VAN sucked in a gasp. “Where did you get that?”
It was hard to see Pebble’s lips in the predawn dark. “Ocarina . . . case . . .”
“What?”
“She said, ‘I carry it with me, just in case,’” Barnavelt piped in.
Pebble grabbed Van by both hands and pulled him out of the planter.
Van swayed on the sidewalk. His knees felt watery. The rest of his body was full of such relief and joy, it could have dissolved into a thousand floating bubbles.
Pebble glanced to both sides, scanning the nearly deserted street. Then, still holding him by the arm, she broke into a run.
“Where are we going now?” Van asked, as Barnavelt scampered up Van’s pajamas and perched beside his ear.
If Pebble answered him, Van couldn’t hear or see it.
“I smell doughnuts,” said Barnavelt dreamily. “Do you smell doughnuts?”
As a matter of fact, Van did smell doughnuts. A moment later, he realized why.
Scattered over the stoop of a building to their right were dozens and dozens of doughnuts. As Van watched, more doughnuts plopped onto the steps. They seemed to be falling straight out of the sky, like glazed and sprinkled hailstones.
“What . . . ,” Van started to say, before he found his own answer.
Of course. The Wish Eaters. How many of the Collection’s wishes had they eaten and granted? How much other magic had they made? How many of them were now on the loose?
Van was still watching one sprinkled doughnut bounce off a handrail when a herd of creamy white horses galloped past. Van turned to stare as the horses ran down the street, manes and tails flying, and disappeared between the rows of sleeping buildings.
Over her shoulder, Pebble shot him a look.
“She says, ‘See?’” squeaked the squirrel in his ear. “‘People wish for stupid things.’”
Pebble dragged him faster, around corners, down blocks that grew leafier and quieter, until they were racing down a familiar street.
Several sudden thoughts collided in Van’s head.
Pebble had made a wish. She had always seemed so firmly opposed to wishing—but maybe she was only opposed when the wishes were for ‘stupid things,’ not for life-and-death emergencies. Maybe she thought the risks of wishing didn’t apply to her. Or maybe, Van thought, as she rushed ahead of him toward Mr. Falborg’s tall white house, there was something else going on here.
Pebble flew straight past the walkway that led to the blue front door. She dragged Van along the manicured hedges and whipped into a narrow side path that ran between high walls of shrubbery. Above the hedges, Van could see the windows of Mr. Falborg’s house staring down at them like dark, empty eyes. They came to a planter spilling with vines. There Pebble turned again, pulling Van through a gap in another hedge, opening a wrought-iron gate, and stepping through it into a large, sunken, completely enclosed backyard.
Mr. Falborg’s backyard was as grand and beautiful as the house itself. Blossoming plants scaled the brick walls. Moonlit statues posed on pedestals. Sturdy trees, some heavy with fruit, some with flowers, waved their limbs in the nighttime breeze. In the center of the yard stood a huge stone fountain. Pearls of water fell from bowl to bowl before splashing into a pond flocked with lily pads. Van spotted soft, peach-hued fins sculling in the water’s shadows.
And seated on a little bench beside the pond, his white suit glowing in the darkness, was Mr. Falborg.
He didn’t look surprised to see a girl in a too-large coat, a boy in pajamas, and a wild-eyed silver squirrel come tearing into his backyard.
In fact, he looked pleased.
Or even—maybe—relieved.
Mr. Falborg got to his feet. “Ah,” Van saw him say. “There you are.” But it was too dim and too muddy, with the breeze and the fountain and his own rasping breath, to catch more.
Pebble finally let go of Van’s arm. She strode toward Mr. Falborg, speaking fast. Van heard only a stream of sounds falling one on another like the drops in the fountain. He glanced over at the splashing water.
That was when he noticed it.
Past the fountain, beyond a cluster of trees, something smoky and silvery and very, very large was coiled in the shadows. Van made out two wide eyes. Ruffled ears. Jagged, foot-long teeth.
The branches of a maple tree stirred. Van looked up.
