEY WERE hidden beneath the wooden pallet, Jean couldn’t hear movement outside the hut, but she knew the creatures were still there. The screams hadn’t stopped.

  Rabbie was squirming in Jean’s tight grip. At three years old, her brother was too young to understand why staying quiet was so necessary, especially when he was too frightened to stop moving. Rabbie wanted their mother, but Jean knew that wasn’t possible. Their mother was dead. Jean had watched as shadows spilled over her mother’s shoulders. At first her mother had screamed for Jean to take Rabbie and run. She’d kept screaming, but there had been no more words.

  Whether tired or defeated, Jean didn’t know, but Rabbie finally quit struggling in her arms. He gave a little whimper as his body went slack. Jean’s hand remained clamped over Rabbie’s mouth, though she was careful not to cover his nose and smother him. Jean prayed the creatures hadn’t heard the tiny sound. Now that Rabbie had quieted, Jean dared to close her eyes and wonder who or what had brought such a terrible curse upon Dorusduain.

  Jean’s grandmother had taught her about curses. The old woman had died the previous year, just before Jean’s seventh birthday. It was her grandmother’s voice that filled Jean’s earliest memories. When she was a very small child, her grandmother’s stories were light and full of laughter. As Jean had grown, the tales became more somber. No longer meant to coddle or tease her, the stories transformed into wisdom and warnings.

  Because of her grandmother, Jean knew to never touch a black horse that stood near the water. And she always carried a sharp knife in her pocket, should the kelpie’s spell make her lose her wits. Jean could spot a faery ring with ease. She’d held her grandmother’s hand tight when they both heard the banshee begin to keen, and she’d not been surprised when her grandmother was dead within the hour.

  But all Jean had learned from her grandmother had been for naught when the shadows rose in Dorusduain, sprouting from the earth like so many wicked trees. Their black branches snaring man, woman, and child alike. Now that she was tucked away under the pallet while the village suffered, Jean racked her mind for any sign she could have missed. She could see the events of the day etched starkly in her memory. But as for warnings, she found none.

  The creatures had appeared mid-morning, not at dusk or dawn when spirits are wont to slip into the mortal world. Jean’s mother had tasked her with the care of Rabbie, and Jean took it upon herself to try to teach her brother some useful skills. Rabbie was three and no longer tottered as he walked. To Jean that was good enough to help her with chores.

  The day began bright and hopeful, with sunshine that encouraged swift, purposeful work because the afternoon likely would bring rain. Knowing Rabbie would be sullen about chores unless Jean made a game of it, she’d set about giving him a lesson on gathering eggs from hens.

  Rabbie was delighted. Jean suffered him chasing the startled birds around their family’s hut. His chubby arms even managed to briefly capture one of the hens, though its feathers tickled him so as the hen tried to escape that Rabbie fell down giggling and the hen escaped. When her brother had tired himself enough to pay attention to her instructions, Jean showed him how to approach a roosting hen calmly. As she cooed at the clucking bird, Jean deftly slipped her hand beneath its belly and just as quickly pulled away. When she opened her palm, revealing a brown, speckled egg, Rabbie gazed at her with wide eyes. Then he squealed with delight and bid her do the trick again. Jean showed him twice more how to coax eggs from hens before bidding Rabbie try himself.

  Rabbie terrified three hens and broke one egg before his face mashed up, went crimson, and burst into frustrated tears. Jean tried to reassure the little boy that this chore required patience and practice, and perhaps throwing oneself at the hens wasn’t the best choice. Despite her soothing words, Jean was resigned to the notion that Rabbie wouldn’t be gathering eggs until he was at least four.

  As her brother sniffled, Jean considered the other chores of the day, wondering if Rabbie could manage any of them. The first scream, of what would become too many to count, silenced her thoughts.

  “Wait here,” Jean told Rabbie. Another scream.

  Jean placed an egg in Rabbie’s small hands. “Take good care of this till I get back.”

  Rabbie accepted the egg like a treasure. She hoped the task would hold his attention more than the alarming sounds that spread through the village.

