For Monica,

whose love of books

and reading inspired this adventure

– C.C.

For my son, Felix,

whom I trust will enjoy this one day

– N.V.

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Epilogue

Copyright

About the Publisher

Brendan Walker knew the house was going to be terrible.

The first tip-off was the super-cheerful tone the estate agent, Diane Dobson, used with his mother.

“It’s truly the most amazing house, Mrs Walker,” Diane chirped on speakerphone. “The perfect place for a sophisticated family like yours. And it’s just gone through a major price reduction.”

“Where is this house?” Brendan asked. Aged twelve, he sat next to his older sister, Cordelia, playing Uncharted on his much-loved PSP. He sported his favourite grass-stained blue lacrosse jersey, torn jeans, and weathered high-tops.

“I’m sorry, who is that?” Diane asked from the dashboard of the car, where an iPhone sat in a holster.

“Our son, Brendan,” Dr Walker answered. “You’re on speakerphone.”

“I’m talking with the whole Walker family! What a treat. Well, Brendan” – Diane sounded as if she expected to be commended for remembering his name – “the house is located at one twenty-eight Sea Cliff Avenue, among a stately collection of homes owned by prominent San Franciscans.”

“Like Forty-niners and Giants?” asked Brendan.

“Like CEOs and bankers,” corrected Diane.

“Shoot me.”

“Bren!” Mrs Walker scolded.

“You won’t feel that way once you’ve seen the place,” said Diane. “It’s a charming, rustic, woodsy jewel—”

“Whoa, hold on!” Cordelia interrupted. “Say that again?”

“With whom am I speaking now?” Diane asked.

With whom? Seriously? Cordelia thought – but the truth was she also used “whom” in her more intellectual moments.

“That’s our daughter Cordelia,” said Mrs Walker. “Our eldest.”

“What a pretty name!”

Don’t ‘pretty name’ me, Cordelia wanted to say, but as the eldest she was better than Brendan at being tactful. She was a tall, wispy girl with delicate features that she hid behind a dirty-blonde fringe. “Diane, my family has been looking for a new house for the last month, and in that time I’ve learned that estate agents speak in what I call ‘coded language’.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Excuse me, but what does that mean, ‘I’m sure I don’t know’?” piped up Eleanor, aged eight. She had sharp eyes, a small, precise nose, and long, curly hair, the same colour as her sister’s, that sometimes had gum and leaves in it, if she’d been adventurous that day. She tended to be quiet except in moments when she wasn’t supposed to be quiet, which was what Brendan and Cordelia loved most about her. “How can you be sure if you don’t know?”

Cordelia gave her sister an appreciative nod and continued: “I mean that when estate agents say ‘charming’, Diane, they mean ‘small’. When they say ‘rustic’, they mean ‘located in a habitat for bears’. ‘Woodsy’ means ‘termite-infested’… ‘Jewel’, I don’t even know… I assume ‘squat’.”

“Deal, stop being an idiot,” grumbled Brendan, glued to his screen, irritated that he hadn’t thought up that line of reasoning himself.

Cordelia rolled her eyes and went on.

“Diane, are you about to show my family a small, termite-infested squat located in a bear habitat?”

Diane sighed over the speakerphone. “How old is she?”

“Fifteen,” Dr and Mrs Walker said together.

“She sounds thirty-five.”

“Why?” Cordelia asked. “Because I’m asking pertinent questions?”

Brendan reached over from the back seat and ended the call.

“Brendan!” Mrs Walker yelled.

“I’m just trying to save our family some embarrassment.”

“But Ms Dobson was about to tell us about the house!”

“We already know what the house is gonna be like. Like every other house we can afford: bad.”

“I have to agree,” Cordelia said. “And you know how much it hurts me to agree with Bren.”

“You love agreeing with me,” Brendan mumbled, “because that’s when you know you’re right.”

Cordelia laughed, which made Brendan smile despite himself. “Good one, Bren,” said Eleanor, giving her brother’s uncombed hair a quick rub.

“Kids, let’s try to be positive about the house,” said Dr Walker. “Sea Cliff is Sea Cliff. We’re talking unobstructed views of the Golden Gate. I want to see it, and I want to know about that ‘reduced’ price. What was the address?”

“One twenty-eight,” Brendan said without looking up. He had an eerie ability to remember things; it came from memorising sports plays and game cheats. His parents joked that he would end up a lawyer because of it (and because he was so good at arguing), but Brendan didn’t want to end up a lawyer. He wanted to end up a Forty-niner or a Giant.

“Plug it into my phone, will you?” Dr Walker waved the phone in front of Brendan while he drove.

“I’m in the middle of a game, Dad.”

“So?”

“So I can’t just pause.”

“Isn’t there a pause button?” Cordelia asked.

“Nobody’s talking to you, Deal,” said Brendan. “Could you guys just leave me alone, please?”

“You’re already practically alone,” said Cordelia. “You always have your head buried in your stupid games, and then you get out of going to dinner with us because of lacrosse practice, and you refuse to go on trips… it’s like you don’t even want to be part of this family.”

“You are a genius,” said Brendan. “You guessed my secret.”

Eleanor swooped in, grabbed the phone and plugged in the address – but she did it backwards, putting the street in first and then the number. Cordelia started to give Brendan a nasty retort but reminded herself he was at that “awkward” stage for boys, the stage where you were supposed to say horribly sarcastic things because you looked so gawky.

It was the house that was the real problem. Even Eleanor was suspicious of it now. It was going to be old enough for people to have died in. It was going to be falling apart and have crooked shutters and a layer of dirt an inch thick and an overgrown tree out the front and a bunch of snoopy neighbours who were going to look at the Walkers and whisper, “Here are the suckers who are finally gonna buy this thing.”

But what could they do? At eight, twelve and fifteen, Eleanor, Brendan and Cordelia were each absolutely sure that they were at the worst possible age, the most powerless and unfair.

So Brendan gamed and Cordelia read and Eleanor fiddled with the GPS until they pulled up to 128 Sea Cliff Avenue. Then they looked out of the window and their jaws dropped. They had never seen anything like it.

Sea Cliff was a neighbourhood of mansions on hills, most built right up against the sunny street with its row of young trees trimmed into perfect leafy spheres. But the house the Walkers were looking at was set back, perched at the edge of the cliff from which the neighbourhood took its name, so far back that Brendan wondered if it was half supported by stilts. An expanse of emerald lawn buffered it from the street, with three wide pine trees that kept the grass in shadow. The house itself had gold and tan trim accenting the royal blue that wrapped around its slatted sides. An impeccably groomed pebbled path slalomed through the trees to the front door.

“I’ve biked by here tons of times, but I’ve never seen this place,” said Cordelia.

“That’s because you never look up from your stupid books,” said Brendan.

“And how do you figure I’m reading when I’m on a bike, genius?”

“Audiobooks?”

“Guys, no fighting in front of the estate agent,” Mrs Walker said under her breath. She had already called Diane Dobson back to apologise for how Brendan had hung up on her, and now they saw a woman who looked like Hillary Clinton standing at the front of the path. “That must be her. Let’s go.”

The Walker family stepped out of their Toyota, bumping into one another. Diane greeted them, wearing a finely tailored, coral-coloured suit, her hair lacquered into a blonde helmet. She made the house look even more impressive.

“Dr Jake Walker,” Dr Walker said, reaching out to shake hands. “And this is my wife, Bellamy.” Mrs Walker nodded demurely. Dr Walker didn’t bother to introduce his offspring. He hadn’t shaved that morning, even though he used to make a point of telling his children how men who didn’t shave every day lacked discipline. But he wasn’t the man he had been back then. Diane eyed the family’s second-hand car.

“Can we keep our horse here?” Eleanor asked, tugging Dr Walker’s leg.

“We don’t have a horse, Nell,” he laughed. “She’s going through a horse phase,” he explained to Diane.

“But it’s perfect, Daddy! You said I could get a horse on my next birthday—”

“That was if we got a country house, which we’re not getting, and you can’t keep horses in the city.”

“Why not? There’s lots of places to ride them! Golden Gate Park, Crissy Field… You think I don’t remember things you promise—”

Mrs Walker knelt and took Eleanor’s shoulders in her hands. “Honey, we’ll talk about this later.”

“But Daddy always—”

“Calm down. It’s not Daddy’s fault. Things have changed. Why don’t we play a game? Here, close your eyes and tell me what kind of horse you want in your wildest dreams. Come on, I’ll do it with you.”

Mrs Walker shut her eyes. Eleanor followed. Brendan rolled his eyes instead of shutting them, but he was tempted, deep down, to join in. Cordelia shut hers – in solidarity with her sister and to annoy Brendan.

“And… open!” Mrs Walker said. “What kind of horse is he?”

“She. Calico. Light brown with white spots. Her name’s Misty.”

“Perfect.” Mrs Walker hugged her daughter tight, stood up and went back to looking at the house with Diane Dobson, who had waited patiently for the family to work out their very obvious issues.

“Delightful, isn’t it?” the estate agent said. “A completely unique construction.”

“There are some things about it that concern me,” Mrs Walker said. Brendan saw that she was entering negotiation mode, where she used her charm and poise to make people do things. Standing in front of the home, she looked strong and beautiful, more confident than she had been in months. Brendan wondered if it might be fate that had brought them to this house.

“What concerns you?” asked Diane.

“First of all,” said Mrs Walker, “the house is on the edge of a cliff. It seems very precarious. And what would happen in an earthquake? We’d slide right into the ocean!”

“The house emerged from the quake of 1989 without a scratch,” Diane said. “The engineering is superb. Come inside; let’s take a look.”

Intrigued, the Walkers followed her up the path towards the house, past the big pine trees. Brendan noticed something odd about the lawn. It took him a minute to realise… there was no For Sale sign. What kind of house goes on sale without a sign?

“This is a three-storey, Victorian-style property,” Diane declared, “known locally as Kristoff House. It was built in 1907, after the Great Quake, by a gentleman who survived it.”

Dr Walker nodded. His family, too, had survived the Great San Francisco Earthquake generations before. They had moved away, but work had brought Dr Walker back. Work he no longer had.

“Two eighteen!” Eleanor said, pointing at the address hanging over the front door.

“One twenty-eight,” Cordelia corrected gently.

Eleanor huffed and looked down at her feet. Diane continued her monologue on the front steps, but Cordelia hung back and knelt beside her sister. This might be a “teachable moment”, as Cordelia’s English teacher Ms Kavanaugh liked to say. Since one of the effects of Eleanor’s dyslexia was that she read things backwards, Cordelia figured there must be a simple psychological trick that could get her to read perfectly. They just hadn’t found it yet. Brendan lingered, eager to see Cordelia fail.

“Can you try reading it backwards?” she encouraged.

“It’s not that simple, Deal. You think you know everything!”

“Well, I have read books about this, and I’m trying to help—”

“Then where were you at school last week?”

“What? What’re you talking—”

“This stupid substitute teacher in my stupid English class called on me to read from Little House on the Prairie. And I couldn’t do it.”

As she said the words, Eleanor remembered that day at school. Ms Fitzsimmons had been off sick, and Eleanor had been too scared to tell the sub teacher that she had problems reading, so she went in front of the class and held the book and waited for magic to happen. She thought maybe somehow, just once, magic would happen and she’d be able to read a sentence the right way. But the words looked as mixed-up as they always did – not backwards, Cordelia, she thought, mixed-up – and when she tried to read the title, the first four words came out right, but the last one came out like a swear word. The whole class laughed and Eleanor dropped the book and ran out of the room and the sub teacher sent her to the principal and everybody was still calling her that swear word.

Cordelia spoke in a quiet voice: “Oh, Eleanor… I’m so sorry. But I can’t be with you in class.”

“No, you can’t! So don’t pretend you can fix me!”

Cordelia winced. Brendan, amused by her failure, prepared to deliver a cutting remark, but before he could—

“What’s that?” Eleanor exclaimed.

Brendan and Cordelia glanced over in time to see a figure streaking from one of the pine trees to the side of the house. A flash of shadow. Too fast to be a person. A car honked on Sea Cliff Avenue behind them.

“That was probably just the car’s shadow, Nell,” said Brendan. “Jumping from the tree to the house.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was a person. And it was bald,” insisted Eleanor.

“You saw a bald guy?”

“Girl. An old woman. Staring at us. And now she’s behind the house.”

Brendan and Cordelia glanced at each other, each expecting the other to be making a ‘silly Eleanor’ face. But they were both as deadly serious as their sister.

They looked at the side of Kristoff House. The silhouette of a dark figure stood there. Watching them.

Brendan took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, strong. The figure remained still. “Hello?” he called, stepping off the path and pulling Eleanor with him, Cordelia following close behind. “Is someone there?”

He was trying to use his toughest voice, but it cracked – more Sesame Street than Schwarzenegger. He cleared his throat to cover it as he and his siblings crept to the side of the house.