Something with leathery wings and a long, whipping tail perched in the branches, its body nearly as large as the tree itself.
He checked the corners. More faces. More smoky claws. More teeth. More huge, cloudy eyes—all of them staring hungrily down at the splashing fountain.
Van’s mouth went dry.
He jerked his gaze back toward Pebble and Mr. Falborg. He couldn’t tell if they were arguing or just talking—but at the moment, he got the sense that they were talking about him. Mr. Falborg gestured in Van’s direction. Then he glanced up, perhaps waiting for Van to reply.
“What did he say?” Van whispered to the squirrel on his shoulder.
“He says, ‘Haven’t you?’” Barnavelt whispered back.
“Haven’t you what?”
Barnavelt blinked. “Haven’t I what?”
“. . . can’t hear us,” Van thought he heard Pebble say.
Mr. Falborg’s eyebrows rose. He reached into his vest pocket. His palm emerged, covered with glinting coins.
The hidden Wish Eaters craned closer. Van could feel their appetite in the air, sharp and stinging.
Mr. Falborg said something to Pebble and gestured at Van again. Pebble threw a panicked look in Van’s direction.
“What did he say now?” Van asked the squirrel.
“He said, ‘A worthy wish,’” the squirrel repeated. “‘Why don’t we fix that problem once and for all?’”
Mr. Falborg was already lifting a silver coin out of the pile.
Can’t hear. That problem. Once and for all.
Realization seared through Van’s brain.
He thought of the horrible, pounding blur of sounds that had plugged his ears all night. Of all the times he had wanted to reach up and yank those sounds right out again, but couldn’t.
He didn’t want that. Not once and for all.
“No!” Van shouted.
He rushed forward, trying to swipe the coin out of Mr. Falborg’s fingers. Mr. Falborg raised his hand out of Van’s reach.
“Don’t wish that!” Van yelled. “I don’t want that!”
Mr. Falborg blinked down at him, looking politely surprised. “Well . . . some . . . better . . . squirrel translator . . .” Then, too quickly for Van to block it, Mr. Falborg tossed a coin toward the fountain.
Van felt his heart echo the coin’s path, pounding upward, then falling, falling, falling.
The coin splashed into the fountain.
Pebble dove after it.
But a huge, many-legged creature had already surged out of the shadows and thrown itself into the water. Van saw a spark of light wink once before vanishing into the creature’s mouth.
The air filled with fog.
A breeze that came from every direction at once battered against Van, pressing the air out of his lungs and forcing his eyes shut.
When he opened them again, the breeze had stilled. The fountain glittered. The smoky creature hovered beside the fountain, looming even larger than before. And there was something in Van’s hand.
He squinted down at his palm.
His hearing aids.
Van took a deep breath. He could feel the air rushing in and out, but he couldn’t hear it. He could see the leaves rustling, and the fountain trickling, but he couldn’t hear them either. He was still himself.
He looked up at Mr. Falborg.
The man in the white suit gazed back at him with an expectant expression, as if he was waiting for Van to thank him.
But Van didn’t feel thankful.
He felt the opposite of thankful.
Van shoved the hearing aids into place, glowering at Mr. Falborg the whole time.
Mr. Falborg waited until Van was finished. “I was only trying to help,” he said mildly.
“You weren’t HELPING!” Van exploded. “I didn’t ask for your help! And you didn’t ask me what I wanted! SHEESH!” He shouted so loudly that the squirrel on his shoulder jumped. “Why does everybody think I want to hear the way THEY do?!”
Pebble stared at Mr. Falborg, her arms folded tight. “People always think everybody else wants to be just like them.”
“Or they merely want what’s best for everyone,” said Mr. Falborg. He fanned his fingers, making the coins on his palm glimmer. Hidden in that little gesture was something sharp and steely. Something that looked like a threat.
A new realization jolted through Van, as clear and sharp as shattered glass.
It was Mr. Falborg who’d made the wish.
