like it.
“Feels weird, right?” asked Haskoll, his face close, his breath hot.
Scott shrugged. “Feels like a rock. Heavy.”
“We call them coldstones. Papa and me. Watch this.”
He produced the bag of animal droppings and held them near the metal. Scott watched, but not much seemed to be happening.
“These droppings are nothing,” said Haskoll. “They’re rabbit turds. Now watch this.” He reeled Scott back to the cabinet of skulls and tapped the coldstone against the glass. At this it sparked with purple light and gave off angry flashes.
“Weird, huh?”
“I don’t see anything,” Scott lied.
Haskoll turned to face Scott fully. He stared (with the joyless smile of a boy who likes pulling the wings off things) and said nothing. Then a phone rang. Haskoll stared, and it rang again.
“Is that … is that your phone? Are you going to—”
“It’s just Papa, calling to tell me that our smallest coldstone has been in his left waist pocket all along.”
“Um … well, shouldn’t you—”
“He’s an idiot, Papa. A complete tool. I do all the hunting. All of it. Papa just shoots where I point, because he likes to shoot things.”
The phone rang a seventh time, and an eighth, and stopped.
“That backpack of yours looks about ten poundslighter. Why don’t you call for your little friend, and we’ll all talk about this rabbit-man that Goodco misplaced.”
Scott breathed. “Okay. Can I see that coldstone again?”
“Sure.”
Scott took it and threw it as hard as he could through the cabinet glass. Then he ran back for the front door, screaming.
“MIIIIIIIIIIICK!”
He tore through the narrow hall, slamming doors behind him, and slid to a stop on the marble floor of the foyer just as Mick emerged from the bathroom.
“Trouble, lad?” the elf asked before Scott scooped him up.
“Shh!”
Scott didn’t suppose he could outrun Haskoll to the main gate, so he pulled the front door open wide and hid the two of them behind it. He pressed his back against the inside wall and counted to give his mind some focus. He’d only counted to two before hearing the sound of a door, and the patter of feet running past, and then silence. At fifteen, Scott and Mick came around the side for a peek.
“Wore out your welcome fast, did yeh?” whispered the elf.
“Not even. I think we were about to get invited to stay permanently.”
They squinted out into the sunshine. There was no sign of Haskoll.
“I woulda gotten us free,” said Mick. “I always escape, eventually.”
“Remind me to tell you about the trophy room.”
Outside, birds were singing. Wind ruffled the tops of trees.
“We’re going to have to run for it, aren’t we?”
“On three?”
On three they ran. Scott, for his part, thought he’d never run like this before. He was a pinwheel of limbs. He remembered the president’s Physical Fitness Test at school and how he’d only earned a lousy Participant ribbon for that, too. If only the president could see him now—he just needed to be chased is all.
Mick was faster than you’d expect for someone with no real legs to speak of. He skidded right between the bars of the gate and stopped to look back.
“Mind your house, lad! He’s behind you!”
Scott made for the center of the gate where the double doors met—it was especially thick with curlicued iron that would be good for climbing—but found that it had not quite latched. Luck o’ the Irish, or whatever it was he had for being part changeling. He slipped through the gate and shut it firmly behind him, and then Haskoll was there. The gate shuddered as the man slapped against itand glared, grinning, his fists clutching the ironwork, his face straining against the bars. Scott and Mick ran off down the hill before he had a chance to recover, or work the keypad.
“It’s been really fantastic spending time with you, Scotty!” he called after them. “I hope you’ll both come back and visit!”
CHAPTER 14
Mr. Wilson
“Feels weird, right?” asked Haskoll, his face close, his breath hot.
Scott shrugged. “Feels like a rock. Heavy.”
“We call them coldstones. Papa and me. Watch this.”
He produced the bag of animal droppings and held them near the metal. Scott watched, but not much seemed to be happening.
“These droppings are nothing,” said Haskoll. “They’re rabbit turds. Now watch this.” He reeled Scott back to the cabinet of skulls and tapped the coldstone against the glass. At this it sparked with purple light and gave off angry flashes.
“Weird, huh?”
“I don’t see anything,” Scott lied.
Haskoll turned to face Scott fully. He stared (with the joyless smile of a boy who likes pulling the wings off things) and said nothing. Then a phone rang. Haskoll stared, and it rang again.
“Is that … is that your phone? Are you going to—”
“It’s just Papa, calling to tell me that our smallest coldstone has been in his left waist pocket all along.”
“Um … well, shouldn’t you—”
“He’s an idiot, Papa. A complete tool. I do all the hunting. All of it. Papa just shoots where I point, because he likes to shoot things.”
The phone rang a seventh time, and an eighth, and stopped.
“That backpack of yours looks about ten poundslighter. Why don’t you call for your little friend, and we’ll all talk about this rabbit-man that Goodco misplaced.”
Scott breathed. “Okay. Can I see that coldstone again?”
“Sure.”
Scott took it and threw it as hard as he could through the cabinet glass. Then he ran back for the front door, screaming.
“MIIIIIIIIIIICK!”
He tore through the narrow hall, slamming doors behind him, and slid to a stop on the marble floor of the foyer just as Mick emerged from the bathroom.
“Trouble, lad?” the elf asked before Scott scooped him up.
“Shh!”
Scott didn’t suppose he could outrun Haskoll to the main gate, so he pulled the front door open wide and hid the two of them behind it. He pressed his back against the inside wall and counted to give his mind some focus. He’d only counted to two before hearing the sound of a door, and the patter of feet running past, and then silence. At fifteen, Scott and Mick came around the side for a peek.
“Wore out your welcome fast, did yeh?” whispered the elf.
“Not even. I think we were about to get invited to stay permanently.”
They squinted out into the sunshine. There was no sign of Haskoll.
“I woulda gotten us free,” said Mick. “I always escape, eventually.”
“Remind me to tell you about the trophy room.”
Outside, birds were singing. Wind ruffled the tops of trees.
“We’re going to have to run for it, aren’t we?”
“On three?”
On three they ran. Scott, for his part, thought he’d never run like this before. He was a pinwheel of limbs. He remembered the president’s Physical Fitness Test at school and how he’d only earned a lousy Participant ribbon for that, too. If only the president could see him now—he just needed to be chased is all.
Mick was faster than you’d expect for someone with no real legs to speak of. He skidded right between the bars of the gate and stopped to look back.
“Mind your house, lad! He’s behind you!”
Scott made for the center of the gate where the double doors met—it was especially thick with curlicued iron that would be good for climbing—but found that it had not quite latched. Luck o’ the Irish, or whatever it was he had for being part changeling. He slipped through the gate and shut it firmly behind him, and then Haskoll was there. The gate shuddered as the man slapped against itand glared, grinning, his fists clutching the ironwork, his face straining against the bars. Scott and Mick ran off down the hill before he had a chance to recover, or work the keypad.
“It’s been really fantastic spending time with you, Scotty!” he called after them. “I hope you’ll both come back and visit!”
CHAPTER 14
Mr. Wilson
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