The young riders sat in silence for a moment, considering the dark magic of the Char Stone and what it meant to them. Outside the wind kicked up, and a strange roll of thunder shook the night as if the mountain were screaming for them to leave.
“O’Brien, does this mean we’re tainted?” asked Quinn.
O’Brien considered the question. “Yes and no, Mr. Revels. The Char Stone opened you up to a whole heap of mystical energies. Yer closeness to the Stone broke down the natural barriers between this world and others, allowin’ the Prime to seep through.”
Strong Heart frowned. “Seep through?”
Another ferocious gust of wind surged against the cabin walls. “Wind’s kickin’ up,” O’Brien said. “There is a membrane between this world and … other worlds. The barrier is thin near the Char Stone—once you’ve been exposed to the Stone, somethin’ inside you is altered, makin’ you more sensitive to the mystical forces in our world and others.” The Enforcer paused to think, then resumed. “Think about it this way. Imagine a maple leaf, freshly fallen from the tree after a storm. The rain that soaks the leaf turns the surface thin, so fragile that, given time, the leaf will become one with the soil. In yer case, tadpoles, the Char Stone is the rain and you are the leaf.”
“This explains a bunch, now, don’t it?” Duck said to Keech. “That’s why you can shoot Rose’s birds out of the sky.” She turned to Quinn next. “And I bet it’s why your humming and songs can hide us on the trail.”
Quinn asked, “What about you, though? You were just as close to the Stone as we were. Why ain’t you got any sort of power?”
“I don’t know.” Duck pondered for a moment. “I don’t think I want any.”
“I’m guessin’ when Milos met you tadpoles, he sensed you’d been opened.” O’Brien shook her head, but another smile curled her lips.
Keech scowled at O’Brien. “Mr. Horner never told us a thing about the Stone seeping powers into us. He only told us to travel to Hook’s Fort and find you.”
“Perhaps he hoped that while you traveled out here, you’d learn to harness yer own focus enough to slow down Ignatio. Maybe even Rose himself,” O’Brien said. “Milos tended to see the best in folks. But not me. I don’t think you stand a chance.”
“You don’t have to believe in us,” Duck said. “Just tell us where to find the Key of Enoch. We’ll figure out how to finish things on our own.”
O’Brien shook her head. “If I did, I’d be sendin’ you to yer doom.”
Quinn said, “You can keep hiding, tending your saplings, and ignoring the rest of the world. But my auntie Ruth is a prisoner out there. She was free, but they took her. Ain’t no way I can just give up on her.”
When O’Brien’s features remained firm, Keech sought another way to reach her. He thought back to Doyle’s journal again, the entry dated 25 July 1832: The pair introduced themselves as Isaiah Raines and Em O’Brien … From the look of their partnership, the two are very close. If Keech had learned one thing about the Enforcers, it was that they valued their partnerships. A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter, as they liked to say in Latin.
Keech said, “If Pa Abner were still alive, he’d go hunting for this Key himself.” When O’Brien still didn’t respond, he added: “Partners stick together. Pa would want you to help us.”
O’Brien propped her hand against the door, appearing bone-weary from years of solitude. “You tadpoles are determined to get yerselves killed. Fine. I can send y’all up the quickest route to the mining camp under Skeleton Peak.” She pointed up to the cabin’s ceiling.
For a moment, Keech was confused by the gesture, but realization struck him. She wasn’t pointing at the ceiling, but at the massive peak outside. His heart leaped in his chest, and the words from Doyle’s journal resurfaced in his mind. The skeleton holds the key. “The mountain standing over us is called Skeleton Peak?”
“Indeed,” O’Brien said. “So named for the cliff ledges on the east face of the mountain. When approachin’, the crags resemble—”
“Lemme guess. A big skeleton,” Quinn said.
“More like a skull. Ain’t a pretty sight, the Peak. Can be downright unsettlin’.”
In Hook’s Fort, Keech had asked the trapper if she knew the meaning of Doyle’s cryptic phrase about the skeleton, and she had denied any knowledge of it. But now he saw she knew plenty. Hoping to get her to say more, he pulled out the Ranger’s leatherbound book and laid it flat on his palm. “Do you recognize this?”
The Enforcer gave the journal a pondering look. “I may have seen him scribble in it once or twice.”