Mr. Falborg was the one who had taken over Van’s hands and feet and made him open the Wish Eaters’ cells, who had made Van feel sick and out of control and powerless over his own body. Then he’d drawn the released Wish Eaters here, in spite of the danger this could mean for Van and Pebble and everyone else—just like he kept the other Wish Eaters in tiny boxes, telling himself that he was doing it for their own good. Mr. Falborg didn’t help others out of kindness. He just thought he knew best.
“You did it.” Van took a step forward. “You wished for me to release the Wish Eaters. You made me do things I wouldn’t have done.”
Mr. Falborg watched him, calmly shaking his head. “I’ve told you what wishes cannot do.” He held up his hand, ticking the list off on his fingers. “They cannot control Wish Eaters themselves. They cannot kill or directly cause harm. They can’t bring things back to life. They can’t stop or change time. And they can’t make a person do anything he fundamentally would not do.” He stared straight into Van’s eyes. “But you wanted to release the Wish Eaters. Deep down, you wanted them to be free. Especially your own little friend. Didn’t you?”
“Well . . . yes! Of course!” Van spluttered. “But I wouldn’t—I knew it wasn’t the right thing!”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Falborg asked.
A gust fluttered across the yard. Van glanced around again at the monstrous beasts shimmering in the shadows. He thought he recognized one saucer-sized pair of eyes.
“You knew I’d want to free Lemmy,” said Van slowly. “That’s why you gave me the Wish Eater in the first place. You just used me to get inside the Hold, and then . . .” He looked at the coins in Mr. Falborg’s hand. “You lured them all here. You don’t want them to be free. You just want them for yourself.”
Mr. Falborg sighed. He tipped his head to one side, looking disappointed. “Not just for myself.”
“Uncle Ivor.” Pebble’s voice was loud and clear. “You think doing bad things for good reasons makes them all right. But it doesn’t.” She threw out one hand, and the circle of smoky, watching creatures shifted. Staring. Waiting. “You can’t control them.”
“Control them?” Mr. Falborg echoed. “Why would I need to?”
Pebble looked like someone had just asked her why they shouldn’t take a nap in the middle of the street. “Because they’re dangerous!”
“They are powerful. There is a difference.” Mr. Falborg gave Pebble a pitying smile. “You think you understand what’s happening here. But you are very young, and you’re one small piece in a great big puzzle. Sometimes, other people—older, wiser people—know how that puzzle should be solved.” He gave the coins in his palm a little toss. The creatures shifted like a pack of hungry wolves. “That’s why I am taking my collections away from here.”
Pebble’s voice was suddenly so small and choked that Van barely heard it. “What?” she gasped. “Where are you going?”
“Ah.” Mr. Falborg smiled more widely. “I can’t tell you that, can I? Not when we’re being watched.”
Van scanned the edges of the yard again. This time, beyond the hidden, hungry Eaters, he could sense the presence of dozens of small, glittering eyes. Bats. Spiders. Birds. Rats. All gathering secrets.
Mr. Falborg’s gaze moved to Van, and Van realized that he—and Barnavelt—were watchers too.
Mr. Falborg’s attention moved back to Pebble. “It’s time for you to come home,” he said. “Back to your real family.” He lifted a bright silver coin between forefinger and thumb. “I want you to come with me, Mabel.”
“Did he just call her Mabel?” Van whispered to Barnavelt.
But for once, Barnavelt was entirely focused on the situation at hand. He craned over Van’s shoulder, leaning as close to Pebble as he could without falling off. His whiskers quivered.
“I wish for my child, Mabel Falborg, to leave the Collectors and come with me,” said Mr. Falborg. “And I wish for her to help me care for these creatures, keeping them safe from anyone who might take them from us.”
Mr. Falborg tossed two coins toward the fountain.
This time, Pebble didn’t even try to stop him. She just watched as the coins hit the water one after the other.
And Van watched her. He couldn’t read her face. What did Pebble actually want? He didn’t know what to believe anymore. She hadn’t even told him her real name. Had anything she’d said—even about wanting to be his friend—been true?
Van’s chest ached.