  Jean rushed around the hut toward the center of the village. She stumbled when she saw the creatures. They resembled no beast or spirit her grandmother had warned her of. Like shadow and smoke, their shape changed constantly. Sometimes a creature reminded her of a dark cloud being sculpted by the wind, at others it was more like a nest of black snakes.

  Her neighbor, John Croft, was striking at two of the creatures with a pitchfork. The sharp points of the farm tool passed through their shadowy bodies without effect. For a moment Jean thought they must be spirits, unable to touch or be touched by flesh. She was robbed of that idea when one of the creatures slithered forward, pouring over John like tar. He began to scream immediately and Jean knew the reason for the other screams in the village.

  “Jean!” She looked to the sound of her mother’s cry. “Jeanie!”

  Jean’s mother ran toward her, but faltered and then stopped when she saw John Croft’s torment. The second shadow creature hovered in the space between her and Jean.

  “Ma!” Jean stood helplessly as the shadow beast began to move toward her mother.

  Taking a few steps back, Jean’s mother shouted, “Jeanie, get your brother. You must flee!”

  Jean began to shake her head, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. Then she saw a third shadow bubbling up from the ground at her mother’s back.

  “Run, Jean!” her mother screamed. The beast en
gulfed her.

  Terror, white-hot, seared Jean’s skin, shocking her into action. She pivoted, running back to the place she’d left Rabbie. Her brother was waiting for her as he’d been bidden. The egg was cradled in his palms, but his face was pale with fear.

  Grabbing his arm, Jean jerked Rabbie into a run. He wailed as the egg tumbled out of his hands, smashing on the ground.

  “Hush, Rabbie!” Jean hissed at him. “The egg doesn’t matter now.”

  She dragged her brother around the far side of the hut, away from where she’d seen the creatures take John and her mother. Rabbie staggered along beside her, his expression bewildered and frightened.

  Jean rounded the hut, and finding no monsters blocking the door, she pushed Rabbie inside. After closing the door and barring it from within, Jean picked up Rabbie and dragged him beneath their mother’s pallet.

  “No!” Rabbie kicked and tried to bite her.

  “Rabbie, stop,” Jean whispered. “You must be quiet. Please. Please.”

  While she tried to calm Rabbie, refusing to let him wriggle from their hiding place, Jean locked away her grief and panic. They were hidden, but was that good enough?

  It was too easy to recall John Croft stabbing futilely at the shadow beast. They could kill but they couldn’t be touched. Jean glanced toward the barred door. If the creatures were made of shadow and smoke, would a door keep them out? The monsters couldn’t be fought, so if they came into the hut, she’d have no way of defending herself and Rabbie.

  Two choices became clear in Jean’s mind. She and Rabbie could stay hidden, hoping that the creatures would leave the village without discovering them. But Jean didn’t know why the shadow beasts had attacked or how long they would remain in Dorusduain. The other option was to flee. From what she’d briefly witnessed, it seemed that the creatures moved slowly, their imperviousness making speed unnecessary when they attacked. If Jean and Rabbie could escape the village, they might be able to outrun the creatures.

  Jean’s hand was wet with Rabbie’s tears, but he had the sense to weep in silence. The poor boy probably sensed his sister’s fear and was rendered obedient by it. They were huddled there, quiet and terrified. The image of rabbits frozen at the sign of danger, hoping to avoid a predator’s notice, jumped into Jean’s mind. She was no rabbit.

  “Rabbie, we have to run,” Jean whispered. “It’s the only way. If we stay here, we’re in danger.”

  Daring to pull her hand from his mouth, Jean heard him say, “Ma?”

  She forced herself to answer. “We can’t wait for her. I saw her outside and she said we should run.”

  Rabbie nodded and Jean let her brother go. He crawled out from their hiding place. She followed, putting her finger to her lips so Rabbie would know they still had to be quiet.

  Unbarring the door, Jean opened it a crack. She peered through the narrow slit at what little she could see. In the line from the door toward the path out of the village, she didn’t spy any of the shadow beasts.

  Taking Rabbie’s hand, she said, “Don’t look at the village, don’t look for Ma, just look at me. And no matter what, don’t stop running.”

  Rabbie’s fingers squeezed hers and she opened the door.

