The pale light of the newly risen sun made the dew shimmer on the nearby grass as Jared, Mallory, and Simon trudged along the early morning roads. They were tired, but the need to get home kept them going. Mallory shivered in her thin white dress, clutching her sword so hard that her knuckles went white. Beside her, Simon shuffled along, kicking stray bits of asphalt. Jared was quiet too. Each time his eyes closed, even for a moment, all he saw were goblins—hundreds of goblins, with Mulgarath at their head.
Jared tried to distract himself by planning what he would say to his mother when they finally got home. She was going to be furious with them for being gone all night and even madder at Jared because of that thing with the knife. But he could explain everything now. He imagined telling her about the shape-shifting ogre, the rescue of Mallory from the dwarves, and the way they had tricked the elves. His mother would look at the sword and she would have to believe them. And then she would forgive Jared for everything.
A sharp sound, like a tea kettle whistling at full volume, snapped him back to the present. They were at the gate of the Spiderwick estate. To Jared’s horror, trash, papers, feathers, and broken furniture littered the lawn.
“What is all that?” Mallory gasped.
A screech drew Jared’s eyes upward, where Simon’s griffin was chasing a small creature around the roof and knocking pieces of slate loose. Stray feathers drifted over the roof tiles.
“Byron!” Simon called, but the griffin either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. Simon turned to Jared in exasperation. “He shouldn’t be up there. His wing is still hurt.”
“What’s he after?” Mallory asked, squinting.
“A goblin, I think,” said Jared slowly. The memory of teeth and claws red with blood awakened a horrible dread within him.
“Mom!” Mallory gasped, and began to run toward the house.
Jared and Simon raced after her. Up close they could see that the windows of the old estate were smashed and the front door hung by a single hinge.
They darted inside, through the mudroom, stepping over scattered keys and torn coats. In the kitchen, water poured from the faucet, filling a sink piled with broken plates and spilling onto the floor, where food from the overturned freezer was defrosting in wet piles. The wallboard had been punched open in places, and plaster dust, mingling with spilled flour and cereal, covered the stove.
The dining room table was still upright, but several of the chairs were knocked over, their caning ripped. One of their great-uncle’s paintings was slashed and the frame was cracked, although it still hung on the wall.
The living room was worse: The television was shattered and their game console had been shoved through it. The sofas were ripped open, and stuffing was scattered across the floorboards like drifts of snow. And there, sitting on the remains of a brocade footstool, was Thimbletack.