Chapter 18

 

Peter blinked. A face hovered over him but it was not in focus. The lights in the room blurred, and he tried to make sense of where he was.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright and looked at Cole, who also sat up and stared at him in shock and wide-eyed wonder.

“We just died,” Peter said, to no one in particular.

“As King Arthur!” Cole finished in awe.

“You what?” Lily demanded. Hers was the face that Peter had seen hovering over him in concern. “Tell me everything!”

So they did. Peter and Cole took turns recounting their experiences inside Arthur’s mind. They not only saw what he saw, but also felt what he felt and thought what he thought.

“I knew I was still me and not him, but in a vague, shadowy sort of way,” said Cole. “I knew you were there with me too, Pete, but I wasn’t aware of it at the same time.”

“What did you find out about the prophecy?” Lily demanded impatiently.

“Merlyn told it to us,” said Peter, and he was about to recite it when Cole cut in.

“Yes, and he looks freakishly like Isdemus!”

“I noticed that,” Peter agreed. Then he recited the prophecy to Lily.

When he finished, she sat back thoughtfully. “‘For seven ages and eight, it shall pass out of all knowledge,’” she murmured. “‘The child shall come from the line of the King, born in the seventh seven less eleven, under the sign of the Taijitu.’ What do you think that last part means?”

“Well, I don’t know what it refers to, but the seven ages and eight explains why the Watchers knew which generation the Child of the Prophecy would come from,” said Peter.

“How long has it been since Arthur died?” Lily asked.

“Isdemus said about 1500 years,” said Peter, “give or take. The word ‘age’ isn’t all that specific.”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” said Lily. “Age can mean anything you want it to mean.”

“The simplest answer is usually the right one, though,” Peter said slowly. “That’s Occam’s Razor.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lily demanded in exasperation.

“Well, we should start with the most obvious interpretation of the word age, which would be a nice round number. I’m assuming that’s what the Watchers did.”

“What number, though?” said Cole.

“It’d be a multiple of ten,” said Peter. “A decade isn’t long enough to be considered an age when we’re talking about history, so a century, I’d think, right? Seven ages and eight would then mean… 1500 years.” He swallowed.

“That would be this generation!” said Lily.

“Or within a few generations of this century,” Peter added, somewhat hopefully. “It could be our generation, or our parents’, or our kids’.”

“So the next question is, who was the last known person in the line of the firstborn?” said Lily.

“Don’t we already know it’s Pete, though?” Cole asked.

“It can’t be me,” Peter insisted firmly. “If it was me, then there would be no question that I’m the One. Obviously there is a question, or the whole issue of Kane wouldn’t exist. Not to mention whoever this third person is.”

“Didn’t Eustace even say there could be others?” Cole reminded them.

“So you think somehow the Watchers lost track of the line?” Lily asked.

“That has to be the case, doesn’t it?” Peter murmured rhetorically. He was on his feet, scanning the titles of the books at eye level. He felt his mind spinning, urging him to move faster, to think faster. “Kane said the fairy tales were over there, and historical accounts were this entire section,” he recounted out loud. “So where would I find an account of the history of the Watchers themselves?”

Behind him, the others split up and began to search the shelves nearest them as well. A few minutes later, Cole’s voice called, “Here!” He had disappeared around a bend in the narrow library, but Lily and Peter ran the few paces towards the sound of his voice.

Cole perched on a ladder with one foot, holding on to the rungs with one arm while he reached precariously with the other to dislodge a book that looked almost as heavy as he was.

“Careful!” Lily cried anxiously, just as Peter shouted, “Cole, get down! I’ll get it!” Given Cole’s abysmal depth perception, he thought, this could not end well.

“No, no, I’ve almost got it –”

Crash. The book toppled to the ground, and although the fall was only about six feet, several of the age-worn pages dislodged and fluttered around it.

“Sorry!” Cole wailed, “I’m so sorry…”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not exactly concerned about the Watchers’ property at the moment,” said Peter. “Anyway, better it than you.”

“It’s a family tree!” Lily exclaimed. “Cole, you’re amazing!”

He grinned bashfully as he stepped off the ladder and brushed off the layer of dust dislodged by the book.

“Problem is, how to put it back in chronological order,” Peter murmured and frowned at the now-loose pages.

