THE BIG RED door opened to reveal Mrs. Boyle, the housekeeper.
“All right, Mrs. B?” Arkle panted, his breathing not yet recovered from their run.
Mrs. Boyle’s big owl-glasses peered down at them. Her face was wide and lined, red from sun, and creased by laughter. Sep remembered it well—it was the face that had run the house since Lamb’s mum had died, and that had loomed over trays of sandwiches and lemonade during the summer of sacrifice.
“Hooper and Hope,” she said. “The whole gang’s here now.”
“Hi, Mrs. Boyle,” said Sep. “Are we last then?”
“Weren’t you always?” said Mrs. Boyle, shrugging her coat on. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“They’ve closed the school cuz of what happened to Mrs. Maguire,” said Arkle.
She nodded, then gathered her handbag. “I heard about it this morning; it’s a terrible business. Why are you wearing tinfoil, Hooper?”
“Science,” said Arkle.
“Uh-huh. How’s your mother?”
“Fine, fine.”
“And how’s school?”
“Good,” said Arkle warily.
“You’ve not been in trouble? Or set anything on fire?”
“Of course not!” said Arkle. “Hahahaha.” He gestured at Sep with his eyebrows.
“Hahahaha,” said Sep, frowning.
He glanced over Mrs. Boyle’s shoulder. The hallway looked exactly the same, and he breathed in its familiar smell: gravy, Mrs. Boyle’s light perfume, and the rich tang of cigarettes. He felt he could close his eyes and reopen them as an eleven-year-old boy, waiting for Lamb to bounce down the stairs and hop on her bike.
“So what’s that you’ve got?” Mrs. Boyle said as she moved past them into the yard.
“A Geiger counter,” said Arkle.
“And where’d you get that?”
“School. It’s for . . . homework.”
“D’you think my head buttons up the back?” said Mrs. Boyle. “Have you stolen that?”
“Of course not!” said Arkle. “Hahahaha.” He gestured again.
“Hahahaha,” said Sep.
“I don’t see what’s funny,” said Mrs. Boyle. “I wouldn’t want to bring more bad news to your mother’s door, Darren Hooper—not after that thing in October—”
“Mrs. B,” said Arkle, wide-eyed with innocence, “I told you at the time—it was on fire when I got there.”
Mrs. Boyle gave him a hard look. “Hmmm,” she said. “I see your eyebrows have grown back at any rate. Did you see Jones on your way here?”
“Jones is still alive?” said Sep.
“Well, we hope so,” said Mrs. Boyle as she walked down the path. “He’s been missing two days. The only certain things in life are the sun rising and that cat coming in for his dinner, so it doesn’t bode well. Behave yourselves, now. There’s snacks in the cupboard.”
“What happened in October?” said Sep as they watched her go.
“Oh, nothing. A minor fire, that’s all.”
“Wait . . . the lumberyard? That was you?”
“Sepster! I’m telling you—it was on fire when I got there.”
“Darren . . .”
“Hahahaha,” said Arkle, moving through the door.
The farmhouse was exactly the same. It was even the same carpet, Sep noticed: a head-aching swirl of brown and cream, threadbare on the edges of the stairs, like the bald spot on a monk’s crown. There were voices coming from the kitchen.
“Are you scared?” said Sep.
“Of Lamb?”
“No—of the box.”
“Oh God, yeah.” Arkle smiled weakly. “I’m shitting myself. Maybe literally, I’ve gone kind of numb. Are you?”
“Obviously,” said Sep. He wondered what the box was doing at that second—and what it had done in the hours since they’d been caught outside the school, in the time they might have stopped it.
The kitchen door burst open, and Lamb bore down on them, eyes flashing and hair wild.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Tench wanted to make Sep dinner!” Arkle blurted out, ducking behind a cabinet.
“Hey!” said Sep, throwing up his hands.