The figure was nothing but an old statue. A Gothic angel, looming two metres tall, carved from grey stone stained with streaks of green and black. It had wings folded behind it and arms stretched forward, with the right hand broken off. Its face was worn down, chinless and lipless, eroded by decades of San Francisco wind and fog. Mossy patches covered its eyes.

“Beautiful,” said Cordelia.

Brendan wiped his forehead, surprised to find it covered in sweat. It was stupid, but he’d expected to see the person Eleanor had described: a bald woman, a crone. His imagination ran away with him a little and he could even picture this woman pointing a crooked finger and hissing, “Here are the suckers who will finally buy this house!”

“See, Nell? It’s just a statue. There’s no one here,” Brendan said, putting his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.

“She went somewhere.”

“It was the light. It played a trick on you.”

“No, it didn’t!”

“Let it go. You’re scared.”

“Not, as scared as you,” said Eleanor, moving Brendan’s hand away and pointing at the sweaty spot he had left on her shoulder. Before Brendan could protest, another hand reached out from behind and grabbed his neck.

“Help!” Brendan screamed, whirling around and shoving with all his might.

“Oof!” His father hit the ground.

“Jeez, Bren, what’s the matter with you?” said Dr Walker, hoisting himself to his feet and rubbing his tailbone.

“Dad! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Come on. Mum and Diane are waiting for you guys. We’re going to check out the inside of the house.”

The Walkers followed their father. Brendan felt a chill breeze as he approached the door with the 128 on it – but then again, the house was half off a cliff. The stone angel had so fascinated him that he’d almost failed to notice: the far side of Kristoff House was supported by metal stilts anchored in boulders far below on the beach. And hanging under the house were dozens of barrels.

“What are those…?” Brendan started to ask as he entered.

But he was silenced by the sheer beauty of the interior. Mrs Walker, too, was amazed; she had totally dropped negotiation mode. She was busy ogling antiques and checking her reflection in polished banisters. Dr Walker let out a low whistle. Cordelia said, “Wow, you could call this a great hall and not even be ironic.”

“You are indeed standing in the front or ‘great’ hall,” Diane said. “The interior has been impeccably restored, but the previous owners kept the original touches. Not bad for a termite-infested bear habitat, huh?”

Cordelia blushed. The room was filled with red-on-black and black-on-red Greek pottery (reproductions, Cordelia thought, because the originals would be priceless), a cast-iron coat-rack with curlicues, and a marble bust of a man with a wavy beard, which screamed philosopher. All of it was lit by spotlights, like in a museum. Brendan wondered how it was possible, but the place seemed twice as big inside as it looked from outside.

“This house was built for entertaining, from the time it was constructed,” Diane said with a wide sweep of her hand.

“Who entertained here?” Cordelia asked.

“Lady Gaga,” deadpanned Brendan, trying to hide his unease. First no For Sale sign, then a creepy statue, now a house with an antique shop inside…

“Bren,” Mrs Walker warned.

Diane went on: “No one’s had a party here for years. The previous owners were a family who paid for the restoration. They lived here briefly, but wanted a change. Moved to New York.”

“And before that?” Brendan asked.

“Unoccupied for decades. Some of the cosmetic touches fell into disrepair, but you know these old houses were built to last. In fact, this one was built to float!”

“What?” Brendan asked.

“Are you kidding?” said Cordelia.

“The original owner, Mr Kristoff, wanted to make sure his house would survive an earthquake like the one he’d just been through. So he underslung the foundation with air-filled barrels. If the Big One comes and the house falls off the cliff, it’s designed to hit the ocean and drift away.”

“That is so cool,” said Eleanor.

“No, it’s absurd,” said her father.

“On the contrary, Dr Walker – they’re doing it now with homes built in the Netherlands. Mr Kristoff was ahead of his time.”

Diane led the Walkers into the living room, which had a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. That didn’t seem right to Brendan – he thought it was on the opposite side of the house – but then he realised that they had turned around, doubling back from the great hall. Crystal vases, alabaster sculptures and a mounted suit of armour had distracted him… and so had the stone angel he knew was out there, reaching out her broken hand and staring with mossy eyes.

The living room had a Chester chair, a glass coffee table with driftwood for legs, and a Steinway piano. “Is the furniture for sale?” Mrs Walker asked.

“Everything’s for sale.” Diane smiled. “It’s all included in the purchase price.”

She moved on with all the Walkers except Brendan, who lingered by the view of the bridge. Growing up in San Francisco, he’d got used to seeing it every day, but from this angle, so close he was almost beneath it, the bridge’s salmon colour struck him as unnatural. He wondered what the house’s original owner, Mr Kristoff, had thought of the bridge when it was first constructed. Because if the house was built in 1907 – Brendan’s mind quickly accessed dates and facts – then it was standing thirty years before the bridge was built, and the view back then would have simply been a great expanse of ocean, framed by two giant rocky outcroppings. Was Mr Kristoff dead by the time the bridge went up?

“Hello?” Brendan suddenly asked, realising he was alone. He rushed out of the living room to find Diane and his family.

Meanwhile, Cordelia was thinking about Mr Kristoff too. She’d heard that name before, but couldn’t think where. It taunted her as she entered the next room, which she knew by smell alone: dust, musty pages and old ink.

“Welcome to the library,” Diane said.

It was stunning. A vaulted ceiling spanned books stacked on mahogany shelves that reached all the way up the walls. Two brass ladders ran on casters to enable access to the shelves. Between them, a massive oak table lined with green-glassed bankers’ lamps split the room. A few gleaming dust motes circled the table like birds on updraughts.

Cordelia absolutely had to see what books were on the shelves. She always did. She poked her nose up to the nearest one and realised where she’d heard of Mr Kristoff.

Cordelia could read anywhere. She had been reading on the car ride to 128 Sea Cliff Avenue even though she was sandwiched between her siblings going up and down San Francisco hills with a dyslexic in charge of the GPS. “Losing yourself in a book is the best,” her mother always said, and Cordelia had a feeling her grandmother had said the same thing to Bellamy as a young girl.

Cordelia had started early, embarrassing her parents in a fancy restaurant at the age of four by reading a newspaper over an old lady’s shoulder, causing the woman to shout, “That baby is reading!” As she got older, she moved on to her parents’ collection of western literature: the Oxford Library of the World’s Great Books, with their thick leather spines. Now she was into more obscure authors, people whose books she had to find in first edition or old paperbacks with names like Brautigan and Paley and Kosinski. The more obscure the better. She felt that if she read a writer that no one had heard of, she kept him or her alive single-handedly, like intellectual CPR. At school she got in trouble for sneaking books inside her textbooks (though Ms Kavanaugh never minded). In the last year she’d discovered a man whom Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft had cited as an influence, quite prolific, who’d written adventure novels in the early twentieth century.

“‘Denver Kristoff’,” she read from a book’s spine. “Diane: the Kristoff who built this house was Denver Kristoff, the writer?”

“That’s right. You’ve heard of him?”

“Never read, definitely heard of. His books don’t even show up on eBay. Fantasy, science fiction… instrumental in the work of the people who later invented Conan the Barbarian and our modern idea of the zombie. Never got much critical acclaim—”

She had to stop speaking because of Brendan’s exaggerated gagging.

“Will you stop that?”

“Sorry, I’m allergic to book geeks.”

“Dad, we could be living in the home of a well-known obscure writer!”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

Diane led the family out of the library (Dr Walker practically had to drag Cordelia) and presented a pristine kitchen, the most modern room they had seen so far. New appliances glittered under a sprawling skylight. It looked like a place germs would be afraid to enter. An impressive array of knives, in order from smallest to largest, hung magnetically over the stove. Eleanor asked, “Can we make cookies here?”

“Sure,” Dr Walker said.

“Can we make only cookies here?”

“Viking, Electrolux, Sub-Zero,” Diane checked off, leading the family past the stainless-steel, double-doored fridge. Brendan wondered if there might be something weird inside it, like a head, so he peeked… but he didn’t see anything more disturbing than clinical emptiness.

Diane took the Walkers upstairs. The contemporary decor of the kitchen was instantly lost in a spiral wooden staircase that Eleanor insisted on climbing up and down and up again. The spiral stairs were wider than any the Walkers had ever seen; they served as the main stairs between the first and second floors. Upstairs, a broad hallway ran the length of the house, ending at a bay window and another, smaller staircase that led back down to the great hall.

The walls featured old portraits, in colour, with a faded pastel tint. In one, a grim-faced man with a square beard stood next to a lady in a frilled dress gripping a buggy. In the next, the same lady looked over her shoulder on a wharf as men in newsboy caps eyed her. In a third, an elderly woman sat beneath a tree holding a baby in a dress and bonnet.

“The Kristoff family,” Diane explained, noting Brendan and Cordelia’s fascination. “That’s Denver Kristoff” – the man with the square beard – “his wife, Eliza May” – the woman on the wharf – “and his mother” – the woman under the tree with the baby. “I forget her name. Anyway. The pictures are just for show. When you move in – if you move in – you can put up pictures of your own family.”

Brendan tried to imagine Walker photos on the wall: him and Dad at a lacrosse game with Dr Walker holding the stick incorrectly; Cordelia yelling at Mum because she didn’t want her picture taken without make-up; Eleanor crossing her eyes and smiling too wide. If you took stupid pictures and added a hundred years, did they end up looking eerie and important?

“There are three bedrooms on this floor,” Diane said. “The master—”

“Only three? You guys promised me I’d have my own room,” Brendan said.

“The fourth is upstairs. In the attic.” Diane pulled a string on the ceiling. A trapdoor swung down, followed by steps that folded out to lightly kiss the floor.

“Cool!” Brendan said. He climbed the ladder hand over fist.

Cordelia entered one of the bedrooms off the hall. It wasn’t the master (which had a king-size bed and two bedside tables) but it was a nice-sized room with fleur-de-lis wallpaper. She said, “I’ll take this one.”

“Then which one is mine?” Eleanor asked.

“Guys, this is all hypothetical…” Dr Walker tried, but Cordelia pointed Eleanor to the third bedroom, which was more of a maid’s bedroom – or a closet.

“I’m stuck with the smallest?”

“You are the smallest.”

“Mum! It’s not fair! How come I get the little room?”

“Cordelia’s a big girl. She needs space,” Mrs Walker said.

“Hear that, Cordelia? Mum says you need to go on a diet!” Brendan called from the attic.

“Bren, shut up! She means I’m older!”

Alone, upstairs, Brendan smiled… but then the attic began to hold his attention. It had a rollaway bed set up by the window, a bureau with various ornaments on top, and a bat skeleton on a shelf jutting out of the wall.

The bat skeleton was mounted on a smooth black rock with its wings outstretched. Its head tilted up like it was catching bugs. It was one of the creepiest things Brendan had ever seen… but he wasn’t scared. He pulled out his phone to take a picture.

“Brendan, apologise to your sister!” Mrs Walker yelled, and Eleanor joined in: “Yeah, Bren, get down here!”

Of course when he wasn’t scared of something, there was no one around to be impressed. Brendan descended the ladder. Cordelia glared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t need to go on a diet. But – look what they have upstairs! I took a picture—”

Cordelia grabbed his phone and deleted the photo.

“Hey!”

“Now we’re even.”

“You didn’t even look at it!”

Diane tried to hide her exasperation with a smile. “Shall we continue?”

The family followed her down the hall, passing a knob sticking out of a square cut into the wall. “What’s that?” Eleanor asked.

“Dumbwaiter,” Diane said curtly.

They reached the end of the hall. “That’s it,” Diane said, glancing out of the bay window at the Walkers’ used Toyota, then back to Dr Walker. “You haven’t asked the critical question.”

“The price,” Dr Walker said dolefully. Truth was, when he’d heard “rustic” and “charming”, he’d thought the same thing as Cordelia: that the house was a fixer-upper he could afford. But two storeys plus an attic, fully furnished, with a library and bridge views, in Sea Cliff? This was a five-million-dollar residence.

Diane said, “The owners are asking three hundred thousand.”

Brendan saw a look of disbelief ripple across his father’s face. Then Dr Walker pulled himself together and put on his business voice. It was good to hear. Brendan used to hear it often, when his dad did interviews or advised other surgeons, but for the last month, since ‘the incident’, Dr Walker hadn’t had occasion to make those sorts of calls. Now he spoke with purpose.

“Ms Dobson, we’ll take it. Please draw up the papers and we’ll close as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful!” Diane opened a silver case to give Dr Walker a business card. Mrs Walker hugged her husband.

Eleanor asked, “What’s that mean? We got the house? We’re going to live here?”

Brendan stepped forward. “Why is it so cheap?”

“Bren!” Mrs Walker snapped.

“It’s the same price as an apartment. Less, even. It doesn’t add up. What are you trying to pull?”

“Your family’s inquisitiveness is welcome,” said Diane. “Brendan, the owners are trying to liquidate their investment. Like many families they’ve fallen on hard times, and they’re willing to drop the price to get out – especially if it means helping others in a tough spot. You may have noticed that there’s no For Sale sign on the lawn. The owners aren’t looking to sell to any family – they’re looking for the right family. A family in need.”