“Look, Peter,” said Lily, ignoring the pages in Peter’s fist and pointing at the ones still bound at the back of the book. “Unless those fit here, the last known member of the line was named Albert Smith. Who has a surname like Smith?”

“A quarter of the planet, actually,” said Cole, joining on Peter’s other side.

“Exactly,” said Lily. “I wonder if it was made up to keep him hidden, like John Doe or something.”

“Look!” Peter said suddenly. “The dates when he was born… that was sixty-five years ago. What about the ones you’ve got, Lily?”

She looked through them quickly and shook her head. “These are all centuries old.”

“Then the last known member of the line, or at least the last one they recorded here, is not even the father, but the grandfather to the person we’re looking for!” Peter exclaimed in frustration, and stood up to pace the room. They were no closer to rescuing his dad now than when they started.

“You don’t recognize the name, then. That’s something, right?” said Lily. “That means that Albert Smith can’t be your grandfather?”

“I have no idea,” Peter shook his head. “My dad never mentioned his parents or my mum’s at all, and I never asked. It was hard enough getting him to tell me anything about my mum.”

“Well, is there a way to find out if he’s Kane’s grandfather?” said Cole hopefully.

“No.” Peter sighed, and suddenly felt hopeless. “Isdemus said he found Kane in an orphanage.”

“Wait a minute, what’s this?” said Lily, picking up another sheet that she had filed away with those that were centuries old. “These dates are modern too! Why... they’re the same dates...” She frowned, and looked up at them. “I don’t understand. This is a completely different tree.”

Peter peered over her shoulder and frowned. “I wonder if they lost track of the firstborn at some point and started following two lines?”

“Or three?” said Cole. “To account for the third possible candidate?”

“Who’s the last one on that line?” said Peter.

“Catherine Thompson,” said Lily, and frowned. “Huh, that’s odd.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” said Peter. “Does that name mean something to you?”

“Yeah, it’s my grandmother’s name.”

Cole and Peter both looked at her sharply, and Cole’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

Lily waved her hand flippantly. “It’s a common surname, though, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“So that means this Child of the Prophecy isn’t necessarily a boy, though,” said Cole. “They’re not just following the oldest son; they’re following the oldest child!”

“Is she still alive?” said Peter. “What’s the date?”

“Looks like this was twenty years ago, but it says here she’s dead. She must be the grandmother of this other person we’re looking for, too. There’s a line here that shows she had a child, but it doesn’t have the name.”

“‘This other person?’” Peter quoted, and balked at her. “Lily! You were in that car too, you know. For all we know, it could be you!”

“It’s not me,” she said flatly.

“Why not?” Peter demanded.

“Because it’s you!” she retorted. Then she stood up and put hands on her hips as if she were lecturing a small child. “You’re the one who can collapse the wave function or whatever it is you said you did. I can’t do that –”

“But I told you that might’ve just been my life flashing before my eyes, and you were muttering something in that car too! Lily, hear me out, this makes sense! Which one of us has been a Seer all her life? Of the two of us, it’s way more likely to be you! Besides, you’re the one who wants to stay here anyway, and you said you know how to fight –”

“Peter –”

“– so why don’t you just go ahead and save the world, and I can get my dad back and get on with my life –”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE THE CHILD OF THE PROPHECY, ALL RIGHT?” Lily shouted.

He blinked at her for a moment before he retorted, “WELL NOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL!”

“GUYS!” Cole shouted, pushing them away from each other with a look of terror on his face. Both of them were red in the face and breathing hard. “There’s still another clue!” he said hopefully, and quoted from memory, “‘Born in the seventh seven less eleven, under the sign of the Taijitu.’ Maybe that will tell us which one of you it is…”

They all sat and stared for a long moment, Peter and Lily refusing to look at each other. Peter looked at the torches for inspiration, at the books, at the ladders. He stood up again and started pacing just to burn off a bit of anxiety. “Seventh seven… well, it can’t mean the same as the ages before that, because we already said that was fifteen hundred years, and if seven and seven were centuries, that would put it at fourteen hundred. I have no idea what less eleven means, though.”

“It could mean the Child of the Prophecy would be born between 1400 and 1500 years!” said Cole hopefully. “That would still mean around now…”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t tell us anything more than what we already know,” said Lily. “I don’t think the prophecy would be redundant like that. Plus that would imply the Child of the Prophecy was born sometime last century, not now.”

