The Demon Curse by Simon Nicholson

to the shadows. Reaching the boathouse steps, Harry looked back at the glowing pipes again, making sure they hadn’t moved, before leading Billie up the steps. Together, they reached the door at the top. Harry tested the handle, found it was unlocked, and pushed the door open, pulling Billie in after him.
    It was dark inside, but Harry’s eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. He edged forward. Nets hung on the walls, and he made out spears and jagged harpoons dangling from the rafters, their edges glinting. The smell of fish guts curled up his nose.
    â€œI was right. Definitely fishermen,” Billie muttered.
    Harry nodded and edged further into the room. He noticed a table on the far side with a small, bulging shape on it.
    It was the sack.
    â€œDon’t touch it.” Billie reached for him, but Harry only felt the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder, because he was already moving forward. “Maybe it’s a trap, leaving it out like that,” she hissed.
    â€œMaybe.” Harry crouched over it.
    â€œEven if it isn’t—careful!” Billie grabbed his shoulder properly. “If it’s something to do with what happened to Mayor Monticelso… Remember what a state he’s in. Taken over by a demonic force!”
    â€œHow else are we going to find out what’s going on?”
    Harry couldn’t help noticing that he was trembling a little. He steadied his hand, moving it smoothly to the sack’s neck. His finger and thumb took hold of the cloth and pulled it. He heard Billie’s breathing, just next to his ear. The sack was slightly open, and he peered in but could see only darkness. He pulled again and then stumbled back as the sack fell open, its contents spilling onto the table.
    Billie had stopped breathing. Harry realized that he wasn’t breathing either, and he forced himself to suck in air. He leaned forward, inspecting what lay there.
    A bushel of dried branches crowded with blackened seeds. Three withered, coiled-up snakeskins. Five hawks’ feathers tied with a cord.
    â€œThat’s impossible,” Billie spluttered. “The Islanders…that’s what they use for their magic…their good magic… We saw them use it just now.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    Harry reached forward and touched the feathers. His fingers moved across, brushing against the seeds, the snakeskins, and back to the feathers again. Work it out. He closed his eyes, saw the objects hanging in the darkness, and moved them about in his mind, as if they were the pieces of some kind of puzzle…
    â€œHarry!”
    His eyes flicked open. Billie was staring at him in alarm. He heard the voices and the tread of boots up the steps. He saw the handle of the boathouse door, turning.
    Harry grabbed the sack and scooped the objects back into it, positioning it on the table just where it had been. He whirled around, checking for another way out, but there wasn’t time.
    The door was already opening. Boots thudded and voices muttered as Daggerbeard and Yelloweyes led the men in.

Chapter 11
    The nets stank of fish. River water dripped from them as they hung on the boathouse wall, and Harry, hidden behind them, flinched as a trickle snaked down his face. He felt Billie flinch too and grabbed her arm, steadying her. Even that slight move, he noticed, made the nets sway, their wetness catching the light. He peered out through the foul-smelling strands and listened to the fishermen.
    â€œWe’re all here then.”
    â€œSix o’clock, just like you said.”
    â€œTell us what’s going on. Tell us quick…”
    There were about twenty of them, tugging wooden stools into a circle. They sat down, delving into tobacco pouches and drinking from their bottles. A couple of men crouched over an iron brazier, and soon flames crept up from it, throwing light around the circle of faces, every one of them staring toward Daggerbeard and