He was dressed in ragged clothing—like a scarecrow, like the Harvester from the movie. There was no question that the resemblance was on purpose. A small part of my brain noted that it might be a good idea if Adam and I actually watched the blasted movie. The rest of me sat with a piece of half-eaten pizza in one hand and didn’t move.
Though he was backlit by the moon, I had good night vision. I should have been able to see his face. But, as in the movie poster, all I could see was blackness. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need to see his face to know who it was.
“Oh no,” I said, my throat dry. “No.”
He held the Soul Taker in one hand. In my head, I’d seen a shining blade, something worthy of the power it carried. But it wasn’t like that at all. The blade was pitted and rough-finished. The handle was wrapped in something that could have been leather—or electrical tape, something dark.
I stood up, as if the extra height would help me pick out details more clearly. I peered into the blankness that was his face and tried to decide if it was a mask. He angled his head, following my motion, obviously returning my attention in a way that felt almost mocking.
He walked toward me, the steep angle of the roof not affecting the grace of his movements.
Tad opened the back door, a glass of water in his hand. His body stiffened and his eyes looked behind me. He was facing the wrong way to see the Harvester drop down and disappear into the shadows on his way to the ground. I stared at where he’d been for a second, trying to process exactly how he’d disappeared.
“What is that?” said Tilly breathlessly. “Oh, what is that?”
I jumped off the picnic table and turned to face Underhill. Red curling hair hung in a tangled mess nearly to her feet, which were filthy. Usually she appeared in the guise of a child, but tonight she chose to be a teenager, and she was bundled up in a jacket that looked very much like Adam’s—exactly like Adam’s.
She smiled brilliantly at me, her face alight with greed—an expression I’d seen on Zee’s face earlier today. Because of that, when she said, “Usually they are disappointing, don’t you think? But that was even better than in the stories. It was so dark and vast. Empty and full at the same time, an abyss that stretches across the universe. Can you get that for me, Coyote’s daughter? If you get that for me, I will—” Tad stepped between us, and she broke off, pouting.
“Iron-kissed son,” she spat like an annoyed cat. “Have a care.”
“Mercy,” said Tad, “I think it might be a good idea to finish eating inside.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Get it for me,” Tilly said, “and I’ll keep your people safe.”
I gathered my food and thought hard. I had to say something, because rudeness was likely to be more dangerous than silence.
“I fear, Tilly, that acquiring such a thing is beyond my abilities,” I managed.
Watching her with narrow eyes, Tad walked backward as he escorted me to the house. When I took a quick glance over my shoulder before I went through the door, she was staring up at the roof, her face moonlit and rapt.
Adam was on his feet by the time I got inside.
“Marsilia was right,” I told him. “We need to find Wulfe. He’s the one who has the Soul Taker.”
11
I dreamed.
“Why don’t you ask our lady how to find him, Stefan?” I muttered to myself, imitating Andre’s somewhat prissy tones. “She knows where he is.”
I hadn’t expected to be wandering around the countryside when a prudent man would be fast asleep, but my lady sometimes had a peculiar sense of humor. It was night, but the full moon and the brilliant stars left plenty of light to see by, even though the path was little more than a game trail at the edge of a field. The air smelled of the memory of the sun, and even the shadows had a friendly feel.
Just when I had started to think I’d gotten the directions wrong, I saw it. A huge old tree, like something out of my nonno’s stories, rose above the nearby trees, dominating the woods around it.
Just above eye level, the trunk split into two. In the bench formed between the halves, a youth lounged, eyes closed, with a vielle in one hand and a bow in the other, as if he’d fallen asleep in the middle of playing.
He was clothed all in white. His loose tunic, belted at the waist, hung over hose that were tied at midcalf. Peasant clothing, except that no peasant could have kept white clothing that pristine, and his belt, doubled and redoubled around his narrow waist, was heavily embroidered silk.
The boy’s feet, one braced against the trunk half he was not leaning against and the other dangling carelessly, were bare but clean—as if the mud of the fields did not dare cling to his skin.
A glowing waterfall of pale gold hair, backlit by the moon, spilled over his shoulders. It was caught back from his face in dozens of thin braids laced together. His skin was a shade lighter, even, than his hair, unblemished as if he’d never seen the sun nor aged a day past childhood.
Before I could speak and without opening his eyes, he pulled the vielle into position and drew the bow across a pair of strings, producing a strong, dual note. It was a harsh thing, that first note, breaking into the muted sounds of the night. But as he played, the music softened.
I closed my mouth, unwilling to interfere.