  Jean broke into a run, pulling Rabbie along as fast as his little legs would allow. The noises swirling through the village like fog were awful. Sobs, screams, choking cries, each bespeaking the agony of those who had fallen to the shadow creatures.

  Taking her own advice, Jean didn’t look anywhere but ahead. She kept her eyes on the line of the forest, where the path from Dorusduain to the road lay. Her heartbeat raced faster than her legs could move. She plunged on, thinking of nothing but escape.

  They’d reached the huts that lay on the southern edge of the village when Rabbie shrieked. Unable to keep pace with his sister, the little boy’s legs tangled and he fell. The force of his collapse tore his fingers from Jean’s grasp.

  Jean stopped, pivoted, and gathered Rabbie into her arms. She turned again and kept running while her brother clung to her. Jean had hoped carrying Rabbie would free her legs to move faster, but at three Rabbie was too big to be carried by an eight-year-old girl, and Jean soon found herself struggling and breathless.

  Her lungs were burning as she cleared the edge of the forest. The woods, usually teeming with birdsong and buzzing insects, had gone silent. Behind her, screams continued to rise from Dorusduain, though, now muffled by the forest, they sounded more like the wailing of ghosts.

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, Jean continued to run, but she didn’t know how much farther her legs would carry her. Unable to stop it, Jean sobbed and Rabbie panicked, his chubby fists grabbing her hair. She cried out in pain, but still she ran.

  Suddenly, they weren’t alone. Jean’s chest cramped with fear as a dark shape loomed from the woods onto the path. But her terror became a surge of hope as she realized the shadowy quality of the figure was due to the cloak of the forest, blotting out the sun. This was no monster, but a man.

  The man was tall and alone. The possibility of rescue gave Jean new strength and she plunged along the path toward the man. When she was close enough to see his features, Jean could tell he was a stranger and not of their village.

  He watched as she approached. Stopping a few feet away from him and giving one glance over her shoulder to be sure no monster was at her back, Jean set Rabbie down and tried to catch her breath. Still frightened, Rabbie clung to her knees.

  The stranger peered at her. “What are you running from, child?”

  Jean looked up at him. He wasn’t a Highlander, but she didn’t think his words carried the tones of a Lowlander either. Perhaps he was English; Jean had never met an Englishman. He had the bearing of a lord, with his straight spine and the fine weave of his clothing. But what held her attention were his eyes. She didn’t know anyone with silver eyes.

  Jean’s throat was so dry she had to swallow several times before she could speak.

  “Please, sir . . . my lord.” She didn’t want to give offense if he was indeed a nobleman. “My village has been attacked.”

  His brow furrowed. “Attacked? By whom?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Jean said, not knowing if the stranger would believe her. Her grandmother had scoffed at lords like this man, saying they thought themselves too high for the old ways. “A terrible evil.”

  “Evil?” For a moment Jean thought that the man would smile, but instead he shook his head. “Then we must get you safely away from here.”

  “Please, my lord,” Jean pressed. “Do you have a horse? We must flee.”

  “I have a horse nearby.” The stranger was remarkably calm considering the panic in Jean’s voice. He looked at Rabbie. “Who is this?”

  “My brother.”

  His eyes moved over Jean’s small frame. “And you carried him from the village? You must be exhausted.”

  At his words, Jean suddenly felt every ache in her body like the stab of a knife. All she could do was nod.

  “Let me take him.” The stranger crouched, stretching his arms toward Rabbie. “We’ll go to my horse and be away.”

  With consoling words, Jean pried Rabbie off her legs and turned him to face the stranger.

  “Go to him, Rabbie,” Jean said. “He’s going to help us.”

  Rabbie looked into her face, doubtful.

  “Go,” Jean told him. “We must get away from here.”

  She gave him a little push, and Rabbie went to the stranger. Jean’s knees tried to buckle in relief as the man scooped Rabbie up, but she managed to stay on her feet.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Jean said.

  The stranger smiled at her, his silver eyes gleaming.

  She didn’t see the shadow rising at her back, looming over her, ready to strike.

 

 

  Andrea Cremer, Stolen Souls

  (Series: # )

 

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