“Good enough,” said Oliver under his breath. He looked around and saw no one. He ran the three steps across the yard and dove into the lilac bush.
Twigs yanked at his hair and poked for his eyes. He wiggled deeper, until his back was pressed against the fieldstone wall of the cottage, in the deep shadow of the fireplace.
The wall was cold and lumpy. He was sitting on rocks that felt like they were the size of potatoes, and there was a twig poking him in the ear.
Is this enough? I can’t get any farther in.
Lilac leaves made a shifting curtain. He could only see the yard in tiny, moving glimpses. He hoped that would be enough.
He hoped that he was really as invisible as he thought, and that his feet weren’t sticking out.
He hoped the armadillo was okay.
The twig poked him in the ear again.
A splash of light appeared at the edge of his vision. Mr. Bryerly trudged across the yard. Oliver breathed through his mouth, silently, his knuckles white on the strap of his pack.
If the farmer saw him, he’d have to bolt out of the lilac and make a run for it. He had his last spell, his third spell, which might buy him a little time, but probably not nearly enough.
Tying somebody’s shoelaces together with magic had seemed incredibly funny when he was six. Now it just seemed like a waste of magic.
Oh lord, why couldn’t I have been one of those kids who set things on fire?
It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to have been a disturbed six-year-old, but being able to set the Bryerlys on fire would have been so much more useful.
Light came through the leaves, turning them briefly to green stained glass. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the shine from giving him away.
The twig went for his ear again.
Mr. Bryerly paused a few feet away. Oliver didn’t dare open his eyes. He could see the light redly through his eyelids.
If I hear the footsteps coming here, I’ll run. No, no, it could be a coincidence, he could be walking past, and I’d be an idiot. If he says something, I’ll run. If I hear the footsteps, and he says something—but what if he doesn’t say anything?
He suspected that if the farmer stood there long enough, the pounding of his heart would give him away.
“Not back here,” said the farmer, and Oliver started. The voice was wrong. Instead of the deep, archaic speech, Bryerly’s voice was thin and waspish. “Gone to road.”
“Well, go after him!” said Mrs. Bryerly. Oliver started again. Her voice had no flutter to it at all now, but that wasn’t the problem—from the sound of it, she was standing directly in front of the lilac. He hadn’t heard her approach.
He sneaked a glance through slitted eyelids. Sure enough, a deep shadow stood in front of the bush, hands on hips. Fortunately, she seemed to be facing away from him.
It occurred to him that she was probably blocking him from the farmer’s view, entirely by accident.
“After. After?” The lantern swung as Mr. Bryerly made an expansive gesture. “Do you see… see…” A long pause, as if remembering words. “Gone. Not seeing. Not on road.”
“Where’s the smell go?”
“Smell?” Mr. Bryerly made a thin squealing sound of frustration. Not a human sound. Oliver sank his teeth into his lower lip. “All I smell is pig and leg. Too much blood. Makes me… hungry…”
“Useless! Are you just going to let him get away?”
“Let him? Not letting! I’m not letting! Do you see him? Gone.”
Mrs. Bryerly made a noise that Oliver had never heard come from a human throat, a sort of gurgling growl, like a hungry wolf at the end of a long drain. He pressed himself silently backwards, trying to wedge himself into the stone wall.
The end of the twig had gotten lodged in one of the fleshy folds on the rim of his ear and was now gouging in earnest.
“Should have… should have made him sleep…” grumbled Mr. Bryerly.
“Fool!” snapped Mrs. Bryerly. “Drug a wizard with his familiar watching? It would have known, and then we’d be in a pretty pickle.”
“Gone now. Pigs gone, too.” Bryerly grunted. “Long wait until next one. Long… hungry… wait…”
“Wait? Do you really want a mouthful of wormwood, then? The wizard’ll tell everybody, and they’ll be down here faster than you can skin a hog.”
In his hiding place under the lilac, Oliver’s heart clenched like a fist.
Do you really want a mouthful of wormwood, then?
The Encyclopedia of Common Magic was prodding his back, but he didn’t need to open it. He could see the page in his mind’s eye, the neat black text, the small, careful ink drawing beside it.
* * *
Ghul—Also called Ghouls, Draugs, and Corpseaters. These cannibalistic creatures may once have been human, but no one is quite sure how a ghul is created. The bite of a ghul does not seem to transmit the curse, but those who live among ghuls often become ghuls themselves, which has proved a limiting factor on research.
The ghul can masquerade quite convincingly as human, for short periods, but this seems to require effort, and the illusion is rarely perfect. They usually have large, red-knuckled hands, odd skin, and sometimes pointed teeth, and of course, an insatiable craving for human flesh.
A ghul can recover from quite horrific injuries, but can be killed by traditional methods (fire, drowning, dismemberment) or by wormwood, thrown in the mouth, which destroys it near instantly.
* * *
The Bryerlys were ghuls.
I am an idiot, Oliver thought, clutching his forehead. I should have seen that. Her knuckles were huge, and his skin was awful. They must have been eating the pigs when they couldn’t get people. And they wouldn’t light a fire bigger than that tiny lantern.
They’d been too scared of him, a wizard, to attack directly. Oliver would have laughed, if it wasn’t so absurd. If they had attacked, he might have tied one’s shoelaces together for a few seconds, and then what? Throw the armadillo at them?
He was a very minor mage. He had never felt more minor than at that moment, trapped under a bush while monsters argued less than five feet away.
He wished his mother was here. He had never appreciated his mother enough. She’d have yanked down the sword she kept over the door and chopped the ghuls into little bits.
He’d even have been glad to see his sister. She lacked his mother’s skill for physical mayhem, but she’d have had the pigs lined up in military formation and marching on the farmhouse.
The twig was boring a hole in his ear. At this rate, if he ever got back home, he’d be able to wear an earring the size of a saucer.
“What do we eat, then?” asked Mr. Bryerly the ghul. There was a distinctly whiny note to his voice. “Got no pigs and no boy and not even that scaled rat familiar. What do we eat?”
“You, if you don’t shut up!” snapped Mrs. Bryerly. “Wrap up that leg or I’ll take a bite out of it myself!”
“But—”
The shadow in front of the lilac moved. There was a loud crack! of flesh on flesh. Mr. Bryerly whimpered.
“Shut up!” railed the ghul. “We’ll think of something.” She turned and stomped away.
“Didn’t need to hit me…” muttered the other ghul resentfully. He followed, feet dragging. The light went with him, and left Oliver in darkness.