Several seconds later, Cole said tentatively, “Well, I know this is probably way too obvious. But Pete, your birthday is July 7th. Of course that still doesn’t explain the eleven bit…”

Peter looked up at him sharply. All the color drained from his face.

“What?” said Lily anxiously, looking from Peter to Cole.

“Isdemus’s ring,” Peter moaned. “July 7th. I’m a cancer in astrological signs.” No, he thought. No, no, no.

“Huh?” said both Lily and Cole at once, and Lily said anxiously, “Peter, make sense. So what?”

“The symbol for cancers is the crab. If you look up the older way to draw it, it’s like this.” Peter drew on the floor with his finger the symbol of two upside down nines, facing each other. His heart raced. He hoped one of them could prove him wrong.

 

 

“What does that look like to you?”

“Twins?” said Cole hopefully.

“No, the twin symbol is Gemini,” Lily said, and answered Peter, “It looks like the yin yang symbol, from Taoism. And from Isdemus’s ring. I saw it too.”

Peter nodded, and drew the second symbol beside the first.

 

 

“It’s a symbol of hope, signifying darkness merging into light, or the new dawn,” said Peter. “Maybe that’s why Isdemus wears it…”

“It’s also known as the Taijitu!” Cole interrupted. Peter and Lily both looked up at him sharply; he was holding a sheet of parchment from the book that had dislodged as it had fallen to the floor. The parchment bore the second symbol that Peter had drawn, and its name was carefully printed beneath it, in English.

Peter felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “That’s not possible!” he persisted doggedly. “The symbol is old enough, but it’s from the completely wrong part of the world. There was virtually no communication between Asia and Britain in Arthur’s day…”

“Not according to this,” Cole interrupted, and read from the page, “‘The Taijitu dates back to the fourth century. It first appeared in the Roman Notitia Dignitatum from the bold insurrectionists against Caesar… the symbol became contraband when Romulus Augustus outlawed soothsaying in order to prevent the prophecy from spreading. The early Watchers adopted the Taijitu as their symbol after Arthur’s death, signifying the coming of the Child of the Prophecy.’”

Peter sank to his knees as the room began to swim. He was afraid he might be sick.

“Wait a second,” said Lily. “What’s the less eleven mean, then?”

“The calendar change,” said Peter bracingly. “In Arthur’s day they were on the Julian calendar. When they switched to the Gregorian calendar in Britain, we lost eleven days. My dad…” he swallowed, “made a point of telling me that, over and over. I just thought he was being… well, Dad. I stopped trying to figure out why he said things like that a long time ago.”

“So Isdemus wears the Taijitu because it’s the symbol of the Child of the Prophecy,” said Cole softly. “The firstborn, 1500 years after Arthur’s death, born on July 7th under the sign of the cancer… Pete. It is you.”

“Guys,” said Lily, who looked nearly as ill as Peter. “I have to tell you something.”

Peter looked up at her, with barely a flicker of hope.

“My birthday. It’s July 7th too.”

 

***

 

Henry walked very purposely down the hall with his arm slung around the shoulders of his older son. His wife walked at his side apprehensively but said nothing. They were headed towards the front exit, although privately Brock wondered if they really intended to walk all the way through Carlion, and then through the Enchanted Forest, in the middle of the night. Also, Isdemus said his car had been returned to his home, so even if they got to the other side, they would have no transportation. Plus, they had absolutely no idea where Carlion was in relation to Norwich. His dad was in a mood, though, so Brock didn’t point out any of this.

“Excuse me,” said a stiff voice behind them. Brock turned to see the lithe, glowing elf who had come to find them in the Enchanted Forest earlier that day. He was dressed in a soft greenish gray like no sort of cloth Brock had ever seen before. “I was told to follow you and take you down to the Commuter Station.”

“Finally! Something normal around here,” said Henry irritably, but with obvious relief. Evidently he had been thinking along the same lines as his son. “You have an Underground, then?”

“No,” said the nimbus, looking rather amused. “We have a Commuter Station. Don’t tell him what it is,” he added to Brock, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’d like to see him try to explain this one away.”