She smiled. Brendan hated being the object of her pity. It would have been one thing if she only pitied him – that he could deal with – but she pitied all of them. And that was because of his father. It was so embarrassing. Dr Walker was trying to do it all backwards: reverse-engineer his reputation by getting an impressive house to land an impressive job at an impressive hospital with an administration that was impressed by his renown and willing to overlook ‘the incident’. But he couldn’t even impress this estate agent. Brendan felt like he’d be better off on his own, or maybe at boarding school like some of his friends. But there was no way his parents could afford boarding school.

Diane led the Walkers downstairs, through the great hall, to the front entrance. “I think you’ll find Kristoff House a wonderful home.”

“We shouldn’t take it,” Brendan whispered to Cordelia. “You know Dad’s not thinking right these days. There’s something fishy here.”

“You’re just scared.”

“What? Me? No.”

“Sure you are. You don’t want to live with that creepy angel on the lawn.”

“Excuse me? There was a bat skeleton in the attic and I wasn’t scared of that.”

“So? Doesn’t prove anything. Nell, wasn’t Bren scared of that statue?”

Eleanor nodded.

“I rest my case.”

There was no way Brendan was going to let Cordelia have the last word. As his family walked out of the front door and headed down the pebbled path, he split off and ran to the stone angel, pulling out his phone to take another picture. He’d put his arm around the thing and grin and show the world he wasn’t frightened of a hunk of rock with moss accents.

Except the stone angel wasn’t there.

Brendan suppressed the urge to call out. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe the statue was on the other side of the house. But no: he remembered the broken hand was the right hand, and that it was a few inches from the exterior wall. Who moved the statue?

Brendan knelt to investigate the pine needles that carpeted the ground. There should have been a clear imprint where the base of the statue had been, where the needles were flat and damp, maybe with pill bugs scurrying around, but it looked like the statue had simply never been there—

Suddenly a face appeared. Inches from Brendan’s own, hissing, its voice like a swarm of wasps leaving hell.

“You don’t belong here.”

She was a bone-white old woman, as tall as the stone angel, bald, with cracked lips pulled back over brown teeth. She stared at Brendan with glistening steel-blue eyes. She wore dirty layers of rags and no shoes; her toenails were amber, encrusted with soil. She was the crone that Brendan had feared, but a hundred times worse, and when she spoke, her breath was fouler than six-month-old compost.

“Leave this place!”

She wrapped her hand around Brendan’s wrist. It felt like a rope. He tried to pull away, but she held him fast… and then she looked into his eyes. “Who are you?” she asked more quietly.

“B-Brendan Walker,” he said.

“Walker?” she repeated.

Brendan had never been so scared. Not scared stiff – beyond that, scared into action, like someone had shot a spike of adrenalin into his back. He twisted and wrested his hand free. He ran, spit flying out of the side of his mouth. “Mum! Dad!”

Surely they’d seen her: she was a six-foot baldy with the body-mass index of a skeleton; she’d be tough to miss. He reached his family back at the Toyota after running across the lawn, which suddenly seemed to be the size of a football field.

“Bren, what’s wrong?”

“Are you OK?!”

“I – you guys – you didn’t—?” Brendan looked back. Suddenly the whole scene looked much smaller and safer to him. It couldn’t have been more than twenty metres from the pavement to the house. The whole time he’d been running, his heart pounding in his chest, still seeing the old crone’s face in front of him… that had been only seconds.

And the woman was gone.

The sun had moved. The side of Kristoff House was bathed in shadow. The stone angel might have been there or it might not. Shadows hid all sorts of things.

“Brendan…? Did something happen?” That was Cordelia. She was looking at him seriously; she knew he was freaked. Brendan started to explain – but what would be the point? He couldn’t prove anything. He didn’t want to sound like a little kid.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just… I thought I lost this.”

He turned on his PSP. He had never been happier to see the title screen of Uncharted. Back in a world that he understood and controlled, he slipped into the car.

A funny thing happened to Brendan on the drive back from 128 Sea Cliff Avenue. Every second that he put between himself and the old crone, he became more and more convinced that she hadn’t been so scary after all. Dressed in rags, barefoot, with bad teeth… obviously she was a homeless lady. The more Brendan thought about it, the more it made sense: She lived in the yard. That was why the price was so low. She’d been spying on the Walkers, and she’d hidden when they’d spotted her – that was the darting shadow that Eleanor had seen. She loved the angel statue – she was obviously mentally disturbed; maybe she talked to it – and so she moved it (never mind how) when she saw Brendan and his sisters investigating. Then, when she had the chance, she sneaked up on him to scare him, to drive his family away. And she asked his name because… because she was crazy! What other reason did there need to be?

Brendan kept telling himself this as he went through the hypnotic motions of gaming, and soon he was not only convinced that the old crone wasn’t dangerous or supernatural (supernatural, come on), but he was determined to go back and drive her from the property. After all, Brendan Walker wasn’t somebody you could just push around. He was practically JV lacrosse.

The Walkers had been renting since ‘the incident’.Their new apartment was much smaller than their old house, especially the kitchen, which was more of a corner than a room. That meant less cooking and more cheap takeout. The night after seeing Kristoff House, Dr Walker convened a family meeting over Chinese food in the living room.

“So what’s up?” Brendan asked.

“I just want to make sure you’re all comfortable with our decision to buy Kristoff House.”

“You mean your decision,” said Brendan. “We had no part in it.”

“Fine,” said Dr Walker. “But speak now if you have a problem.”

“If we moved in, wouldn’t it be Walker House?” asked Eleanor.

“I think we should call it one twenty-eight Sea Cliff Avenue, its proper address,” said Mrs Walker. “Otherwise it sounds like we’re moving into something that belongs to someone else.”

It does belong to someone else, thought Brendan. The old crone. But he didn’t want to sound scared. He said, “I like it fine. Better than this dump.”

“I like it too,” Eleanor said. She was using a sauce-dipped spring roll to gather up as much shredded carrot and celery as possible; it looked like the spring roll was wearing a wig. “The faster we move in there, the faster we can get Misty.”

“Nell, how many times do we have to go through this—”

“But Mum said I could get her. Mum made me picture her—”

“You’ll get your horse some day,” Mrs Walker said, “if you eat your spring roll and stop playing with it.”

Eleanor tackled the spring roll in four huge bites. She looked at her mother and spoke with a full mouth: “Do I get my horse now?”

Everybody laughed – even Brendan. You’d have a hard time getting them to admit it, but the Walkers liked dinners this way, quick and greasy, instead of with cloth napkins with rings.

“What about you, Cordelia?” Dr Walker asked.

“Let me show you something.” Cordelia ducked out of the room and returned with an old book. It had a black cover, no dust jacket, and gold lettering nearly worn off the spine.

“Savage Warriors by Denver Kristoff,” Cordelia announced. “First edition, 1910. I took it from the library. And look!” She pulled out her MacBook Air. “On Powell’s Books they’re selling this for five hundred dollars! So that library alone is worth, like, the closing cost of the house!”

“Cordelia,” Brendan said, “you stole from the Kristoff House library?”

“You don’t steal from libraries. You borrow. Not that you would know.”

“No, your brother’s right,” said Dr Walker. “It’s not our house yet, and you shouldn’t have taken that—”

“That’s right you shouldn’t!” Brendan stood up. “Somebody might be really mad at you for stealing! You ever think of that?”

“Seriously, Bren?” Cordelia smirked. “Since when do you have a moral compass?”

Brendan didn’t answer – partly because he didn’t know what a moral compass was, partly because he was terrified of the old crone. Maybe she was a homeless lady, but maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she lived at 128 Sea Cliff Avenue. Maybe she didn’t take kindly to curious girls stealing books from her library. Brendan almost spoke up then about seeing her, about how he could still feel her hand around his wrist, about how that wrist felt cold even now, about how she had said “Walker” like it meant something… but he didn’t want to be made fun of. He would handle the crone himself when they moved in. Like a man.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… it’s not right to steal.”

“That’s true,” Dr Walker said, “and Cordelia, you’ll be putting that book back next week.”

“What happens next week?”

“We’re moving in.”

Spartan Movers was a removal company in San Francisco, the name of which was a source of huge embarrassment for Cordelia. “Why don’t we just go with Low-rent Movers?” she asked her mum. But when she saw the truck, she realised it wasn’t spartan like self-denying; it was Spartan like a citizen of ancient Sparta, with a plumed helmet for a logo.

The Spartan truck pulled up in front of Kristoff House, and a trio of burly men got out. The Walkers were already there, eager to get their stuff moved in. Brendan was more eager than anyone: he had visions of turning his attic bedroom into a teenage man cave where he could happily ignore the rest of his family. He started trailing one of the removal men as the man carried a bag of lacrosse equipment into the house.

“That goes in my room, the attic,” Brendan said.

“No problemo,” said the man, eyeing Kristoff House. It looked the same, except the lawn needed mowing. Brendan’s dad would probably make him do it.

“Nice place,” the man said. He was clearly one of those people who liked to talk. “Most folks are downsizing these days. But you guys are moving up.”

“Back up,” corrected Brendan as they walked down the path. When Dr Walker looked over, Brendan gave a big smile, pretending to help the mover with the bag. “We used to live in a place like this.”

“What happened?”

“There was an incident,” said Brendan, before realising he’d said too much.

“Oh yeah? What kinda incident?” asked the man. “Your old man was running schemes on the stock market and he got caught?”

“No.”

“He did time in the joint for tax fraud?”

“Oh, no—”

“Did he wear a scuba suit to check the mail? Was he riding his bicycle naked in circles? What?”

Brendan stopped short: “Yes. Yes, you totally nailed it. Riding his bike naked in circles.”

The removal man nodded and frowned as if he knew Brendan didn’t want to hear any more from him. They moved into the kitchen… and Brendan’s mind went back to the day that had changed everything.

Dr Walker had been a surgeon at John Muir Medical Center. His speciality had been gastric bypass surgery; he’d been heading for a senior position – but then one day he fell asleep in the break room during a shift and woke up standing over a patient, holding a bloody scalpel.

He had carved a symbol into the man’s stomach.

It was an eye, with an iris and pupil in the centre and half-circles above and below.

Brendan had come home from school and found his mother and sisters in tears. His father couldn’t remember disfiguring the man’s stomach; Dr Walker had been taking sleeping pills to help him rest, and they had made him sleepwalk.

The patient had sued, of course. Dr Walker had lost his job. The lawsuit was still pending, and the Walkers had spent so much money fighting it that they’d been forced to sell their old home and their two cars. It was so weird – so crazy and unlikely – that Brendan still had trouble believing it had really happened, even though he was living with the results.

“You know, I heard weird stuff about this place,” the removal man said as they walked along the upstairs hall, past the portraits of the Kristoff family.

“What?” Brendan asked.

“Maybe I’m no Harvard grad, but I’m a real good listener and an even better eavesdropper. And I heard this house was cursed. That’s why the last family left.”

“You believe in that stuff? Curses?”

“In San Francisco? With all kinds of hippies and freaks running around? Anybody could get cursed.”

Brendan had a question, but he wasn’t sure if he could ask it without sounding crazy. He pulled the string so the attic stairs came down and went into the attic with the removal man.

“Where you want the hockey stuff?” the mover asked.

“Lacrosse,” Brendan said. “Put it anywhere.” The man put it by the window. Then Brendan said, “If this place is cursed, how do I fix it?”

The man didn’t seem to think that question was weird. “Best way to fix a curse is to find the person who set it up,” he said, shrugging. Then he left Brendan to think about the old crone.

Out on the pavement, the removal man returned to the Spartan truck for his next item: a white trunk with bands of riveted bronze. It had rounded metal corners and the faded initials RW stencilled over a hefty lock.

“What’s in that trunk?” Cordelia asked. She was standing outside with her father.

“Just some old family records,” said Dr Walker. “You never noticed before? I’ve been lugging them around for years. Master bedroom!” he told the removal man. Two hours later the Walkers had settled in, hardly daring to believe that this was their new home. Since the purchase price had covered the furniture, everything inside was as beautiful as when they’d first visited: the pottery, the suit of armour, the grand piano… The Walkers’ belongings seemed out of place, unworthy of their new surroundings. Even the box of groceries that they brought from their old house didn’t seem to belong in the shiny kitchen. After making her family take a self-timed photo with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, Mrs Walker let her kids wander while she made tea in the stellar kitchen and her husband dozed beneath a sunbeam in the living-room Chester chair.

Cordelia went to the library to return Savage Warriors to the shelves, but was surprised to see there wasn’t any space for it, as if the other books had multiplied in its absence. Oh well, she thought, putting it on the table and taking down a book called The Fighting Ace.

Eleanor went upstairs and bravely passed under the creepy old pictures, moving to where Diane Dobson had pointed out the dumbwaiter. She pulled the handle in the wall; it opened like a mailbox. She was just tall enough to see a small compartment hanging on what looked like two bicycle chains. She wanted to climb in, but she knew that her mother would have a fit, so she tossed her dolls inside the dumbwaiter and tried to figure out how to make them go down to the kitchen.