“Doyle left it after betraying us,” Keech said. He took a deep breath to try to calm his nerves. “I’ve spent weeks combing through his writings, but the only mention I’ve found about the Key is an entry dated September 1833. But I think you know more.”
O’Brien sighed, a heavy exhalation. “There is a minin’ camp at the base of the skull,” she said. “That’s where Ignatio is based. But it ain’t no gold mine. Ain’t no gold in Skeleton Peak, but there is treasure.”
“The Key of Enoch,” Quinn said.
O’Brien stepped to one of the cabin walls covered in scrawled maps. Scribbled arrows bisected one of the papers, and angry Xs dotted the sketch, but O’Brien pointed at the bottom of the map. “The entire mountain’s riddled through with tunnels and caves. Decades ago, miners blasted down into the Peak, built an underground camp, and pulled all sorts of ore out of the mountain. But those workers never learned about the place that sat under all that stone. You see, one of them deep shafts leads down to a secret cavern.” She turned to face the Lost Causes. “I’m talkin’ about the House of the Rabbit.”
Tremors of excitement rippled down Keech’s spine. He recalled how Pa Abner had prepared him with the nickname Wolf for the day he would need to use the word to enter Bonfire Crossing. Perhaps Pa had given Sam the nickname Rabbit for the same reason, as a way into the House.
“You know the way down to the Key,” Quinn said. “Will you show us?”
O’Brien surprised them all by ripping the map of the Peak down from the wall. “Truth is, I’ve explored every tunnel under Skeleton Peak myself, but I’ve never been able to find the path into the House. Only one person ever found the way.”
“Who?” Duck asked.
O’Brien peered at Keech. “Your father, boy. In thirty-three, the Reverend Rose brought us to the Peak to fetch the Key. He’d been followin’ an ancient scroll—a document he claimed had been written by Enoch himself, God’s right-hand man.”
Keech said, “I’ve read about this scroll in Doyle’s journal.”
O’Brien didn’t look too happy to share the memories of those days. “The scroll led us to Skeleton Peak. Once there, we tried to find a way in. Each of us took a different tunnel. We wandered but found only dead ends. Except for yer father, Black Wood. He disappeared for a time, then emerged with the Key. He returned a different man. A haunted man.”
Quinn asked, “What did he see down there?”
“I don’t rightly know,” O’Brien said. “He called the place ‘the House of the Rabbit.’ Spoke of shiftin’ walls and terrible rips in the earth, perils that threatened death at every turn. Nobody else has ever come close to gettin’ in, but ol’ Black Wood did it. After we six Enforcers broke away from Rose, he returned the Key to the House.”
“You mean he went back in?” Duck asked. “He went through all that twice?”
Strong Heart said to Keech, “Many stories have been told of Zhan Sah-peh and his deeds, but I never knew these things.”
Keech’s vision of the battle now made much more sense. The Enforcers of 1845 had brought only two artifacts to the meeting because his father had already stowed the Key back inside its original hiding place. Keech’s mind reeled as he tried to imagine what dangers and wickedness his father had seen as he traveled down to the House of the Rabbit. He recalled what Travis the farrier had told him at Hook’s Fort. “Back at Hook’s Fort, I learned a few things from your farrier friend. She said you talked in your sleep about monsters and a Dead Rift.”
Terrible unease stiffened O’Brien’s face. “Travis ought not speak on things she don’t understand.”
“Does it have to do with the House of the Rabbit?” Keech pressed.
“Yes. A good part of it,” O’Brien said. “The Dead Rift was an event. Happened long ago, durin’ a time they call the First Age of Man.”
Duck’s eyes seemed to darken with fear. “What was it?”
“The Dead Rift happened when people first tampered with magic. Their meddlin’ tore holes in the fabric of the world, opened gaps to the Underworld itself. The House of the Rabbit is one of those gaps.”
“And the Scorpion’s Nest, the Palace of the Thunders, is another?” Strong Heart asked.
“Yes again,” O’Brien said. “I saw the terrible rift in the Palace with my own eyes. But before that, Black Wood told us he caught a glimpse of a Dead Rift hole right here in the midst of the Rocky Mountains.”
Keech pondered the information. “The Key’s hiding spot. Sounds like a good place to put a magical object, all right. Down in a place where few men could fetch it.”
“Nobody can find it,” O’Brien corrected. “Black Wood’s death meant the path to the House was lost. I can point y’all to the south minin’ entrance, not far from here, but after that, you tadpoles are on yer own.” She turned the map around so everyone could see the scribbles. “These are the tunnels I’ve explored, but they’re all dead ends.”