They descended the stairs in almost total silence, except for the sounds of their footsteps. Henry’s silence was swift and brusque, as if talking could only slow them down. Brock’s silence was ill at ease. He had been anxious to leave and disgusted with the whole place until his father had shown up, which had been precisely what he had wanted. Now that he was here, though, Brock felt the same sense of expectation he always felt around his dad, though he could never put his finger on exactly what was expected of him. Mrs. Jefferson was silent because she was worried: worried about Cole, worried about Peter, worried about Peter’s dad, and worried about how she would ever find Carlion again once they left, because of course she had to find it again.

“This is the Commuter Station,” said the nimbus when they arrived.

Henry stared for a moment. “It’s a hallway of lousy photographs.”

“Is he always this pleasant?” said the nimbus to Brock, but the question was obviously rhetorical. Then he led the way to the photograph of a gnarled old tree and gestured at it. “This one will take you to the edge of the forest. Walk twenty paces directly in front of where you land and you’ll find yourselves at a bus station. The buses still run through the night, I believe, but you may have to wait up to an hour. Do you have money for the fare?”

“Of course we have money,” said Henry haughtily.

“Fine. Just walk straight at the photo until you feel it start to pull you forward.”

Henry stared at him incredulously. “Then what?”

“Then it won’t matter what you do, because you’re going in whether you like it or not.”

“What?” Henry snapped. “Don’t be absurd!”

“I’ll go first,” Brock muttered. Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have dared to contradict his father, but they had to get home somehow.

Henry scowled disapprovingly at his son, but did not protest. Brock stepped forward, and Henry regarded him with an expression of condescension… until Brock vanished into thin air. Mrs. Jefferson let out a small yelp and clamped both hands over her mouth.

“Where – where did he go?” Henry stammered.

“He went to that tree,” repeated the nimbus patiently. “In a few seconds you’ll follow him. Who’s up next?”

Mrs. Jefferson fairly jumped forward before Henry could stop her, and then she disappeared too.

“So, in you go,” said the nimbus, and he got behind Henry, who stood frozen in shock. The nimbus put both hands on either side of his back, shoving him forward. Instinctively Henry dug his heels in. “I haven’t got all day,” the nimbus said in exasperation, and with a mighty heave, Henry stumbled towards the image of the Grandfather Tree.

All at once, it was as if he had crossed a threshold, and a thousand invisible hands grabbed him from all around and even from inside. Something compelled him forward, and no amount of struggling would subdue the inexorable force –

Green and black surrounded him. Henry blinked and took a moment to orient himself. The moonlight filtered through the canopy of trees, and behind him was the living image of the photo he had last seen inside the castle. He looked as ill-composed as Brock or Mrs. Jefferson had ever seen him.

“Well,” he said finally, because someone had to say something. “Well,” he said again. He brushed his suit off unnecessarily, and said in a tone of fierce confidence, “I suppose we go that way.”

“Right,” said Brock, exchanging a look with his mother. Her lower lip trembled just a bit but she said nothing. They walked.

“I suppose we have no choice but to take the bus,” said Henry disdainfully. Brock and Mrs. Jefferson both nodded mutely.

They waited in silence for fifteen minutes before the bus arrived, the only sound the rustle of the leaves above and the occasional impatient blustering noises from Henry, who seemed to have all but forgotten what had transpired moments before. Henry paid for the three bus fares without making eye contact with the driver. They didn’t speak again until about ten minutes into the ride, when Henry said, “I’ll be headed back to London in the morning. I don’t know if I’ll be home this weekend.” When no one commented either way, he added to Brock, “If we get home soon enough you can get to bed and still make football practice tomorrow morning.”

Brock nodded and closed his eyes. They stung but he didn’t know why. Perhaps they had just been open for too long. He’d slept enough the night before and the evening was still relatively young, but he felt that he could sleep for days, and days, and days… and maybe that still wouldn’t be enough to erase all that had happened. He wasn’t sure if he was anxious to get home or anxious to leave Carlion behind or just anxious in general. He opened his eyes again and looked around the bus, not really paying attention until it struck him that something was not right. Of course, many things would seem that way after the trauma of the last few days… ordinary life was bound to seem strange to him for a while. Was that all it was?

He kept looking around, trying to put his finger on the problem. The bus was purple and teal like a bad 80s movie. Apparently, the buses aren’t on strike anymore, he thought, but that wasn’t it. He rarely rode buses, but it wasn’t completely unheard of so that wasn’t the problem either. There weren’t many passengers, just a few here and there, sitting two to a seat, but some were two to one seat, which was odd since there was plenty of space, and –

Oh.