Brendan grabbed a lacrosse stick to use as a weapon and went outside to investigate the stone angel. He was sweating nervously and hated himself for it as he crept around the side of the house. He came to where the statue had been…

And it was still gone. Pine needles and twigs lay over the area in uniform distribution.

It was her, Brendan thought. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he knew he was right. He remembered how the angel had been missing a right hand. He tried to remember which hand the old crone had grabbed him with. He would put money on the left. Eleanor saw her, and she turned into stone to hide herself. Now she could be anywhere.

Brendan scanned the property. He didn’t hear anything but a babbling squirrel and the irregular sibilance of cars passing on Sea Cliff Avenue. After a few minutes he decided he wasn’t doing anything useful and made his way back inside.

She was right there, in the great hall, talking to his family.

“What are you doing here?” Brendan demanded, brandishing his lacrosse stick like a two-handed axe. “Leave my family alone!”

“Brendan!” his mother snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Put that down!”

The old crone turned to face him. She wasn’t dressed in dirty rags any more. She wore a loose polka-dot dress and a floral bandanna that hid her baldness; her teeth were freshly cleaned and polished, almost white. She carried an apple pie in her left hand; her right was tucked into her dress pocket. “What’s wrong, son? You seem troubled.”

Brendan gritted his teeth. “You bet I’m troubled. Now drop the pie, put your hands over your head, and get out of our house—”

“Brendan! Give me that lacrosse stick! Immediately!” his father ordered.

“Dad, this old bag’s evil. I’ll bet she spiked that pie with arsenic—”

“You’re playing too many video games. Hand over the stick!”

Silence gripped the room. Brendan gulped and gave his dad the lacrosse stick.

“Now apologise,” ordered his mother.

Brendan took a deep breath, refusing to make eye contact with the old woman, and said under his breath, “Sorry.”

“You’re more than sorry. You’re grounded for a month. You can’t just threaten people,” said his father.

“I’m not sure she’s a person,” Brendan mumbled.

“Bren,” Cordelia said, “she was introducing herself. She’s our next-door neighbour.”

“Great.”

“I apologise for my son’s unconscionable behaviour,” said Dr Walker, putting the lacrosse stick against a wall. “Brendan, go to your room; we’ll discuss this shortly. Ma’am, we never had a chance to get your name.”

“Dahlia Kristoff,” the old crone said. “And please don’t worry about your son. I understand about young boys. Especially these days. So many stimuli.”

“Are you related to Denver Kristoff, the writer?” Cordelia asked breathlessly.

“He’s my father.”

Was your father, Brendan thought as he mounted the back stairs, unless he’s like two hundred.

“I’m a fan,” Cordelia said. She held up her copy of The Fighting Ace.

“It’s so nice to meet a fellow bibliophile. Did you get that from my father’s library?”

Cordelia nodded, a little embarrassed – but then again, it was her library now.

“I remember when he finished it. I was born here. See that old joker behind you?” Dahlia nodded to the philosopher bust in the great hall. “Used to call him Arsdottle. Never could pronounce his name correctly.”

“How long did you live here?” asked Cordelia.

“Oh, not too long,” replied Dahlia. “I’ve moved around a bit. Europe, the Far East… I’ve lived in places you wouldn’t believe. But I could never get Kristoff House out of my soul.”

“Where do you live now?” Eleanor asked. “One thirty or one twenty-six?” Cordelia gave her a squeeze. She was getting better with numbers.

“Aren’t you a precious one!” said Dahlia. “One thirty, the fine painted lady next door.”

“The purple house with the white trim?” asked Mrs Walker. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. And you are… Walkers, correct?” said Dahlia.

“How did you know that?” asked a slightly unnerved Dr Walker.

“The neighbours,” replied Dahlia. “They like to talk. But they didn’t tell me your Christian names—”

“She’s lying!” Brendan called from the staircase where he’d been spying. “Don’t listen to her—”

“Brendan. To. Your. Room,” Dr Walker said. “I’m sorry, Mrs Kristoff—”

“Miss Kristoff.”

“Miss Kristoff. We are the Walkers, yes.” Dr Walker put on his business voice. “I’m Jacob. This is my wife, Bellamy; our daughters Cordelia and Eleanor; and… um… Brendan… who is apparently refusing to leave the staircase.”

“That’s right!”

Dr Walker sighed.

“Such a pleasure,” said Dahlia. “So what are you children ‘into’?”

“Excuse me?” Dr Walker asked.

“What are your enthusiasms and interests? Isn’t that how the young people put it today?”

“Reading,” said Cordelia.

“Horses,” said Eleanor.

“And your brother? What about him? Is he more adventurous?”

“None of your business!” Brendan yelled. “Why are you guys letting her stay here! You should be kicking her—”

“Brendan! I’ve got this,” Dr Walker said. “I don’t want to be rude, Miss Kristoff, but we have dinner to get to. We do look forward to being your neighbour. And we gratefully accept your pie.”

Dahlia handed Dr Walker the gift and looked at each of the Walkers in turn. There was nothing in her eyes but equanimity.

“I know I ask too many questions. It’s only because I don’t have many friends left. Or much time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Mrs Walker. “Your health…?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Nothing lasts forever. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it! Please, enjoy your pie – and your evening.”

With that she left, closing the door behind her.

“What a strange—” Cordelia started, but her father said, “Shhh.”

“What?”

“When you say goodbye to a person, you always wait ten seconds before talking about them.” He counted down: “Two… one… go.”

“What a freak,” Brendan said, rejoining them. Dr Walker sighed at the futility of sending his son to his room. “I bet she isn’t even sick. And you better throw that pie away. Definite anthrax alert.”

“For once, Bren, I agree with you,” said Dr Walker, dumping the pie in the trash.

“Hold on!” said Cordelia. “You guys aren’t being fair. She could just be senile. She’s obviously not really Kristoff’s daughter. He built this house in… Bren?”

Her brother thought for a moment. “1907.”

“Right, so what is she, a hundred?”

“If she was born here, she could be as old as a hundred and six. And you should see how she looks before she takes a shower. And gets teeth-whitening strips.” Brendan was wondering how he would sleep tonight. Forget the lacrosse stick – he needed a flamethrower.

“She was a little creepy,” Mrs Walker said. “I don’t like the idea that she used to live here.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out.” Dr Walker put an arm around his wife. “Let’s just be thankful that the move is over and get dinner.” He kissed Mrs Walker on the cheek.

“Who wants to try our new pizza place?” Mrs Walker asked. “It’s called Pino’s.” She was already looking at her phone. “It’s supposed to be delicious.”

“I’m going upstairs,” Cordelia said – and then, in a whisper to Brendan, “to find out a little more about Dahlia Kristoff.”

“I’ll come with you,” Brendan whispered back, surprised at his sudden urge to work with his sister.

“No, you’ve got to talk your way out of being grounded,” Cordelia said, leaving Brendan… who looked up to see his parents standing over him, ready to have a long talk with him about threatening people with weapons.

Upstairs, Cordelia took down a picture from the wall: the faded image of the elderly woman, who Diane Dobson had said was Kristoff’s mother, holding a baby. She went to her room, got a nail file, and came back to the hallway. She used the nail file to open the frame, moving very slowly and carefully. Finally she got the picture free. On the back of it, perhaps in Denver Kristoff’s own handwriting, it said: Helen K w/Dahlia K, Mother’s 70th, Alamo Square, 1908.

Cordelia flipped the picture over to look at the baby: the infant Dahlia Kristoff. Her eyes had the same steely intensity—

“Cordelia!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was her mother from downstairs. “Pizza’s here!”

Cordelia shimmied the picture back into the frame, which was a very painstaking process that left her pizza downstairs almost cold by the time she got to it. She found her family on the living-room floor, digging into a pepperoni pizza without plates, pouring cups of soda for one another. Dr Walker had hooked up the TV and ordered an on-demand movie: the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup.

“The Marx Brothers? Again? We always watch the Marx Brothers!” argued Eleanor. “Can’t we watch something in colour? Where the people are still alive?”

“It’s a family tradition,” said Dr Walker. And he was right. Whenever the family had something to celebrate, they’d order up a Marx Brothers classic. The opening credits for Duck Soup began to roll.

“What’d you find?” Brendan whispered to Cordelia.

“Dahlia Kristoff is in one of the pictures upstairs. And if that picture is dated correctly, she’s a hundred and five years old.”

“Did you see her hands in the picture?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because somewhere along the way she lost one. I have to tell you something, Deal. I didn’t want to say, because I was embarrassed, but—”

But the doorbell rang.

“Probably a noise complaint from all your arguing,” Dr Walker joked to Eleanor. He left his family and went to the great hall. He opened the front door without using the peephole. He was used to living in safe neighbourhoods.

Dahlia Kristoff stepped in swiftly. She wore her polka-dot dress, but no hat or shoes this time. She was completely bald. Dr Walker drew back from her splotchy red skull and yellow toes.

“Excuse me – hello? Miss? You can’t come into my house!”

“Shut up!” Dahlia hissed, striding towards the living room.

Dr Walker followed, pulling out his phone to dial 911, but suddenly the phone jumped from his hand. It flew through the air and cracked against the philosopher bust, as if it had been snatched up by a powerful gust of wind. When Dr Walker retrieved it, it wouldn’t turn on.

“Dad, who was it?” Brendan called, but instead of his father, Dahlia Kristoff stepped in. He froze.

“My God,” Mrs Walker said, “what are you doing here? How dare you barge into our home—”

“How dare you consider this your home?” Dahlia shrieked, and then the transformation began.

Brendan backed up against the driftwood-legged coffee table, watching it all in slow motion. It was like IMAX 3-D but way better (and way worse). The old crone threw her hands up. Just as he’d suspected, her right hand ended in a knobby stump. Dahlia arched her back, stretching, stretching, as if to crack the bones in her spine, and then two grey wings sprang from the neck of her dress!

Brendan was terrified, stunned, and amazed all at once. His world had just got a lot bigger. But all he could think was: I’m not gonna let this freak hurt me. And I’m not gonna let her hurt my family.

Dahlia Kristoff’s wings unfurled behind her to spread across the room. They weren’t like angel wings; they were dusty and greasy-looking, filling the air with the stench of sulphurous rot.

“Mum, what’s happening?” Eleanor cried.

“I don’t know, honey,” Mrs Walker said, grabbing her youngest with one hand and the cross around her neck with the other. Dahlia laughed – a breathy cackle, a skeleton’s laugh.

“Get out!” Dr Walker yelled, crashing into the room, but the crone swung a wing and slammed him across the back, knocking him into the piano with a cacophonous dong. On TV, Groucho Marx slid down a fireman’s pole.

Brendan tried to run for a weapon, but now Dahlia was flapping her wings, whipping the air up in the house, keeping him off balance. He stared at her. Something horrible was happening to her face. The fine blue veins under her old pale skin, which had been notable to begin with, rose to the surface, bulging as her wings beat. Soon they were joined by her red arteries, protruding from her face like lines of bark on a tree. Brendan thought she might explode and drench them all in blood.

“You!” Dahlia said, turning to Cordelia. “You stole from my library!”

“I was just – borrowing—” A gust of wind knocked Cordelia against a wall. The contents of the room were swirling in a spiral now – a pizza box, cups of soda, a Pino’s menu, the TV remote. Brendan had to clutch the couch to stay upright.

“For the honour of my father!” Dahlia Kristoff howled. “For all the evil done upon him by the Walkers! For the disturbance of the great book! For the craven consultation with Dr Hayes! For Denver Kristoff, who lives again as he lives always! A life for a life, the Wind Witch has spoken, let a page torn be a page reborn!”

Slam! The shutters closed on the living-room windows. Brendan heard them slam in the kitchen and library too. Then the glass coffee table rose and hurled towards him. He ducked, but it spun towards Mrs Walker. She was kneeling, praying. It smacked her in the head.

“Mum!” Brendan yelled. His mother hit the floor, covered in broken glass, bleeding from her forehead.

“Get down!” Dr Walker screamed to his children as he lunged towards his wife. But the Chester chair got him – the same one he’d been sleeping in that afternoon – hitting his skull with a nauseating crack. He slumped over. For some reason Brendan flashed to his mother asking Diane Dobson Is the furniture for sale? and Diane saying Everything’s for sale.

The Wind Witch – that’s what she had called herself; the Wind Witch has spoken – blew Mr and Mrs Walker into a corner. They lay unconscious against each other. Brendan, Cordelia and Eleanor were far away from them, by the piano.

The foundation of Kristoff House began to shake.

Brendan wondered if it would tip over and slide into the ocean. The television tilted up and flew at him, the Marx Brothers looking demonic until the cord came out of the wall and they disappeared. The TV shattered on the wall behind him, sending shards of plastic and LCD whirling around – “Nell, close your eyes!”

