The Iron King. Julie KagawaЧитать онлайн книгу.
my hand and pulled me to my feet. My limbs screamed in protest, and I almost sat down again. I was tired, cranky, and the last thing I wanted was more hiking. Gazing around, I saw a lovely little pond through a stand of trees. The water shimmered in the moonlight, and I paused, gazing out over the mirrored surface. âWhy not stop there?â I asked.
Puck took one look at the pond, grimaced, and pulled me onward. âAh, no,â he said quickly. âToo many nasties lurking underwaterâkelpies and glaistigs and mermaids and such. Best not to risk it.â
I looked back and saw a dark shape breach the perfect surface of the pond, sending ripples across the still water. The top of a horseâs head, coal-black and slick like a seal, watched me with baleful white eyes. With a gasp, I hurried on.
A few minutes later, we came to the trunk of a huge, gnarled tree. The bark was so knobby and rough that I could almost see faces peering out of the trunk. It reminded me of wrinkled old men, stacked atop each other and waving their crooked arms indignantly.
Puck knelt among the roots and knocked on the wood. I peered over his shoulder and, with a start, saw a tiny door, barely a foot tall, near the base of the tree. As I watched, wide-eyed, the door creaked open, and a head peered out suspiciously.
âEh? Whoâs there?â a rough, squeaky voice asked as I stared in wonder. The little manâs skin was the color of walnuts; his hair looked like a bundle of twigs sticking out of his scalp. He wore a brown tunic and brown leggings, and looked like a stick come to life, except for the eyes peering out of his face, black and shiny like a beetleâs.
âGood evening, Twiggs,â Puck greeted politely.
The little man blinked, squinting up at the figure towering over him. âRobin Good fellow?â he squeaked at last. âHavenât seen you round these parts in a while. What brings you to my humble tree?â
âEscort service,â Puck replied, shifting to the side so that Twiggs could get a clear view of me. Those beady eyes fixed on me, blinking in confusion. Then, suddenly, they got huge and round, as Twiggs looked back at Puck.
âIs ⦠is that ⦠?â
âIt is.â
âDoes she ⦠?â
âNo.â
âOh, my.â Twiggs opened the door wide, beckoning with a sticklike arm. âCome in, come in. Quickly, now. Before the dryads catch sight of you, the irritating gossips.â He vanished inside, and Puck turned to me.
âIâll never be able to fit in there,â I told him before he could say a word. âThereâs no way Iâm going to squeeze through, unless youâve got a magic toadstool thatâll shrink me to the size of a wasp. And Iâm not eating anything like that. Iâve seen Alice in Wonderland, you know.â
Puck grinned and took my hand.
âClose your eyes,â he told me, âand just walk.â
I did, half expecting to walk nose first into the tree, courtesy of a great Robbie-prank. When nothing happened, I almost peeked but thought better of it. The air turned warm, and I heard a door slam behind me, when Puck said I could open my eyes again.
I stood in a cozy, round room, the walls made of smooth red wood, the floor covered with mossy carpet. A flat rock on three stumps served as a table in the center of the room, displaying berries the size of soccer balls. A rope ladder hung on the far wall, and when my gaze followed it up, I nearly fainted. Dozens of insects crawled on the walls or hovered in the air high above us, for the trunk extended farther than I could see. Each bug was the size of a cocker spaniel, and their rear ends glowed a luminescent yellow-green.
âYouâve been renovating, Twiggs,â Puck said, sitting on a bundle of furs that passed for a couch. I looked closer and saw the head of a squirrel still attached to the skin, and had to look away. âThis place was barely a hole in the tree when I saw it last.â
Twiggs looked pleased. He was our height nowâactually, I guess we were more his heightâand up close he smelled of cedar and moss.
âYes, Iâve grown quite fond of it,â Twiggs said, walking over to the table. He picked up a knife and split a berry into thirds, arranging the pieces on wooden plates. âStill, I might have to move soon. The dryads whisper to me, tell me dark things. They say parts of the wyldwood are dying, vanishing more every day. No one knows what is causing it.â
âYou know whatâs causing it,â Puck said, draping the squirrel tail over his lap. âWe all do. This is nothing new.â
âNo.â Twiggs shook his head. âMortal disbelief has always taken a bit of the Nevernever, but not like this. This is ⦠different. Itâs hard to explain. Youâll see what I mean if you go any farther.â
He handed us each a plate with a huge slab of red berry, half an acorn, and a pile of what looked like steamed white grubs. Despite the weirdness of the day, I was ravenous after hours of hiking. The berry wedge tasted tart and sweet, but I wasnât about to touch the maggoty-looking things and gave them all to Puck. After dinner, Twiggs made me a bed of squirrel hides and chipmunk fur, and though I was mildly grossed out, I fell asleep immediately.
THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED.
In my dream, my house was dark and still, the living room cloaked in shadow. A brief glimpse of the wall clock pronounced it 3:19 a.m. I floated through the living room past the kitchen and made my way up the stairs. The door to my room was closed, and I heard Lukeâs grizzly-bear snores coming from the master bedroom, but at the end of the hall, Ethanâs door stood slightly ajar. I padded down the hallway and peeked in through the crack.
A stranger stood in Ethanâs bedroom, a tall, lean figure dressed in silver and black. A boy, perhaps a little older than me, though it was impossible to tell his exact age. His body was youthful, but there was a stillness to him that hinted at something far older, something incredibly dangerous. With a shock, I recognized him as the boy on the horse, who had watched me through the forest that day. Why was he here now, in my house? How did he even get in? I toyed with the idea of confronting him, knowing this was all a dream, when I noticed something else, something that made my blood run cold. Thick, raven-wing hair tumbled to his shoulders, not quite covering the delicate, pointed ears.
He wasnât human. He was one of them, one of the fey. Standing in my house, in my brotherâs bedroom. I shuddered and began to ease back down the hall.
He turned then, looking right through me, and I wouldâve gasped if I had the breath. He was gorgeous. More than gorgeous, he was beautiful. Regal beautiful, prince-of-a-foreign-nation beautiful. If he walked into my classroom during finals, students and teachers alike would be throwing themselves at his feet. Still, it was a cold, hard beauty, like that of a marble statue, inhuman and otherworldly. His slanted eyes, beneath long, jagged bangs, glimmered like chips of steel.
The changeling was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear faint noises coming from beneath the bed, the thud of a rapidly beating heart. The fey boy didnât seem to notice. He turned and placed one pale hand on the closet door, running his fingers down the faded wood. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
In one smooth motion, he pushed the door open and walked through. The door shut behind him with a soft click, and he was gone.
Warily, I edged toward the closet door, keeping a careful eye on the space beneath the bed. I still heard muffled heartbeats, but nothing reached out to grab at me. I crossed the room without incident. As quietly as I could, I grasped the closet doorknob, turned it, and pulled the door open.
âMy closet!â shrieked the bowler hat man, leaping out at me. âMine!â
I SCREAMED AND JERKED myself awake.
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