Keech’s heart dropped when he peered at the dozens of Xs scrawled across the page. How many weeks and months had O’Brien spent exploring the channels of Skeleton Peak, stumbling down blind alleys? From the sound of things, traversing the mountain would make the Floodwood cave seem like a pleasant autumn stroll.
“Take this,” O’Brien said, and she rolled up the map and handed it to Duck. She pointed to one of her walls of maps. “As y’all can see, I’ve made dozens, but no map I ever draw helps me find the House. This one, at least, will show where not to go.”
“Much obliged.” Duck tucked the curled paper into her coat.
“There’s something else.” Pivoting, O’Brien walked toward the hearth and gripped a stone. She tugged, and the rock came loose, revealing a hole. She reached inside and pulled out a few sheets of paper, old as fossils and full of scribbles. Keech felt his stomach tighten when he realized the pages were the same size and appearance as the leaves in Doyle’s journal.
O’Brien held the papers out to Keech. “I didn’t tell ya everything I could’ve. In thirty-three, Red Jeffreys tore out a few of his journal pages—mostly ones about the Key and Skeleton Peak—and asked me to hold on to ’em. By that time, the events of July and August had left a sour taste in his mouth.”
“What events?” Keech asked.
O’Brien thrust the journal pages into Keech’s hands. “Read ’em on yer own time, and judge for yerself. These ain’t mine to hold no more.” As Keech crammed the loose pages into his coat pocket, O’Brien turned her attention to the others. “To speed up yer pace to the Peak, I can have Achilles lead y’all to the south entrance.” She glanced at the shaggy hound. “You hear that, dog? I want you to take these tadpoles to the south adit.”
To Keech’s surprise, Achilles jumped up, spun a couple of times, and barked.
“What’s an adit?” asked Quinn.
O’Brien gestured to one of her drawings of Skeleton Peak. “Think of them as open doors into a mountain. Miners would tunnel in sideways to drain water and pull out minerals. Be careful when ya go in. The older the adit, the more dangerous to—”
But she was cut off when the howling wind outside intensified. The cabin’s front door shuddered and burst open, causing the fire in the hearth to cough red sparks. A tremendous rattle shook the roof as ceiling boards tore free and flew away. The air in the room hummed with a dull pressure.
“What’s happening?” Quinn shouted.
Duck narrowly avoided a plank falling onto her. “We’re being attacked!”
Keech dashed to the doorway, peered out into the frosty night, and saw a tall man in buckskin garments treading on foot across the meadow. Haggard moonlight illuminated the figure, and swirls of snow surrounded him like loose twines of spider silk. The fellow weaved in and out of the sapling rows, careful not to brush against O’Brien’s leech trees. Keech could just make out the shape of a horse, following the man.
“Keech, get back!” O’Brien yanked him by his coat collar and took his place in the doorway. Holding her Kentucky rifle, she aimed the barrel at the figure and squeezed off. A booming shot rent the air, scattering powder at the approaching man’s feet. “That’s far enough!” O’Brien shouted, but the figure didn’t stop.
The evening’s twisting flurries howled even louder, and a burst of glacial air pulsed straight at the cabin. The current slammed into O’Brien like cannon fire, shoving her backward into Keech, and they both dropped with heavy grunts. The rifle skidded from the woman’s grip. A lone flurry plucked the weapon off the floor and sent it spinning out of the cabin. The firearm landed in the attacker’s outreached hand. Without breaking his stride, the fellow shattered the rifle against his leg.
Keech struggled to get out from underneath O’Brien, but the trapper seemed dazed and didn’t move off him. The snow-shrouded figure was nearly upon them. Five more steps and he would take the porch.
O’Brien spoke, her voice filled with defeat. “I knew you’d come.”
A hush settled across the cabin. The churning white powder sprinkled the porch boards, unveiling the figure. A bearded, wild-eyed man climbed onto the porch, filling the doorway with his wide stance.
“No,” Keech muttered when he saw the man’s face. “It can’t be.”
The fellow regarded Keech and the other young riders, then turned his grizzled gaze back to O’Brien. He dusted snow off his shoulders and adjusted his hat.
“Hello, Em. Been a long time,” said Edgar Doyle. “I see you’ve met the Lost Causes.”