Before he could wonder anymore, two creatures surged out of the dark—the one with leathery wings, and another with an ape’s features and horse’s body. They gobbled at the glittering waves. Immediately both of them grew even larger, the horse thing stomping its huge hooves, the other unfurling its wings and flapping into the air, its foggy body so large that for a moment it blocked half the sky.
The air misted and cleared once more.
Pebble stood still for a moment. She looked like someone standing in front of a door with something very cold on the other side. Then she took a tiny step forward. And then another. And another.
“Pebble?” squeaked Barnavelt.
Pebble didn’t stop.
Mr. Falborg held out a hand. Pebble put hers into it.
“I knew it,” Mr. Falborg said. “I knew that, deep down, you wanted to be on my side again.” He wrapped Pebble in a long hug. It was hard to be sure in the dimness, but Van thought he saw Mr. Falborg crying. Pebble’s face was turned away.
At last Mr. Falborg looked up at Van, his eyes shining. “I am so sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you, Master Markson,” he said. “It’s a shame it has to affect you this way. But what you’ve done has changed so many lives for the better. Losses aren’t really losses if they contribute to the greater good. Don’t you agree?”
Van tried to pull the meaning from Mr. Falborg’s words. Had he heard him correctly? What were the losses? Was he apologizing for controlling Van, or was there something more?
“Sometimes we have to make exchanges,” Mr. Falborg was saying. “Sacrifices. We give up one precious thing in order to gain another. Or many others.” He gestured around at the lurking creatures. “And it’s really the only solution. You’re not one of them. You’re not one of us. But you know too much for either side to let you go off on your own.” He cast Van a smile. “You understand.”
“I . . . ,” said Van. “What?”
Van glanced at Barnavelt. The squirrel was still quivering on his shoulder, his focus never moving from Pebble’s face. “Pebble?” the squirrel whispered.
“I give you my deepest apologies.” Mr. Falborg’s eyes were crinkly and charming and warm. “Thank you, Van Markson.”
A coin arced through the air.
Van felt himself plummeting with it, just like he had fallen from the top of the water tank, knowing more surely with every passing second that there was nothing at all that he could do.
In a foggy daze, he saw Pebble lurch forward, her mouth forming the word NO. But the coin had already touched the water. Something slithered out of the shadows—something that looked like an eel the length of two swimming pools. It gulped down the glint of light.
Van didn’t have time to move or fight or scream as the eel, swelling even larger now, lashed its head back from the fountain and closed its smoky teeth around him.
Van was whipped up into the air. Barnavelt tumbled from his shoulder, and Van’s one remaining slipper flew off his foot, and then he was zooming through the city so fast that streetlights turned to glowing ribbons and buildings were only one long brick blur, and then there was only darkness.
It was dense, tarry darkness—darkness so thick that Van couldn’t see his hands when he waved them in front of his face.
The force that had carried him suddenly backed away. Van dropped down onto a solid surface. He tripped forward, catching himself with both hands. When he glanced up, the eely creature was already writhing out of sight, its body as faint as a ghost.
Van crouched for a moment, breathing hard. The air smelled like metal and dust. He couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of his own pulse.
Where was he? Was he dead?
No. Mr. Falborg had said that wishes couldn’t kill anyone.
Slowly he rose to his feet.
He was somewhere enclosed. Somewhere underground. Somewhere man-made. Could he be somewhere inside the Collection? From far away, he could feel the weak tug of moving air.
Then, gradually, the tug grew stronger.
The surface under his bare feet began to tremble.
Van turned around.
Another monstrous eel was headed straight toward him.
This one was made of metal. Its eyes were headlamps. Its body was split into rocking, rushing cars. It barreled down on him with a roar so loud Van could feel it in his teeth.
The facts hit him with a crash.
He wasn’t in the Collection. He was in an underground train tunnel. He was standing on the tracks. He was deep, deep below the earth. There was not a platform in sight, and the nearest one could be miles away. The train was coming fast. There was no safe space to escape to, and no time to run.
Still, Mr. Falborg had told the truth. The wish wouldn’t kill him. Not directly.
The train would do the job.