Brendan’s younger sister was curled into a ball. Books were flying into the room now from the library, clobbering Brendan and his sisters, attacking like those terrible birds in that Hitchcock movie Brendan had seen once. Each time a book neared him, its pages open and fluttering, he heard voices inside, gibbering in aged accents, demanding to be released.

“Deal!” Brendan called. All he cared about was surviving – and making sure his family survived. His parents were unconscious on the other side of the room; he couldn’t help them at this moment. But I’m supposed to protect my sisters.

He couldn’t see Cordelia. The wind was all-consuming; the debris blinded him to everything. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them, and forced them open. Right in front of him floated three books, leather volumes that suddenly seemed to grow, expanding from hardcover-size to almanac-size to encyclopedia-size. Impossible!

Brendan screamed, but he could no longer hear himself, and then he saw that the room was larger, the ceiling now twenty metres from the floor and rising every second, as if the house were warping and stretching. And then, while the Wind Witch rose to the ceiling and stared down from a towering height, like an avenging angel sent by the wrong side, one last thing entered the room: the bookshelves from the library. Massive, sickeningly heavy even without the books, they slid in one after another, levitating higher and higher, swirling to an apex above and crashing down – and then all was black and silent.

Brendan came to in a pile of rubble that used to be his new living room. He struggled out from under the heavy shelving that lay on top of him and checked himself for crippling injuries. He felt like he’d been put in a bag of rocks and shaken, but aside from cuts and bruises he was OK.

He looked around the living room. It was like the pictures he’d seen of that horrible tsunami in Japan, where a slew of debris was thrown across the land. What used to be individual chairs and tables and books was now a foot-deep pile of scrap. The shutters were still closed.

“Mum?” Brendan called. “Dad?”

He saw part of the pile move. It looked like a mound with an earthworm underneath. Brendan ran over as Cordelia reached an arm up and dragged herself out.

“Deal! Are you OK?” Brendan asked.

“I think… I blacked out. What about you?”

“I blacked out too… after a lot of insane stuff. These books grew in front of me – they were massive – and then that… I don’t want to say her name…”

“Witch. Wind Witch,” said Cordelia. “That’s what Dahlia called herself.”

“Right, fine. That Wind Witch flew up to the ceiling and knocked me out. Where are Mum and Dad?”

Cordelia’s eyes got very big. She started to call desperately: “Mum! Dad!”

Brendan joined in: “Mum! Please! Hello? Where are you?”

No answer. Brendan’s eyes welled up, but he didn’t let any tears fall. “What about Nell?” he asked.

“Nell! Eleanor!” Cordelia began. They stumbled over broken furniture, searching and calling, pawing through piles of splintered wood, trying to avoid slicing their hands on shattered glass. Brendan felt guilty – what kind of older brother was he? He hadn’t even been able to keep his little sister safe.

A musical plink made him turn his head.

“What was that?” Cordelia asked.

It came again, a tiny chime, like a muted string being plucked. Brendan and Cordelia moved towards it. “Nell?”

“Mum?”

“Dad?”

They reached the wreckage of the Steinway. It wasn’t as ruined as the rest of the furniture; although its legs were snapped off, it still had its sinuous piano shape. The plinks were coming from inside. Brendan and Cordelia lifted together…

And there was Eleanor, curled up on the strings. She picked at one. “I think that’s an A.”

“Come here, you.” Cordelia offered Eleanor a hand while Brendan held the piano open. Once she was out, her brother and sister hugged her so hard that they all fell over.

“Did you black out?” Brendan asked.

“No, I was awake the whole time.”

“What did you see?”

“That… angel thing rose to the ceiling, the whole house got really tall, and everything went black.”

“That’s what we saw! You did black out!”

“No, I was awake. It was the world that went black. She made it happen. I told you I saw her when we first looked at the house, and you didn’t believe me, remember? And now look what happened!”

“How do you know it was her?” Cordelia asked. “It could’ve—”

But Brendan interrupted his sister: “I saw her too. The Wind Witch.”

“What? When?”

“When I freaked and said it was ’cause I lost my PSP? I saw her. She grabbed my hand and… she asked me my name.”

“Bren!” Cordelia shoved her brother. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“How was I supposed to tell you? Would you have believed me? No, you would’ve told me I was trying to get attention.”

“No, I wouldn’t! I listen to you – when you actually have important things to say. Which is very rarely—”

“You’re the one who got us into this situation, Cordelia. You stole from the library—”

“I borrowed—”

“She specifically said, ‘You stole from my library!’ Do you remember that, or were you already blacked out?”

“Stop fighting!” Eleanor yelled. “Where are Mum and Dad?”

Brendan and Cordelia had to catch their breath. “We don’t know,” Brendan admitted.

Cordelia struggled to keep her face composed so she wouldn’t scare Nell. “They’re gone.”

“Then let’s find them,” said Eleanor.

They started looking by the wall where they had last seen their parents. There was a streak of blood on the paint, but otherwise no sign. Eleanor started to cry when she saw the blood. Cordelia put an arm around her. The siblings made their way into the great hall. It was as unrecognisable as the living room, with the coat-rack sticking out of a wall and the pottery reduced to jagged jigsaw chunks.

“Arsdottle’s fine,” said Brendan, looking at the philosopher bust.

“Because the Wind Witch liked him when she was a girl,” Cordelia said. “She spared him.”

They spent a quiet moment staring at the implacable bust – and then entered the library. Cordelia cringed. It was bare now, with the shelves gone, the ladders smashed and the long table split in two. The books had mostly sailed into the living room, but some were still there, strewn around with their covers open. Cordelia picked one up.

“Guys, it’s The Fighting Ace! This is the book I was reading when the Wind Witch attacked. Isn’t that crazy?”

Brendan wondered briefly if it was one of the three books that had expanded in front of him, but they had bigger problems now. “Who cares?”

“I do,” insisted Cordelia. Brendan snorted and led Eleanor towards the kitchen. Cordelia carefully found her place in the novel and salvaged a sliver of wood for a bookmark. No matter how bad things got at Kristoff House, with The Fighting Ace she could escape.

The kitchen showcased more destruction: the fridge was dented and leaking; a burner grate from the stove had smashed through a cabinet and destroyed the dinnerware; a family-size box of Cheerios had spilled its guts into the sink. The kids ran upstairs, frantically calling for their parents, but there was no sign.

The second floor was also in ruins, with two exceptions. The pictures in the hallway were in perfect condition. That made sense, because they were of Dahlia’s family; she wouldn’t hurt them. But Cordelia discovered something in the master bedroom too: the white-and-bronze RW trunk.

“Bren? Nell? Look. Everything is demolished, but this trunk is fine.”

“Maybe the Wind Witch protected it,” said Brendan. “Maybe there’s something inside she wanted to keep.”

“Or,” said Cordelia, “it’s magical. Guarded by a ward.”

“A what?”

“You know, like a magic symbol that protects something.”

Cordelia paused. “What about ‘RW’? Who do you think he is?”

“Maybe it’s a she,” Eleanor said.

“Rutherford Walker,” said Brendan, recalling the name. “Dr Rutherford Walker, to be exact.”

“Who?”

“Our great-great-grandfather. Dad told me his name once.”

Cordelia was impressed. “You remembered from hearing that once? How come you don’t have better grades?”

“Because at school there’s nothing worth remembering.”

“Well, this trunk could be a clue,” said Cordelia. “Remember what the Wind Witch said: ‘For the evil done him by the Walkers—’”

“‘For all the evil done upon him by the Walkers—’”

“Bren, she was talking about revenge. And him was her father, Denver Kristoff. It must be revenge for something that happened decades ago. Maybe Kristoff started a blood feud against us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know; why does anybody start blood feuds?”

“Maybe that old bag was crazy. She said a lot of stuff back there. ‘The craven consultation with Dr Hayes’? Who’s he? What’s that even mean?”

“I don’t know… but our family used to live in San Francisco.”

“And you think some relative of ours just happened to know the guy who built this house?”

“Not just some relative. Dr Rutherford Walker, our great-great-grandfather, who owned this trunk. What did Dad tell you about him?”

Brendan sighed. “He was the one who settled here. He jumped off a boat when it anchored in the bay, because San Francisco was so beautiful. And he stayed.”

“Maybe Dahlia Kristoff fell in love with him.”

“Like he’d date a bald chick.”

“She wasn’t bald then, obviously—”

“Guys!” Eleanor yelled. “We’re supposed to be looking for Mum and Dad!”

“We are, Nell— just help me get this trunk open—”

“No! We have to find them now!” Eleanor’s mouth trembled. “Aren’t you worried that they’re dead? Didn’t you see that table hit Mum and that chair hit Dad? And there’s blood on the wall downstairs? I don’t want to be an orphan! I want Mum! I want Mum!” Her face collapsed into angry angles. She doubled over, crying, pressing her fists into her eyes.

“Nell, it’s all right,” Brendan said, wrapping her up. “Close your eyes, OK?”

“They’re already closed!”

“OK, so keep them closed. And… ah… think about a happy time.”

“Like before our parents were gone?”

“Ah, yes… Deal, a little help?”

“Think about the future,” Cordelia said, gently pulling Eleanor’s fists away from her face. “When we find Mum and Dad.”

Eleanor held back her next set of tears. “Are your guys’ eyes closed too?”

Cordelia looked to Brendan. He shut his eyes. She shut hers. They all pictured the same thing: their smiling parents, alive and well, occasionally bickering, often annoying, but full of love. “They’re closed,” Cordelia assured.

“OK, so we’re gonna open them, and then we’re gonna make it our mission to find Mum and Dad. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Brendan and Cordelia. They all opened their eyes and kept searching.

They didn’t find anything in the other bedrooms or bathrooms (Eleanor did pull her dolls out of the dumbwaiter, which pleased her), so the only place left was the attic. Brendan pulled the string, brought down the steps, and led them up.

“What time is it?” Cordelia asked. The attic was a wreck. The rollaway bed was tossed into a corner.

“I don’t know, why?”

“Because it looks like daylight outside.” Cordelia nodded to the window. The shutters were closed, as were all the shutters in the house, as if the Wind Witch had tried to conceal the mayhem she had caused. Thin shafts of sunlight shone through the slats – and through the translucent white curtains that were on every window. Did we get through the night? Brendan wondered. He’d never been so happy to think about dawn in his life. He walked to the window – and ducked as a small black shape dive-bombed him.

“A bat!” Brendan yelped. “Watch out, guys!”

Cordelia screamed way louder than Brendan or Eleanor expected, then hurtled towards the attic steps.

The bat, which couldn’t have been more than ten centimetres long, plummeted towards her. Cordelia slapped at her face and nearly broke her neck tumbling down the steps before closing the attic door behind her. “Kill it!” she yelled.

“Cordelia?” Brendan said. “It’s just a bat! What’s your problem?”

“I hate bats!” Cordelia answered from downstairs. “Where did it come from?”

Brendan looked at the stand where the bat skeleton had been. Sure enough, the stand was there. But the skeleton was gone.

“Remember that bat skeleton I told you I saw? Well… I think it came to life.”

“If it’s a magical zombie bat, you shouldn’t mess with it!” Cordelia said, running her fingers through her hair. She was sure she could feel the bat’s sinewy wings brushing against her scalp.

In the attic, Brendan motioned for Eleanor to help him. They approached the window as the bat circled frantically. They opened the shutters; sunlight flooded the room. The bat retreated to a corner in the rafters.

“Is it gone?” Cordelia asked from downstairs. “Can I come up?”

But Brendan and Eleanor didn’t answer. They couldn’t. They were too busy staring out of the window.

A primeval forest lay outside Kristoff House.

Trees with trunks as thick as houses reached up so high that Brendan and Eleanor couldn’t see the tops no matter how they craned their necks. Beams of dappled light broke on giant ferns spread like green fans over mossy logs. It looked like the painted background in a dinosaur exhibit, still and calm and even a bit fake. Trees marched into the distance, blending into a uniform brown-and-green curtain.

“Where are we?” gasped Eleanor.

Brendan opened the window. Sounds swept in: caws, chirps and rustlings in the air.

Downstairs, Cordelia noticed that her siblings were unusually quiet, so she went back into the attic to see what was going on. “Hello?” she said, stepping to the window. “Whoa.”

The trees started just a metre from the house. Smaller trees stood below them, where the honey-hued light broke through. A thin haze lay at eye level, listing up and down. They could make out the sound of a brook babbling in the distance and, behind the caws and chirps, a loud, grating buzz. The haze entered the attic, carrying a tang of dirt and pine and a balm of sweet flowers and sap.

“Where’s our street?” whispered Eleanor.

“Maybe the Wind Witch moved our house somewhere,” Cordelia said.

“Jurassic Park?” asked Eleanor.

“Humboldt County.”

“Does Humboldt County have those?” Brendan pointed to one of the towering trees in the distance. Circling it was the source of the buzzing – a monstrous dragonfly with the wingspan of a condor.

The dragonfly’s body was dull green, its wings clear mesh. It drifted up and down as it circled around the trunk, disappearing and reappearing, its purple eyes as big as dinner plates. It was so huge that the Walker children could see its complicated mouth parts twitching.