“What?” Lamb shook her head. “Never mind, we’ve had to sit and pretend we were doing homework because Mrs. Boyle wouldn’t leave—she made sandwiches! I haven’t been able to look for them at all!”
“Look for what?” said Sep.
“The car keys! My dad hides them when he’s away—”
“Oh my God!” said Arkle. “Are we taking the tractor? Please say we’re taking the tractor!”
“Yeah, we’re all going in the single-seat tractor,” said Lamb, pausing long enough to punch his arm.
“Ow! Right on the same . . . Where are the sandwiches?”
“Right here,” said Mack, working his way through a tower of thick-sliced bread.
Lamb started rummaging below the kitchen units.
“We can’t drive to the box!” Sep said to the back of her head. “Won’t your dad be back soon?”
“Nope,” replied Lamb, her voice muffled, “he’s at a livestock auction—then he’s going to see Run-D.M.C. on the mainland.”
“God, my old man still listens to prog rock,” said Arkle. “Your dad is so cool. I mean, his name’s Clint. He’s such a badass.”
“Sep’s right, Lamb,” said Hadley. “You’ve got no license, and there’s police everywhere.”
Sep leaned farther into the kitchen, saw her sitting in her old spot at the corner of the big table. He smiled—then noticed the bruise on her cheek.
“What happened to your face?”
“She won’t tell us,” said Mack, his mouth full.
Hadley moved her bangs.
“I’ll find them in a minute; I always do,” Lamb grunted from behind the fridge.
“What if he took them with him?” said Hadley.
“He can’t. One of the laborers might need the truck. The keys have to be on site at—all—times!”
The fridge took three jerky steps into the room.
“Any luck?” said Mack.
“No!”
“You got anything to drink, Lamb?”
“Darren . . .”
“I need to keep my strength up!”
Arkle opened the fridge door as Lamb wedged it back into place.
“You’ve got Spike Sting? Oh my God, that’s amazing.” He cracked open the can, took a noisy gulp, then let go a huge burp. “It kind of coats your teeth with sugar. It’s the best, even when it’s warm.”
“You’d better have brought your sacrifice,” said Lamb.
“Oh, I have,” said Arkle, patting his pocket. “Toy soldier, burned with a magnifying glass—same as last time. Sep still needs something, though.”
Lamb rounded on Sep, her face thunderous.
“I told you that this morning!” Sep said.
“But—”
“Look, it was either go home and get a new sacrifice, or come straight here. What would you have done?”
“He can get something from here, right?” said Arkle. “You must have a teddy the Sepster can use.”
“Do I look like I’ve got teddies here?”
Arkle studied Lamb’s expression. “No,” he conceded.
“Do you have anything I can use?” said Sep.
Lamb took a deep breath, then gripped her hair above her head. “My dad hoards stuff in the cupboard in the living room. But be quick! As soon as I find these keys, we’re out of here.”
Sep looked around the kitchen as he followed Arkle into the hall. It was so strange to be back in the place of their old happiness, with the photos and the tiles and the fridge magnets all the same. Like Hadley, Mack was in his favorite seat—leaning on the big range stove with his feet on the table.
“Holy shit!” Arkle called from the living room.
“What?”
“She’s got a Nintendo!” Arkle dropped to his knees in front of the TV and blew into a plastic cartridge. “Oh, this is amazing.”
“But we need to find—”
“Yeah, we will. Just give me two minutes to—”
“Darren . . .”
“Lamb’s still looking for the car keys, Sepster. Be cool.”
“Darren!”
“Oh, all right!” snapped Arkle as the Nintendo logo flashed up on-screen. “Here—”
He flung open the cupboard doors.
“Jesus, big Clint has some pile of rubbish here . . . one ice skate . . . a box of trophies . . . some slides . . .”
“Just find something, quickly!” snapped Sep, rifling through a heap of old clothes.
“A travel iron . . . oh! Here, perfect,” said Arkle, lifting something from the top shelf.
