help.”
“Of course. I can make eggs? There’s some lasagna Icould microwave.” Mrs. Johnson hurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Cereal?”
Zeke dropped onto the couch and looked at Henry. “Soldiers?” he asked.
Henry sat up. “Not just soldiers.”
“Her?”
Henry shook his head. “But people from her.” He clenched and unclenched his hand, remembering the finger he had gripped and severed from a skull. He opened his mouth to explain and then shivered. He didn’t understand it all himself.
“Cereal, Henry?” Mrs. Johnson held up a box. Henrietta was already shoveling down a bowl.
“Please,” Henry said, and he levered himself out of his chair. His grandmother, as charred as Henrietta, snored beside him. Henry pulled a Technicolor afghan off the back of the couch and spread it over her. Already, he knew what he had to do, and his whole body felt clammy. Licking his lips, he wiped cool sweat off his forehead. Then he walked into the kitchen.
Strength. He needed strength for the dark paths.
And maybe something he could throw up.
“Henry?” Henrietta set down her spoon. “What? What is it? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Henry sat down and poked a round, whole-grain, honey-flavored island below the white surface. He missed cereal. He missed this kind of milk. Thinner. Colder. Consistent.
“I’m going to Endor,” he said quietly.
Henrietta laughed. “How? Why? Do you even know where it is?”
Henry looked up into Henrietta’s eyes and watched her smile disappear.
“I have a door,” he said. “You remember.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the shower, Henry’s eyes went black watching the water stream and steam from the nozzle. So he shut them, slumped down into the tub, and let the hot, pressurized rain soothe his body and rinse his filth away. It couldn’t soothe his mind.
He needed to find his father and Caleb. There was nothing Henry could do about the ships and the soldiers, and he didn’t want to face any more fingerlings by himself. But his father had gone to Endor, looking for the witch. Could the faeren help? Where was Fat Frank? Where was the witch? Maybe faeries knew how to kill her. He didn’t think so. Was his mother okay? Where had his family been taken? Not to Endor. To the emperor? Who was the emperor, and why would he do this to Mordecai’s family? Where were the ships sailing?
To a garden. A garden where fingerlings grew and a man hung between two trees. He could see it. He didn’t want to, but he did. Henry’s tired mind staggered and slipped into dreaming, while his tired body slept, huddled up in a Kansas shower, water pouring down his head, his eyelashes and cheeks, pooling in his open mouth, dribbling down his chin.
* * *
A pale, blond man held up his hands. One finger turned to ash and faded. The rest blackened and grew, swaying and slithering like snakes. They wrapped around the man, and he was no more. They grew further, and Henry stood in the sky, watching the fingers coil around a great city like dark snakes of fog until the city had disappeared.
Someone took Henry’s hand. The city and the blackness were gone. His grandmother was beside him now. The two of them stood on a hill overlooking another city, a towering, sprawling city, a gray city, a ruin, a graveyard where huge houses marked each tomb, where palaces with black stone windows loomed over streets paved with ash. There was no life around the place, outside the walls or in the hills. Inside the walls, behind sealed doors and windows, deep in the ground, entombed in lifeless rock, were the lives without end—the undying breed of Nimroth.
Endor.
Henry looked at his grandmother. She was younger in her dreams. Her eyes were focused and sharp. Her white hair was thick and pulled back into a braid.
“This is where my dad is?” Henry asked. “Can’t you just find his dreams and tell him what happened, tell him to go home now?”
Grandmother pursed her lips, and her
“Of course. I can make eggs? There’s some lasagna Icould microwave.” Mrs. Johnson hurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Cereal?”
Zeke dropped onto the couch and looked at Henry. “Soldiers?” he asked.
Henry sat up. “Not just soldiers.”
“Her?”
Henry shook his head. “But people from her.” He clenched and unclenched his hand, remembering the finger he had gripped and severed from a skull. He opened his mouth to explain and then shivered. He didn’t understand it all himself.
“Cereal, Henry?” Mrs. Johnson held up a box. Henrietta was already shoveling down a bowl.
“Please,” Henry said, and he levered himself out of his chair. His grandmother, as charred as Henrietta, snored beside him. Henry pulled a Technicolor afghan off the back of the couch and spread it over her. Already, he knew what he had to do, and his whole body felt clammy. Licking his lips, he wiped cool sweat off his forehead. Then he walked into the kitchen.
Strength. He needed strength for the dark paths.
And maybe something he could throw up.
“Henry?” Henrietta set down her spoon. “What? What is it? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Henry sat down and poked a round, whole-grain, honey-flavored island below the white surface. He missed cereal. He missed this kind of milk. Thinner. Colder. Consistent.
“I’m going to Endor,” he said quietly.
Henrietta laughed. “How? Why? Do you even know where it is?”
Henry looked up into Henrietta’s eyes and watched her smile disappear.
“I have a door,” he said. “You remember.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the shower, Henry’s eyes went black watching the water stream and steam from the nozzle. So he shut them, slumped down into the tub, and let the hot, pressurized rain soothe his body and rinse his filth away. It couldn’t soothe his mind.
He needed to find his father and Caleb. There was nothing Henry could do about the ships and the soldiers, and he didn’t want to face any more fingerlings by himself. But his father had gone to Endor, looking for the witch. Could the faeren help? Where was Fat Frank? Where was the witch? Maybe faeries knew how to kill her. He didn’t think so. Was his mother okay? Where had his family been taken? Not to Endor. To the emperor? Who was the emperor, and why would he do this to Mordecai’s family? Where were the ships sailing?
To a garden. A garden where fingerlings grew and a man hung between two trees. He could see it. He didn’t want to, but he did. Henry’s tired mind staggered and slipped into dreaming, while his tired body slept, huddled up in a Kansas shower, water pouring down his head, his eyelashes and cheeks, pooling in his open mouth, dribbling down his chin.
* * *
A pale, blond man held up his hands. One finger turned to ash and faded. The rest blackened and grew, swaying and slithering like snakes. They wrapped around the man, and he was no more. They grew further, and Henry stood in the sky, watching the fingers coil around a great city like dark snakes of fog until the city had disappeared.
Someone took Henry’s hand. The city and the blackness were gone. His grandmother was beside him now. The two of them stood on a hill overlooking another city, a towering, sprawling city, a gray city, a ruin, a graveyard where huge houses marked each tomb, where palaces with black stone windows loomed over streets paved with ash. There was no life around the place, outside the walls or in the hills. Inside the walls, behind sealed doors and windows, deep in the ground, entombed in lifeless rock, were the lives without end—the undying breed of Nimroth.
Endor.
Henry looked at his grandmother. She was younger in her dreams. Her eyes were focused and sharp. Her white hair was thick and pulled back into a braid.
“This is where my dad is?” Henry asked. “Can’t you just find his dreams and tell him what happened, tell him to go home now?”
Grandmother pursed her lips, and her
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