“Close the window!” Cordelia yelled.

Brendan leaned forward. “It can’t hurt us. It’s… what’s the word? Vegan?”

“Herbivorous. Seriously, Bren, close it.”

Brendan had another idea: he stuck his second and third finger between his lips and whistled. It was one of those skills he was proud of that his sisters hated.

“Bren!”

“I just want to see if he’ll come closer!”

The sound aggravated the bat in the rafters. It dived for the window. Cordelia shrieked as it flew past her and darted outside. The Walker kids watched it zigzag through the mist, threading between the trees – and then the dragonfly whipped out a long tongue and nabbed it.

Eleanor screamed as the dragonfly drew the bat into its mouth and started grinding it into digestible mush. The giant insect buzzed towards the house as it ate, its purple eyes focused on the Walkers like they were next.

Brendan slammed the window shut and they all ran from the attic, not stopping until they got to the kitchen with its comforting (if damaged) stainless-steel appliances. Cordelia promptly opened all the shutters, locked all the windows, and turned to Brendan.

“Not exactly herbivorous,” said Cordelia.

“Where are we?” Eleanor asked. “Bugs aren’t supposed to eat bats! It’s the other way round!”

“Obviously it was different in dinosaur times,” said Brendan. “I think we were sent back to the prehistoric era.” He was reminded of those books Cordelia used to read to him when he was five – the ones with the tree house that travelled through time.

“I don’t know if dragonflies ever got that big,” Cordelia said. “I’m not sure where we are…”

She stopped, noticing a black plastic corner peeking from under the fridge. Her mobile. She pulled it out; it was scuffed but intact. It sprang to electronic life.

“Does it work?” Brendan asked.

Cordelia closed her eyes and made a wish, but when she opened them, she saw what she expected. “No bars.”

“Let me see!” Eleanor grabbed the phone and tried Mum, but got CALL FAILED.

Brendan sighed. “That’s what you get for not having four-G.”

“Maybe the landline works,” Cordelia suggested. Brendan took the cordless white receiver off the wall. He looked at his sisters. They looked like they were about to crack, like they needed some good news. Brendan briefly considered faking a call to 911, so he could give them some hope, but before he could decide if that was a good idea, all the lights in the house went out.

“What did you do?” Eleanor demanded. It wasn’t just the overhead lights; the LEDs on the microwave and stove were out too.

“Nothing!” Brendan said, putting the phone back in its cradle. Sunlight slanted through the curtains.

“I was worried this might happen,” said Cordelia. “We must’ve been running on a backup generator since the attack.”

“We have a backup generator?”

“We must have something – it’s probably in the basement. I don’t think there’s a ‘grid’ out here.”

“So let’s start it back up.”

“With what, Bren? Generators need fuel.”

“Maybe there are fuel cans down there! Come on! We need to do something. Without power we’ll starve—”

“But what if there’s something else in the basement?” asked Eleanor.

“Like Mum and Dad,” said Cordelia. The Walkers looked at each other with a mixture of hope and fear, imagining the ways they could find their parents: safe and well… or laid out on the floor, cold.

“We need to be strong, not psych ourselves out,” said Brendan, trying to sound brave and unexpectedly pulling it off. “There’s gotta be a flashlight somewhere.” He rifled through kitchen drawers until he found a Maglite as thick as Eleanor’s arm. He tested it – it worked – and shone it on an unadorned door at the back of the room.

“Who’s going first?”

“You’ve got the flashlight,” said Eleanor.

Brendan reluctantly opened the door. Rickety wooden steps led down to a cool, cavernous basement that smelled of cedar and dust.

“Was this the part of the house that hung over the cliff?” Cordelia asked.

“I think so. I wonder if the barrels are still there.”

Brendan panned left and right so nothing could jump out at them. Cordelia jammed a shoe in the doorway so they couldn’t get locked in.

They went down the steps. Stacks of cans, a wheelbarrow, and a sledgehammer lay in one corner of the basement; a tent and power tools lay in another. Between them was a black box on six wheels, the size of a mini fridge, pressed against the wall and plugged in.

“Is that it?” Brendan asked.

“I think so…” said Cordelia. She hopped on one leg, not wanting to let her single shoeless foot touch the floor, but when it did, she found it wasn’t so bad; the floor was worn-down wood, almost soft. Brendan read the yellow sign printed on the box: “‘BlackoutReady IPS Twelve Thousand.’ That sounds good.”

He illuminated the box’s control panel; it was completely dead. “Where does the fuel go? Maybe there’s a manual.”

Brendan whipped around the flashlight, saw something on the floor – and screamed.

He was staring at a human hand.

Brendan jumped, knocking over Cordelia and Eleanor. The flashlight hit the floor and rolled, coming to rest beside a rusted old sewing machine. The beam of light pointed to a mannequin on the floor in a half-finished Victorian dress. The mannequin was missing a hand.

“Nice one, Bren,” Cordelia said. She picked up the fake hand; it was made of wax.

“Yeah,” said Eleanor. “You’re freaking out over a dummy. At least Cordelia got scared of a real bat.”

“Whatever.” Brendan took the flashlight and refocused on the BlackoutReady, finding the instructions on top. He read aloud, “‘The generator will automatically begin recharging through the input plug when power returns.’” He groaned. “If power returns.”

“What are we gonna do?” Eleanor asked.

“Sit here and wait to get killed by witches or giant dragonflies. Whatever comes first.”

“Don’t say that! Deal?”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

“No!” Eleanor grabbed the flashlight and pointed it accusingly at her siblings. “We had a mission, remember? To find Mum and Dad!”

“That’s right, Nell. But we’ve checked the whole house, including the basement, and they aren’t here.”

“What about outside? We haven’t looked there yet.”

“That’s where the giant dragonflies are!”

“I don’t care what’s out there. We need to search for them while it’s still light out. You guys can stay here if you want.”

Eleanor stomped up the basement stairs. Brendan and Cordelia glanced at each other and rushed after her; she had the only light.

Back on the first floor, the Walkers opened all the shutters to let in enough light for them to see by. Then, in the kitchen, Brendan insisted on some self-defence measures before the group ventured out. He took a chef’s knife from the magnetic rack that was now on the floor, and he outfitted Cordelia with a steak knife and Eleanor with a barbecue fork. “Hold your weapon like a hammer,” he instructed, “with the blade pointed up.”

“I don’t have a blade,” protested Eleanor.

“Your fork, then. In a fight you can use your hand to deliver butt-end knife strikes – Nell, that’s not funny. Stand with your legs shoulder-width apart. Don’t you guys know anything? Ugh, forget it.”

Brendan led his sisters out of the kitchen, past the suit of armour that was knocked over in the hall. “Hold on.” He went back to the kitchen, grabbed some duct tape, and taped the breastplate around Cordelia. Then he put the helmet on and gave Eleanor the gauntlets, which were big enough to reach from her elbows to her wrists. Thus armed, looking better prepared for Halloween than for a fantastical forest, the Walker children opened the front door and stepped outside.

Brendan squinted in the light. The helmet hadn’t been such a good idea: the eye slits were meant for someone with further-apart eyes. He tried to take it off, but it was stuck on his head. Cordelia tipped her head back and saw the tops of the trees, dozens of metres up, against slivers of blue sky.

“Mum!” Eleanor called. “Mummy! Are you out here?”

“Dad! Hey, Dad, can you hear us?” Brendan said. “We’re safe! Kind of…”

For a moment, the birds and bugs dipped into quiet… and then they started up again, filling the void as if the Walkers had never spoken. The children circled the house, sticking together, weapons drawn, calling out as they went. Brendan longed for anything familiar, even the stone angel. He noted the terrifying uniformity of the wilderness that surrounded them. Apart from the distant brook they had spotted through the attic window, there wasn’t anything to indicate direction. The only way to tell which way was which was by looking at the shadows of the trees. And if we didn’t go back in time, who’s to say we’re not in some weird place where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east?

When the Walkers came back around to the front door, they were no closer to finding their parents, but their calls had attracted something else.

A wolf, over two metres from tail to snout, was sniffing the ground in front of their home.

The wolf raised its head, revealing scarred, matted fur and milky, rabid eyes. It growled, stretching the noise out like a fake smile, exposing double rows of wet, razor-sharp teeth. It took a step towards them.

“Bren!” Cordelia whispered. “What do we do?”

Brendan tried to remember what he’d been taught in Boy Scouts about animal attacks – you were supposed to not move, stay quiet, and be calm; the animal wouldn’t bother you if you didn’t bother it – but that seemed irrelevant under the gaze of this creature, which clearly intended to eat them. All he could do was tense his muscles and gulp. The wolf bent its head over Eleanor. It was fifteen centimetres taller than her; it looked capable of swallowing her whole. The line of its mouth ran nearly all the way up its triangular head. Spittle gathered where its black lips were subsumed by fur.

The wolf sniffed Eleanor. Her breath came in tight jerks. Tears streamed down her face. The wolf opened its jaws. She closed her eyes, hyperventilating, smelling its meaty breath—

And the wolf stopped, cocked its head, and ran off behind the house.

Brendan couldn’t believe it. He caught Eleanor as her knees gave out, hugging her with Cordelia, using all his strength to tear off his helmet and kiss her hair.

“What happened?” Eleanor asked. “I thought I was gonna die!”

“The wolf must’ve been scared by us.”

“By what, our fierce appearance?” Cordelia said.

“Maybe,” suggested Brendan.

“Don’t be stupid. It heard something. Listen.”

They all heard it now, far off in the woods: hoofbeats.

“Horses?” Eleanor asked hopefully.

The sound grew louder, drumming through the ground into their legs and the pits of their stomachs. “Everyone inside,” Cordelia said.

“But Deal,” Eleanor began, “I want—”

“Now. Someone’s coming!”

Cordelia rushed to the entrance of Kristoff House. Brendan followed, dragging Eleanor with him. They slammed the door and turned all the locks. Brendan tried to set the house alarm, frantically pressing buttons on the keypad.

“Bren!” said Cordelia. “There’s no electricity!”

“Right, my bad.”

Cordelia led them to a window, inched open a shutter, and peeked out.

“What do you see?” Eleanor asked.

“Shh.” The truth was that Cordelia found it difficult to describe what she saw without sounding completely insane.

A band of warriors was riding up to the house on horseback. They were muscular and massive and terrifying, from the glinting helmets on their heads to the knifelike spurs that rattled on their leather boots. They had thick, bristly beards and big full-plate armour that made her breastplate look like a toy. They carried swords, axes and bows. Their boots were caked with dried mud… or was it blood?

“How many horses are there?” asked Eleanor.

“Seven, I think, but Nell, that doesn’t matter—”

“Let me see!” Eleanor pushed her sister aside. “Oh my gosh!”

Brendan crowded her out. “What is this, Lord of the Rings, the reality show?”

The siblings jostled for position, finding a way to all peer out. The warriors dismounted and tied their steeds to trees. They approached the house with caution. The one who was clearly the leader had a maroon feather sticking up from his helmet like a plume of blood. He took off the helmet to reveal pockmarked skin and a scar running from his ear to his chin. When he turned to speak to his men, the Walkers saw the glint of his black, suspicious eyes.

“A witches’ den. This was not here yesterday,” he declared.

One of his compatriots, a red-haired, red-bearded man, grabbed his arm: “Slayne, m’lord, could be a trap.”

Slayne (good name, thought Brendan; he looks like he’s slain a lot of people) grinned, twisting his scar like a second smile, bearing blackened stumps of teeth. “If there are witches… we need to get inside. And quickly kill them all.”

“Um, may I suggest we go to the attic?” whispered Cordelia.

The Walkers dashed away from the window.

At the front door, Slayne grabbed the knob, found it locked, and turned to his red-headed number two. “Krom?”

Krom handed him a battle-axe. Slayne swung. The first blow left a gaping hole in the door. The second sent it flying off its hinges.

Slayne and his men entered, on guard.

“A great battle was waged here,” said Slayne. He drew his sword, stabbed it through the remains of Bellamy Walker’s iPad, and lifted it off the ground. “And at least one of the parties was a witch. This appears to be some sort of occult toy for children.”

Slayne led the warriors through the living room and library as the Walkers huddled in the attic. They could hear the warriors’ clomping boots and gruff voices, but not their words.

“We can’t just sit here,” Eleanor said. “We’ve got to find out what they want. Maybe they know where Mum and Dad are!”

“How do you propose to find that out?” Brendan asked.

“Watch.” Eleanor opened the attic door and started down to the second-floor hallway.

“No, Nell!”

“Stop!”

But it was too late. Eleanor was already opening the door to the dumbwaiter. The warriors were in the kitchen, below her, and sound travelled directly up the hollow shaft. It was like she was in the midst of the warriors as they investigated their alien surroundings.

“This appears to be a witches’ torture chamber,” Slayne said. Eleanor heard the microwave door pop open. “Possibly a box for shrunken victims.” Eleanor stifled a laugh.