“What is it?”
“A Chewbacca teddy. And Jesus, it’s an old one—from when the first film came out.”
“Still in the box?”
“Yeah. Why would he keep this?”
“I don’t know. To sell it?”
“Ha!” said Arkle, tearing the cardboard apart. “Who’s going to buy this old junk?”
He tossed the Chewbacca to Sep, then hunkered down with the controller in his hands.
“Now we can Nintendo, right? Until Lamb finds the keys?”
“I suppose,” said Sep reluctantly. From the kitchen came the clatter of falling plates, followed by Lamb swearing. “What game is this?”
“Donkey Kong Jr. I played it at my cousin’s once; it’s so freaking brilliant. He’s trying to rescue his dad. From Super Mario, see?”
Sep looked at the little character at the top of the screen. “I thought Mario was a hero?”
“Nah, only in Super Mario Bros.—he’s the bad guy in this. A dangerous dude.”
They watched Super Mario release bug-eyed, toothy critters from a bag. Arkle’s thumbs flashed, and Donkey Kong Jr. climbed out of reach.
“I don’t really get it,” said Sep, moving to the window.
“What’s to get?” said Arkle, his mouth open in concentration. “Mario goes bad, tries to kill the hero; the hero escapes by climbing. Done.”
Sep looked out into the farmyard.
A flurry of wind threw the bushes around, and he thought he saw something moving under the leaves. There were trees all around the farmhouse, and their waving limbs threw a kaleidoscope of light and shadow over the grass.
Something moved again, at the garden’s edge—gone before he could see it.
Sep shook his head. The noise was there again, in his deaf ear—creeping up like the tide in a seashell, glowing through his jaw and into his tooth.
“What is that?” he said, closing his eyes.
“What?”
“That kind of . . . breathing . . .” Sep managed. “Like when you’ve got a cold and you need to spit. Can’t you hear it?”
Arkle looked worried. He put down the controller and cocked his head. “No,” he said, sipping his can of Sting. “I can’t hear anything.”
Sep ran his tongue over his bad tooth. It felt suddenly tight and hot, like a pustule ready to burst.
“It’s in my bad ear,” he said, “and it—”
A bright, sharp pain struck in toward the center of his head. He cried out, grabbing his skull and dropping to his knees. “This happened last time,” he hissed. “When . . . Barnaby . . . came to my house.”
“Shit,” said Arkle, hovering over him and hopping from foot to foot. “Shit shit shit shit.”
Sep shut his eyes and squeezed his head, waiting for the lights to stop flashing in his eyes. Eventually the pain eased, and he lowered his hands. They stared at each other.
“We need to go,” said Sep. “Now.”
“But Lamb hasn’t—”
“Yes!” yelled Lamb. She leaned into the room, dangling some dripping wet keys. “In the cistern. Should have looked there earlier, it’s so— Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”
“Sep’s ear’s doing the same weird thing it did when the teddy came to his house,” said Arkle, flapping his hands. “He says we need to go. Right now!”
“Yeah, good, that’s what I said. Come on then!”
Lamb helped lift Sep from the floor, and he staggered to his feet. “It’s the box,” he said. “Like . . . its voice or something. I can hear it.”
“What’s it saying?” said Arkle.
“I don’t know. It’s just like . . . an animal noise. Like a growl.”
Lamb leaned into the kitchen, Sep’s arm around her shoulders. “All right, let’s go!” she shouted.
“Sep!” shouted Hadley.
“He’s fine, Milky,” said Arkle. “He’s just— Ack!” He lurched over the kitchen table and grabbed his throat.
“Darren! Aargh!” shouted Sep, his tooth bursting again. He grabbed Arkle around the chest. “What is it?”
“Ack—aaaaa—ack!” said Arkle. He turned red, then purple, his eyes bugged out and watering. He grabbed Sep’s arm and pulled him so close, Sep could feel the panicked nostril-heat on his cheek.
