Chapter 22
Things that Go Bump in the Night

“I’m a simple monk in need,” Hans pleaded.

“Don’t camp on the road through the forest, they say, or the Wolf King will get ye,” the man snarled in Hans’ ear. “So I made me a bed in the roots of a tree, and sure if I don’t wake to the sound of you sneaking up to my wagon. Well, you be no Wolf King nor monk, neither. A common thief is what you be, and you’ll never again filch from me nor any other poor peddler.” He readied his blade.

“Peddler!” a voice commanded from the trees. “Drop your weapon!”

The peddler squinted into the dark. An old general emerged from the forest, starlight glinting off his epaulettes and helmet. A musket was crooked at his shoulder, aimed at the peddler’s head. The peddler fell to his knees and threw away his knife.

“For shame, threatening the life of a friar,” Hans said.

“You speak to me of shame?” the peddler replied. “You a rogue monk and a rogue soldier?”

Angela came out of the shadows. “You wrong us, sir. We’re not what we seem, nor what you imagine.”

The peddler saw that “the general” was a girl holding a broken branch. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Hans had an inspiration. “We are humble travelers journeying to the far mountains,” he said in his finest court talk. “What say you, friend: Is your wagon for hire?”

Angela had been wondering the same thing. A wagon was faster than foot, and the faster they got to the far mountains, the sooner they’d be safe from Arnulf and able to plot the rescue of her parents. She produced a diamond from her jewel sack. “Here’s treasure for your pains.”

The peddler bit the jewel and turned it in his fingers. “Tis real!” he exclaimed in wonder. “Into the wagon with you, then, no questions asked. For by my troth, you’re on the run, and misfortune shall befall us if we tarry.”

Hans and Angela lay curled together under the wagon’s heavy canopy, squeezed between baskets and boxes. The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the gentle creak of the axles soothed their spirits. Soon they’d drifted into the deepest of dreamlands.

Hans found himself at a traveling circus. The ringmaster was a skeleton; the acrobats were rats in red-spangled tights. Meanwhile, Angela was having tea with Georgina von Hoffen-Toffen. “I didn’t drown in a bath,” Georgina simpered, “I drowned at sea. See how the fish ate my eyeballs?” An eel slithered in and out of her sockets, and every time she spoke a school of sardines swam out of her mouth.

By a curious coincidence, both dreamers heard the Necromancer say, “What have we here?” In Hans’ dream, the ringmaster whipped a shroud around his shoulders and became the Evil One. Hans tried to escape, but the circus tent collapsed around him. A rat with Knobbe’s face nuzzled his chin: “This will teach you to run from your papa.”

In her neighboring dreamland, Angela hid behind her teacup as Georgina wiped the flesh from her skull. She was the Necromancer disguised in ringlets and a frock. Angela ran and bumped into a wall. All the windows and doors to the tearoom had disappeared.

The Necromancer smacked his lips. “Soon my pickling jars will be filled with fresh meat.”

Hans and Angela cried out and awoke in the night, hearts pounding.

Angela clutched Hans. “I dreamed the Necromancer had us.”

“So did I,” Hans said. “But we’re safe.”

Angela held her breath. “Are we?”

“Aren’t we?”

They were still in the back of the wagon, between the vegetables, herbs, and sundries. But something was different. The wagon had stopped moving. There was an eerie quiet. Hans wriggled to the front of the wagon. He lifted the cloth covering and looked to the driver’s seat. It was empty.

“The peddler. He’s gone.”

Angela gulped. “He’ll be back. . . . Won’t he?”

“I don’t think so,” Hans said. “His horse is gone too. Another thing. We’re not on the main road anymore. We’re on a side trail.”

“Why would the peddler abandon us in the middle of the forest?” Angela shivered. “Why would he leave us alone with his things?”

“Who says he had a choice? Who says we’re alone?”

Quiet as a bedbug, Hans slid under the covering to the ground and motioned Angela to follow. They crouched low. The trail ahead was overgrown with vines and saplings. The wagon had been driven to the end of nowhere.

A nasty murmur floated through the air.

Hans took Angela’s hand. “Weevils.” He guided her over the roots of a large tree to the side of the path.

“Can they see us?” Angela whispered.

Something drifted behind them. Its long, scaly fingers caressed their shoulders. “Oh yes, they can see you. I, too, in my way. For I hear you. Smell you. Feel you.”

“Necromancer!” Hans and Angela swung their arms wildly.

“He’s over here,” mocked voices from the left. “No, over here,” mocked voices from the right.

“No, here,” said the Necromancer, raising a lantern window before their eyes. “My Weevils wanted to kill you in your sleep. I said to wait, the better to enjoy your terror. Was I right, my pets?”

“Yes, Master.” A circle of lantern windows opened. Weevils were ringed around them, crows hopping at their feet.

“Take the grave robber’s apprentice and the countess,” the Necromancer said. “Prepare them for sacrifice.”

The Weevils swarmed. One jumped on Hans’ back. Three grabbed his arms, two yanked his legs, another pummeled his middle.

Angela thrust a hand into her treasure bag. “Take me or my jewels!” she cried, and threw a fistful of gems into the air. The Weevils squealed. For a second, they turned from their prey in search of the shinies.

Hans and Angela tore blindly into the forest night.