In the kitchen, Slayne opened the fridge and paused. Here was a pleasant surprise. His men were all hungry, and the power hadn’t been out long. Slayne tossed an apple aside and went for a jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise. Behind him, Krom ripped open a box of Cap’n Crunch, sniffed it, ate a handful, and started pouring it into his mouth: “It’th good!” Slayne unscrewed the mayo and scooped out a big clump.

Upstairs, Brendan and Cordelia poked their heads over the attic steps to get a report from Eleanor.

“They’re eating our food!” Eleanor said. Then she heard Slayne’s voice through the dumbwaiter.

“This white sauce is mine, men. Touch it under penalty of death. It’s so good, I do believe, when we return to Castle Corroway, I’ll eat my horse with it. He’s getting on in years; it’s time for a younger steed—”

The men all laughed. That set Eleanor off.

“He can’t kill a horse!” she said, climbing into the dumbwaiter, gauntlets on, brandishing her barbecue fork.

“Nell, stop! You can’t—” Brendan yelled, but she had already closed the door.

It was pitch-black in the dumbwaiter. Eleanor could hardly move. If she’d been a foot taller, she never would have fitted inside. She twisted to grab one of the bicycle-chain-like cables that the container rode on and pulled one way. The dumbwaiter inched up. So she pulled the other way and started down, moving quickly. The rusty pulleys squeaked. With every foot she descended the voices of the warriors grew louder.

“Hand me that sweetened meal, Krom!”

“Find your own!”

“We could set up camp here and run raids over the East!”

“It could do with a few slaves to tidy up—”

Halfway down Eleanor started to think she’d made a terrible mistake. Slaves? Raids? This wasn’t some TV show; these men would cut her to pieces. But she couldn’t reverse course and be a coward. Not with Bren and Deal upstairs depending on her.

The dumbwaiter stopped at the kitchen with a metallic chunk.

“What was that?” Slayne asked. Eleanor heard him approach. He was only a metre away, on the other side of the wall – and then he opened the dumbwaiter door.

His black eyes met Eleanor’s. He had mayonnaise in his beard. His rancid-sweat smell hit her like a punch.

“Why, it’s a little witchling,” Slayne chortled to his companions, turning his head—

And Eleanor stuck him in the cheek with her barbecue fork.

“Raagh!” Slayne brought his hand to his face, shocked that the girl had cut him. Then he plunged his sword into the dumbwaiter. Eleanor shrank back and threw up an arm—

Clang! The blade glanced off her gauntlet. “Help!”

Slayne pulled back for another thrust. Eleanor felt a jolt – and the dumbwaiter began to rise rapidly. The next sword strike hit the wall of the shaft below Eleanor, just missing her. She heard Slayne’s bellow of frustration as she moved up in herky-jerky starts until she reached the second floor. Light entered the dumbwaiter… and with it the shadows of Cordelia and Brendan.

“Get out!” They yanked her into the hall. “They’re coming!”

A thunderous clamour of metal sounded from the spiral steps. “Kill her!” roared Slayne.

The Walkers ran into the attic, closing the door and locking it. “Nell! What were you thinking?” Cordelia demanded.

Eleanor started to explain – when they heard the deep crunch of an axe biting into wood behind them. They turned to see the tip of Krom’s axe poking through the attic door. It disappeared and struck again. Chunks of wood fell away, leaving a hole. A sword stuck up and slashed around.

“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” Eleanor cried. “I was just trying to be brave, and now we’re all gonna die!”

Brendan ran to the rollaway bed. There wasn’t much time. Krom kept widening the hole – any minute now it’d be big enough to let all the warriors in. Brendan tossed the mattress off the bed and wheeled the metal frame to the window.

“We’re too high up to jump. But if we can get to that tree…”

Cordelia and Eleanor understood. They opened the window, and then helped Brendan lift the front of the frame and shove it out diagonally, so it would fit; then they grabbed the back and lifted that too, pushing it out to make a bridge, hoping it would catch against the gnarled bark of the nearest tree.

“Count of three!” Brendan said. “One… two…”

With all their might they heaved.

“Yes!” Cordelia said. The far end of the bed caught. The near end was hooked over the inside of the windowsill. “We did it!”

“You two go first.” Brendan glanced back. There was now a huge hole where the attic door used to be. The stairs, which folded up when the door closed, were gone as well – reduced to splinters. Slayne’s red feather poked through the hole.

“Krom, on your hands and knees! I need to get up there!”

Cordelia took the lead. She removed her bulky breastplate and stepped out on the bed, teetering back and forth on the springs. She willed herself not to look down. She moved by feel, eyes closed, trusting her balance. The humid air washed across her face as she reached the tree. The thick seams in the bark provided perfect handholds. She started descending.

“Nell!” she called back. “You can do it! Just don’t look down!”

But Eleanor, crouching at the foot of the bed frame, had already looked. The fall was far enough to cripple her, if not kill her.

“C’mon!” Brendan urged.

“I can’t, Bren!”

“You have to!”

“I can’t. I looked down.”

“Then look behind you!”

Eleanor glanced back to see Slayne hoisting himself into the attic. She didn’t give it another thought; she tore off her gauntlets because they made her arms feel clumsy and ran full tilt across the bridge, nearly slamming into the tree at the other end and starting down as Brendan came across last.

Cordelia stood on the ground, urging Eleanor to jump the rest of the way. Brendan reached the tree and kicked the bed frame aside so no one could follow. Eleanor screamed as it fell, diving off the tree to keep from getting hit. Cordelia darted into position and caught her. The frame crashed to earth, smashing ferns and logs. Brendan reached the ground as Slayne appeared in the window and yelled, “Run, sorcerer’s spawn! See how far you get before I gut you!”

Another warrior appeared at the window with a bow and fired off a shot.

The bronze-tipped arrow whizzed past Brendan’s ear and thudded into the earth. Brendan, Cordelia, and Eleanor ran through the woods, slipping on pine needles and wet rocks, no idea where they were headed. The journey across the bed bridge and down the tree had left them with bruises and scrapes that screamed at them. Their armour was gone; none of them had weapons. They were terrified and had no idea how to run without leaving a trail. They didn’t speak, hearing only their breath – and then another sound. Hoofbeats.

The warriors were mounted and gaining. Cordelia stumbled on a root. Brendan grabbed her before she hit the ground. With a thunk an arrow spiked into a tree next to him. Eleanor ran as fast as her small legs could carry her. The thoughts going through the Walkers’ heads were less the thoughts of human beings and more the thoughts – No! Keep going! They’re here! – of hunted animals.

Slayne, in the lead on his mighty horse, expertly twirled a chain-mail net and let it fly at Cordelia, Brendan and Eleanor. It landed on top of them like a spider’s web, only a million times heavier. Slayne jerked it, bringing the chains together, and the kids crashed against one another as they were pulled over sharp rocks and sticks and brought to a stop, crying out in pain.

Slayne halted and swung himself to the ground with surprising grace for a man built like an army tank.

He walked in a calm circle around his captives. The Walkers heard his boots, the birds and insects, and their own heartbeats. The other warriors stayed mounted. Suddenly Slayne reached through the net and grabbed Brendan, lifting him by his shirt collar. The chain-mail links cut into his face.

“Why are you here?” Slayne demanded, bathing Brendan with a gust of noxious breath.

“I don’t… honestly I don’t know. The Wind Witch—”

“So you admit to being witches!”

“No, no! Of course not—”

“And the Wind Witch is your mistress?” He nodded to Krom and another of his men, the one who had fired the bow. They both dismounted and stood above Cordelia and Eleanor.

“No, no, she sent us here,” Brendan said. “We’re not—”

“You’re trespassing on my land.”

“We had no control over that—”

Krom and the other man planted their boots on Cordelia and Eleanor’s stomachs. Cordelia felt a bug crawl past her earlobe and thought she might scream.

“Don’t – don’t hurt my sisters. Please just let us go, and we promise we’ll get off your land.”

“Do you know the penalty for trespassing?”

“No…”

“For a warlock: death.” Slayne squeezed Brendan’s throat playfully. “For a witch…” His eyes narrowed. “We have our own ways of killing them.”

The warriors, on horseback and foot, had a good laugh at that. Krom knelt to grab Cordelia.

“Get your hands off her!” Brendan yelled, kicking. Slayne dropped him – and punched him in the gut on his way down.

Brendan wheezed on the ground, writhing like a fish out of water. Slayne strode to where Eleanor lay trapped.

“As for you,” he said, kneeling over her, “take a look at your handiwork.” He showed her the left side of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said, seeing the two holes in his cheek, “but you shouldn’t talk about eating horses.” Cordelia and Brendan looked at each other. Even though Brendan was just getting his breath back, they managed to share a smile at their sister’s bravery.

“For marring me,” Slayne said, “there’s a special punishment for you. You’ll be coming along to deal with someone much less forgiving, much less understanding, than me and my men.”

“Who?” Eleanor asked.

“Queen Daphne.” Slayne grinned. “She loves little children, even witchy ones. Loves to eat them while they’re still alive. And awake. She usually starts with the fingers.”

“I’ve seen her start with the ears. Rips ’em right off their head,” added Krom with a thoughtful nod.

Eleanor shuddered on the ground, scared speechless for the first time in her life.

“Wait!” called Cordelia. “Queen Daphne of where? Where are we?”

“Silence!” Slayne ordered. Krom kicked Cordelia in the stomach. “Don’t you dare open your mouth to me.”

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the pain in order to figure out what she was hearing. These warriors were familiar in some way she couldn’t put her finger on. It buzzed in her brain, but there was too much fear and pain in there to let it surface.

Slayne drew his sword and returned to Brendan, who was trying to sit up. Slayne pointed the blade at his throat.

“I—”

“Shh,” Slayne cooed, pressing the tip against Brendan’s skin. It didn’t break, but Brendan knew it would; he could see it happening – the thin membrane that separated him from the world would split, and he would die in a place where no one even knew he was. He was surprised to find his thoughts very simple. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes, or start thinking about all the things he wouldn’t get to do because he died at twelve; he just thought, No, no, make it stop, please, God, something!! And then—

ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!

Brendan thought it sounded like a machine gun. Slayne looked up. Krom looked up. Everybody looked up.

“A Sopwith Camel!” Brendan yelled.

Brendan had seen the Sopwith in history books about World War One. It was the iconic early British fighter plane – single propeller, two sets of wings. And this one was coming right towards them.

It had torn through the tree canopy, raining down branches and leaves that were only now hitting the ground. It looked like it was held together with spit and glue. Black smoke streamed from its cockpit. Behind it, through the new hole in the foliage, came bursts of gunfire.

“German triplane!” Brendan called. He’d seen this plane too; it was what the Red Baron flew in old movies, with three sets of vertically stacked vermilion wings and black crosses. The triplane was in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the Sopwith Camel was going down, the German triplane veered up, made a sharp right turn, and disappeared into the clouds.

The Sopwith Camel arced lower. Its engine whined in the dense air. The warriors stared, dumbstruck; they could smell the smoke now. Slayne pulled his sword away from Brendan’s neck and demanded: “What creature of darkness is that?”

The Walkers weren’t inclined to respond. Slayne’s warriors couldn’t respond, stunned as they were by the spewing, many-winged monster slaloming through the giant trees, smoke heralding flames from its mouth, veering skyward as if attempting to soar, but inevitably listing down – straight towards them.

The warriors dived to the ground. The Walkers huddled inside their net. The aircraft buzzed them, the vibration of its stuttering propeller only inches above their heads—

And then it crashed.

First the two oversize wheels at the front snapped off. Then the fuselage bounced up like a skipped stone and crunched back down. Then the plane skidded forward over rocks and sticks and roots, carving out a trench before coming to rest at a tree twenty metres away. The engine was still running. The propeller turned fitfully.

The pilot crawled out and collapsed. He was covered in black soot, with goggles and a leather helmet obscuring his face, wearing a bomber jacket zipped over a military uniform. He staggered to his feet, thin and miraculously uninjured, and legged it away from the plane.

“Who’s that?” Eleanor gasped.

“He looks like… a pilot,” Cordelia said, her voice hollowed by disbelief.

“A World War One fighter pilot,” said Brendan.

“Watch out!” the pilot shouted to the kids and warriors, throwing himself to the ground.

The Sopwith Camel exploded behind him.

Everyone ducked as shards of plane flew across the forest. Fabric strips rained down, along with a cascade of broken leafy branches. The plane was now a smouldering pit where the cockpit, engine, and propeller used to be.

“I always said too much of that plane was in the front,” remarked the pilot in a British accent. He turned to Slayne’s men and inclined his head. “What’s this? Are we performing a panto?”

The men drew their weapons. Krom said to Slayne: “I thought only gods fell from the sky.”

“He’s no god,” Slayne scoffed.

“How can you be sure?”

Slayne grabbed the bow from his man and notched an arrow. “Gods don’t bleed.”

“Now wait a minute!” objected the pilot, holding up his hands—

But Slayne shot an arrow into his right shoulder.