“Jesus, what is it?” Sep shouted, thumping Arkle’s back. “Say something!”
Arkle opened his mouth and heaved. Sep tensed, preparing for the splash of vomit, when a little burned leg, dry and black, stuck out from Arkle’s lips—Tarsus and tibia, thought Sep, his horrified mind flashing to the cool, calm pages of a musty textbook—and then the rest of the dragonfly followed onto the tabletop, a twiggy excretion of dead insect, thorax scorched to a sooty bronze, wings singed to brittle, sparkling bubbles.
“Aauugh, aauugh, oh God,” said Arkle, spit dripping from his mouth in thick strings. “It’s cut my lips. Oh my God, Sep, it’s cut my li— Ack!”
He heaved again, and another insect came, then another and another, each as corrupted as the first and smelling of bonfires and charcoal and heat.
“Jesus, Darren,” said Lamb as Sep rubbed Arkle’s back. “I mean . . . Jesus Christ.”
Arkle was leaning over a wet puddle of spewed-up dragonflies, his wet lips speckled with flecks of black shell. He looked up through pink-rimmed eyes.
“Thank God I was wearing my foil helmet,” he said.
Sep’s heart was thudding. He felt dizzy and hot.
“Do you want a drink?” he said.
Arkle nodded, and drank deeply from his soda. Then he reached into his mouth with thumb and forefinger, and lifted out a little black arc about the size and shape of a clipped fingernail.
“The sting,” he said, then vomited for real.
“My table!” said Lamb.
Something flashed past the kitchen window.
“We need to go,” said Sep. “I think Barnaby’s outside.”
“Right in the middle of . . . This is an antique—”
“Lamb!”
“Right,” said Arkle, green faced as he lifted the sodden dragonflies into a plastic bag. “This can be my new sacrifice. The box can have these straight back.”
The four gathered in the hallway, close behind Lamb.
“Just follow me,” she said. “The pickup is beside the barn. I’ll open the doors as quickly as I can. Ready?”
“Yeah,” said Sep.
The others nodded.
“Go!” Lamb shouted, throwing the door open.
The second he was outside Sep fell on the path, the noise a scream in his deaf ear that sent a drill through the pulp of his bad tooth in spikes of bright red agony. With a massive effort, he lifted his head—and saw Barnaby standing on the garden wall, damp fur gleaming like slug-trail in the bright sun, eyes glowing green, the little mouth still locked in a smile.
“Shitting hell!” screamed Arkle, running back to gather Sep under the arms, almost carrying him to the truck.
Barnaby leaped from the wall, scrambling over the uneven ground, soft legs wobbling under his weight.
“Shiiiiiiiiiit! Shiiiiiiiiiit! Shiiiiiiiiiit! Shiiiiiiiiiit! Shiiiiiiiiiit!” Arkle screamed, and Sep roared as Mack grabbed him by the other arm.
Lamb jumped into the cab, then reached over to pop open the other doors. “Hurry up!” she screamed, starting the ignition.
Which stalled.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” said Hadley, scrambling into the backseat.
Sep turned to look at Barnaby.
He was only a couple of feet behind, the glow in his eyes getting brighter as he closed in.
Mack leaped into the passenger seat as Lamb frantically turned the key.
“Come on!” Arkle shouted, reaching out for Sep’s hand.
As Sep jumped, he felt Barnaby’s soft paws grabbing at his ankle, and thought he was lost—when Hadley reached past Arkle and the two of them pulled him into the truck.
The engine roared into life.
“Hold on!” said Lamb.
She sped off, the big tires throwing up stones that hit Barnaby like gunshot, knocking him into the middle of the yard.
“You got him!” shouted Hadley.
Barnaby sat up, watching them go with undimmed eyes.
“Oh bollocks,” said Arkle, gripping Sep’s arm as the car bounced toward the forest.