Brock felt like his stomach had dropped out beneath him. The second person next to each passenger was not a person at all. It was a creature. They all had a penumbra, just like Lily had said. The creatures were transparent this time, but he could still see every one of them. The driver had something like a purple squid attached to the back of his head. Why hadn’t that seemed strange before? Its tentacles oozed some sort of transparent liquid and roved about his body, in and out of his ears. Brock shuddered and looked away, to a young gothic-looking teenager with a hag sitting beside her. Its lidless eyes stared back at Brock with disturbing curiosity; it knew he could see it. He averted his gaze as fast as he could, but made the mistake of looking at his dad instead.

Apparently, his dad’s penumbra had tracked him down again very quickly, considering she had to have disappeared while he was in Carlion. She was an outrageously beautiful blonde, whose features in some small way resembled those of his mother in her younger and thinner days. She only had a torso, though, or at least that was all Brock could see of her. The rest was so entangled in his father that he couldn’t tell where his father ended and the specter began…

Instinctively he looked over at his mum. Her eyes bulged and her face was red, but her lips were as tight and thin as Brock had ever seen them. She was staring, not at her husband directly, but at the creature wrapped around him. Brock wasn’t sure what to make of the expression: was it jealousy, or fear, or loathing?

He leaned towards her and whispered to her in a voice little louder than a breath, “You can see it, can’t you?”

Mrs. Jefferson nodded almost as imperceptibly.

Then something very strange happened. The gothic teenager’s hag moved away from her, and came so close to Brock that he scooted back and flattened against the seat, trying not to look as alarmed as he felt.

“What’s the matter with you?” his father demanded.

“I –” Brock looked into the lidless eyes of the hag, and then he looked desperately to his mum for help.

“These seats aren’t very comfortable, are they, sweetie?” Mrs. Jefferson said immediately, with just the right amount of maternal concern. Brock felt a rush of gratitude.

“No,” he agreed, and explained to his dad. “My back hurts, that’s all.”

Apparently satisfied, the hag moved away from Brock’s face, but his relief was short-lived. Next it moved to his dad… but no, after a second he realized it wasn’t interested in Henry at all. It was talking to the beautiful blonde torso hanging on his father. She moved her head away from Henry’s far enough to listen to what the hag was saying to her, its creepy gaze never leaving Brock’s face. The blonde’s eyes grew wide and then narrowed at Brock, assessing him. He felt his stomach turn over.

“This is probably our stop,” Brock said quickly, and stood up. It was about a block from their house, and even if there was another stop that was closer, he didn’t mind walking. He wanted to get away from the nasty hag as quickly as possible.

His parents stood and followed him off the bus without a word, and they walked in silence, in the dark. Brock shivered against the night air, but he wasn’t sure if that was because of the chill or the gaze of the evil blonde on his back. He turned around involuntarily, and gasped before he could stop himself.

She was gone.

“What’s your problem?” Henry scowled at him again, and added disapprovingly, “You’re acting very strangely tonight.” Then when they approached the front walkway, Henry pulled his house key from his pocket and plunged it into the lock as he turned the knob.

Maybe she just isn’t there all the time, Brock reasoned. He knew Lily had said that unless a person was a Seer, his penumbra would hang around constantly. Still, Brock’s creature (he shuddered involuntarily at the thought) and his mum’s creature had not yet come back to discover that they had both become Seers. Maybe the blonde had gone to tell them. Yes, that will be it.

They entered the foyer, and suddenly Henry turned around very purposely, just before they reached the stairs. His large form blocked both his wife and son from ascending to bed. He looked very serious. “We will not be discussing the events of this evening again,” he said. “Not tonight, and not ever.”

Mrs. Jefferson let out a tiny whimper that sounded involuntary. “But – Cole –”

“Cole made his choice. If he chooses to return, fine. If he does not, we will tell the school that he has gone to stay with his cousin in West Wessex, and we will not speak of him in this house again. Is that clear?”

Mrs. Jefferson let out another involuntary sob, and then covered her face in her hands and pushed past her husband, running up to their bedroom. It was the first time Brock had ever seen her fail to comply fully with an outright demand from her husband.

Mr. Jefferson sighed. “Get to bed,” he said to Brock. “I’ll see you next weekend for your game. Maybe.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and trudged up the stairs after his wife.

Brock stood alone in the foyer. The one thing of which he was absolutely certain was that there was no way he’d be sleeping tonight. He paced for a few minutes, and then sat down on one of the buttery leather sofas in the living room. He sank his head in his hands. He stood up again, and paced some more. He went to the kitchen, poured a bowl of cereal, and ate without tasting it. He paced again. He wasn’t really thinking about anything, but he had the uncomfortable sense that he was trying very hard not to think about something at the same time. He felt precarious. He had come back to this life of fragile normalcy that could be shattered in an instant if he let himself think all those thoughts that churned somewhere just beneath the relative calm of his consciousness. If he let himself think those thoughts, it might lead to conclusions, like everything I thought I knew is wrong, or like I shouldn’t have left Carlion, or what if something really did happen to Peter’s dad? If the penumbra were real (and they obviously were), then what else might be real also? Might there actually be a Shadow Lord who was their leader? Might there actually be a Child of the Prophecy appointed to fight and defeat him? Was it possible that Peter really did stop that accident from happening? Was it possible that Brock owed Peter his life?

That idea was intolerable. If it were true, then not only did Brock fail to acknowledge his debt, but he left when Peter needed his help.

He was sitting now, on a wooden-backed chair in the kitchen upholstered in plush tan velvet. Maybe I’m going crazy, he thought. After all, it had only been a few days since the accident, and the onslaught of creatures that had attacked them afterwards. He couldn’t explain two thirds of what he had seen in Carlion – he had only maintained some vague sense of normalcy while he was there with a persistent layer of denial. It was not that he actually denied what he saw, but he simply refused to acknowledge it. He was treading water until he could get home to the world he knew, the world where he was comfortable, the world where he was a star everywhere except in the presence of his dad.

Now he was home, though, and he wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable at all. Something was very wrong, and pretty soon, if he stopped pacing for long enough, he was going to have to deal with it.

Abruptly, Brock stood up. The neighborhood was asleep, and he found that he could not stand his own kitchen, his own living room, or his own house for another instant. He had to get outside. Perhaps the fresh night air might make sense of the chaotic noise in his brain.

He clicked the door closed behind him as quietly as possible and walked aimlessly, though he realized after several steps that he was headed towards the park. He took several steps more and halted.

“Hello,” cooed the ravishing blonde creature that blocked his path. “Miss me?”

Brock felt a cold shiver of fear run down his spine. He took a step back.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said a voice directly behind his ear. He had never heard the voice before, and yet, he recognized it. It sounded like the voice of his own thoughts. He turned abruptly and came face to face with the flame-haired siren who had been his constant companion until the accident. This time, though, she was solid.

He needed to stall, but his mouth was so dry. He managed to croak hoarsely, “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Or you’re mine. It depends on how you look at it, really,” said the siren in a voice like tinkling crystal, and she laughed. The laugh was mesmerizing and it drew Brock irresistibly and made him want to run away at the same time.

“No point in running,” said the blonde, reading his body language if not his thoughts. “You won’t get very far. We have backup.” She snapped her fingers, and at least a dozen other creatures stepped out of the shadows just near enough that Brock could see that they were there, they were vaguely humanoid at best, and they were menacing in the extreme.

“What do you want with me?” he demanded, his voice escalating with panic. “Peter and I aren’t even friends! If you’re trying to get to him, he won’t care if you take me! He’s not going to try and save me! I won’t do you any good!”

“Well,” said the flame-haired siren, as if she were really considering his words, “that’s true. You’re definitely not friends. Based on the way you’ve always treated him, it would really serve you right if he let you die.”

“That’s right!” said Brock frantically. “It would serve me right! You’d be no closer to getting Peter, either!” He tried to back away but there was nowhere to go. In fact, the creatures seemed to be moving in on him. He couldn’t actually see their feet move, but the circle seemed to grow tighter all the time.

“Yes,” mused the flame-haired siren again, “Peter might not give his life to save you, if you were the only consideration. However, your brother is his best friend. And Peter would do anything for him.”

“You already have his dad, don’t you?” cried Brock desperately. “What do you need me for?”

“Insurance,” she replied lazily.

Before he could scream, a solid hand clamped over Brock’s mouth; it was cold as ice. At the same moment, another several sets of hands reached forward to grab him from all sides.

And then, the familiar neighborhood began to dissolve before his very eyes.