“Aaaagh!” The pilot fell to the ground and stared cross-eyed at the arrow, which stuck out of him like a sandwich toothpick. He seized it, snapped the shaft off and tossed it aside, wincing as he jostled a nerve.

“Savages,” he spat, heaving himself up and glaring at Slayne, eyes fierce.

“A mortal,” sneered Slayne. “You know what to do.”

The warriors charged, descending with swords and axes, but the pilot drew a revolver, lightning-fast with his left hand, and squeezed off six crackling rounds—

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The Walkers let out a gasp: not only was the pilot a quick draw, but every one of his shots hit a man’s hand. The warriors cried out and dropped their weapons, cradling their fingers as blood ran through them. Slayne’s grin twisted into an expression the Walkers hadn’t seen on him yet: fear.

“Retreat! Black magic! Away to Castle Corroway!”

The men raced to their horses, climbed on awkwardly and rode into the depths of the forest, each guiding his steed with one good hand – except for Slayne, who had to keep both hands from shaking.

The pilot reloaded as they receded. He moved slowly, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder. None of the Walkers knew what to say until he finished and aimed his gun at them: “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“Help us!” cried Eleanor.

“Dude, you’d totally rock Call of Duty,” gasped Brendan.

But Cordelia silenced them both. “No, we don’t speak German.”

The pilot removed his helmet and let his goggles hang from his neck. He was just a few years older than Cordelia, she could see now, with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. He reminded her of a young F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“You certainly seem to understand German,” he said.

“Of course I understand ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch’. I’m an educated person. Everyone understands that.”

“I don’t,” said Brendan.

“Quiet!” the pilot ordered. “You speak German because you are German. Now who were those men?”

“We don’t know,” Cordelia said.

“And I don’t believe you. I think you’re Kraut spies.”

“Hey!” Brendan said. “David Beckham! We’re American. Get it? From San Francisco.”

“Is that right? Because I was shot down over Amiens, not San bloody Francisco. Perhaps you’ve seen the plane?” The pilot nodded to the smouldering wreckage of the Sopwith Camel. The flames hadn’t caught against the tough bark of the tree… but they’d made quick work of the wings and tail.

“Anybody with half a brain could see you’re not in Germany,” said Brendan.

“Course not. Amiens is in France.”

“You’re not in France, either! Hello? Does France have trees like this?”

“Perhaps I’m in a Gallic hunting preserve.”

“Perhaps you’re in a special state I’ve heard of called denial.”

“Bren! Stop!”

“I say, you do sound like an American,” said the pilot. “Only a Yank would attempt such a pathetic joke.”

He holstered his gun and started to walk away. He didn’t get far before he stumbled and gripped his shoulder. The blood was still flowing freely, adhering his uniform to his skin. He tried to pull out the broken arrow, but the pain was too intense.

“Come on!” Cordelia said. “We’ve got to help him.”

“No, we don’t—”

“Bren, he’s hurt. And he saved our lives.”

Cordelia pushed at the net until she found an opening. She stepped out and held it wide for her brother and sister. They went (Brendan very reluctantly) to the pilot, who was kneeling on the ground, having torn a cuff off his trousers and tied it around his shoulder.

“What’s your name?” Cordelia asked.

“Draper, Miss. Wing Commander Will Draper. Royal Flying Corps, Squadron Seventy.”

“I’m Cordelia Walker.” She stuck out her hand and spoke quickly. “This is my brother, Brendan, and sister, Eleanor. We can help you, Mr D—”

“Call me Will.” Will took her hand and lightly kissed it, managing a winning smile through his pain.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, OK. Oh.” She took her hand back and stared at it briefly. “We have a house nearby. Can you walk?”

Will stood, leaning away from the pain, and lurched as his knees buckled. Cordelia caught him and propped him up on his uninjured side.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

The group made its way back to Kristoff House. It was easy to see which direction they’d come – the horses had trampled a path in the undergrowth. Brendan walked sullenly in front, tearing the tips off ferns and disassembling them piece by piece. Cordelia stayed next to Will, supporting his left side, smelling the smoke and sweat and blood coming off him and trying to explain exactly who they were, what decade they were from, and what they were doing here. (Will wouldn’t believe a word of it.) Eleanor walked beside them, at one point tapping Cordelia’s shin with a twig and mouthing: You like him!

In a few minutes, Kristoff House appeared. Will blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Is it possible that arrow was tipped with a hallucinogenic drug? I’m having visions.”

“We told you we had a house,” Eleanor said.

“But how did it get here? Brought by woodland creatures?”

Cordelia sighed. “I told you—”

“It flew in from San Francisco,” Brendan said.

“Come off it, I won’t be made a fool—”

“We’re not making fun of you,” said Cordelia. “We don’t know how it got here, but it’s our house, and inside we’ve got stuff that will help your shoulder.”

Will furrowed his brow. “It’s much nicer than my house,” he finally admitted, before allowing the Walkers to lead him in.

Soon afterwards they took Will to the kitchen. The sun was lower now; the light coming through the windows was amber instead of yellow. Eleanor found her barbecue fork in the dumbwaiter and declared she was going to search the house to make sure they were safe. Cordelia said that was fine as long as she screamed if she saw anything strange. Eleanor left as Cordelia and Brendan helped Will on to the kitchen table.

“I’ll get you some ice to numb the pain,” Cordelia told Will. Brendan followed her to the fridge, whispering, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What?”

“Taking in strangers? We’re about to spend a night here without electricity. We have limited food. We don’t know who this guy is or—”

“Bren,” Cordelia said with a smile, “you don’t have to be jealous just because he’s better-looking than you.”

“That’s not true! He’s not—”

Cordelia raised her eyebrows like, Really? Behind her, Will took off his shirt – very delicately so as not to disturb the arrow.

“So?” Brendan whispered. “I’ll have a six-pack too when I’m old.”

“You wish.” Cordelia opened the freezer and pulled out an ice tray, but it was only filled with water. The shelves inside dripped with melted Häagen-Dazs. “I’m sorry, Will,” she said. “No ice.”

“Not a problem,” shirtless Will said. “Can you please come and help me fetch something?”

Brendan rolled his eyes. Cordelia walked to Will.

“It’s for my shoulder, in my right hip pocket. Can you—”

“Sure.” Cordelia tried to project an air of confidence, like she was an old pro at dealing with handsome young British pilots. She edged her fingers into Will’s pocket, blushing as she looked away from him, and felt something metal warmed by the heat of his body.

“Your gun?” she asked anxiously.

“No, no, gun’s on the other side. Go on, you’ve almost got it.”

Cordelia pulled out a sterling silver hip flask.

“There she is!”

It was slim and curved, with a Latin phrase etched on the front. Cordelia squinted at it. Even though she’d only known Will for about thirty minutes, she liked to think of him piloting fighter planes, not drinking. She handed the flask over disapprovingly.

Will took a long pull. As he drank, Eleanor came back to the kitchen from her mission securing the house. Her eyes went wide. When Will rested the flask in his lap, she ran up and grabbed it.

“Hey!” Will said.

Eleanor turned the flask upside down and let all the alcohol drain on to the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Will yelled. He lunged at her, but sat right back down – his shoulder hurt too much.

Eleanor handed the now-empty flask back to him. “We used to have this uncle, Pete,” she explained. “I mean, we still have him, but he’s not the same. He started drinking way too much. One time he got crazy and threw a raw steak at our aunt. So I don’t approve of drinking, and you’re not allowed to drink if you’re in here.”

“But it’s my drink!” Will protested.

“But it’s our house,” said Eleanor firmly.

Will sighed and looked at his shoulder. “Then how exactly do you expect me to manage my pain? If you haven’t noticed, I’ve got an arrow sticking out of me!”

“Right,” said Cordelia. “We have to take that out. Any idea how?”

“No! I was trained for war with Huns, not barbarians.”

As Will got worked up, his face got pale. Beads of sweat lined his brow. Cordelia felt his forehead with the back of her hand. It was burning up. She became deadly serious.

“Your wound is getting infected. Nell, come with me. Brendan, stay with Will.”

“What? What do you want me to—”

“Keep him calm, relaxed. We’re going to find out how to treat him properly.”

She grabbed Eleanor and left the kitchen.

“You really do like him, don’t you?” Eleanor asked in the hall.

“No.”

“Yes. You’re doing that thing where you look away when you answer my questions. That’s how I know you’re not telling the truth.”

“I just want to keep him alive. He’s good with a gun and he—”

“Looked away again,” Eleanor smirked.

They went to the living room and picked up all the books that had been blown in during the Wind Witch’s attack. They brought them to the library (it took a few trips) and tossed them on the floor so all the books in the house were in a central location. It was a mess. Books lay on the floor in literary dunes. Some were open; some had had their covers ripped off. Mixed in with them were the splintered ladders and broken table of the library.

“Now we have to separate the books,” Cordelia said. “Put the ones by Denver Kristoff by the door; give the others to me.”

“Why are we doing this exactly, Deal?”

“Because maybe one of those books is a medical manual! Can you help? Just look for a K—”

“I can read ‘Denver Kristoff’!”

“Don’t get mad, Nell—”

“I just searched this whole house by myself to make sure it was safe, and you’re treating me like a little kid!”

Cordelia smiled to herself. She and Brendan had known the house was OK when they’d let Eleanor go off exploring; they had each checked a floor when they’d gone to the bathroom upon arrival. (Unfortunately, after testing the sinks and determining that the plumbing was as busted as the electricity, they had been forced to go outside.) “I’m sorry, Nell,” she said. “Tell me if you find anything interesting, and I’ll tell you if I need help.”

The sisters went to different corners of the library. Every time Eleanor came across a non-Kristoff book, she handed it to Cordelia. Cordelia was looking for something like Gray’s Anatomy, but she wasn’t having any luck. She wondered how she could open up Will’s shoulder, pull out the arrowhead, and sew it back up without a book to guide her. At least she had her memories of her father. She remembered how he used to sit her down at the kitchen table and show her how he performed surgeries, with a plate of lasagne for a patient and a butter knife for a scalpel. “The most important thing,” he told her, “is to think of your hands as tools. They’re the greatest and most precise tools in the world, but they’re just as dumb as a hammer. They’ll perform as well as you command them to.”

They searched for twenty minutes. Cordelia found books about Scottish armour, Polynesian occult practices and mushroom cultivation, but she didn’t find anything that would help Will. Eleanor, meanwhile, pretended that Kristoff was a neighbourhood in Denver, Colorado, and so she was looking for books about Kristoff restaurants and shops; that helped her read the covers fine. For fun she tried to read all of them, and soon she came across something that jogged her memory.

“Hey, Deal! Wasn’t this the book you stole from the library?”

Cordelia immediately recognised the first-edition copy of Savage Warriors… and then something clicked in her head. The memory that had eluded her when she was captured by Slayne.

Cordelia took Savage Warriors and began flipping pages.

“What? What are you doing?”

When she hit page 17, she screamed.

“Brendan! Brendan!” Cordelia ran into the kitchen, waving Savage Warriors. Eleanor was close behind. Cordelia was momentarily silenced by the sight of Will, propped up on the kitchen table with some pillows, playing Brendan’s PSP.

“What?” her brother asked.

Brendan sat next to Will. The pilot’s skin was sickly and pale, but he looked happy. “We’re relaxing,” Brendan said. Then, to Will: “Get him!”

“Oh!” Will yelled. “How do I get him?”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for him to play… Red Dead Redemption?” Cordelia asked.

“He likes it! Gaming is good for people in pain. What’s it called? Tempur-pedic?”

“Therapeutic.”

“Whatever.”

“Give me that.” Cordelia snatched the PSP from Will and turned it off.

“Beg pardon!”

“Bren, you need to preserve the batteries in this thing.”

“Why?”

“We may need them. And how about you, Will? How are you feeling? Still think you’re in France?”

“I’m not sure where I am, Miss Walker.”

“I have an idea.”

Cordelia opened Savage Warriors to page 17.

“Listen: ‘They came forth from the forest then, seven men. Born majestic but transformed by time and blood into rootless killers. They rode on great steeds in armour that covered them as casts of steel. They were the Savage Warriors, who lived to sow mayhem and reap plunder. They killed men quickly… and women specially.’ Remind you of anyone?”

“Yeah, the dudes who just almost murdered us!” Brendan said.

“That’s not all. I knew those warriors seemed familiar. Their leader in the book… his name is Slayne.”

“Like the guy whose face I messed up!” exclaimed Eleanor.

“Guys: we’re trapped in a Denver Kristoff book.”

“The writer who built this place,” Brendan said to Will. “Wait – Deal, shouldn’t you have figured this out before? Didn’t you read that book?”

“I skimmed it, Bren, OK? I have a lot of books to read.”

“This is preposterous,” said Will. “Whoever heard of being trapped in a book?”

Instead of answering, Cordelia handed Will another book.

“The Fighting Ace,” said Will. “What’s your point?”

“Open it and read. Out loud.”

Will started with page 1: “‘He was destined to end up as rugged as they come, but as he walked across Farnborough Airfield on April 22, 1916, Officer Cadet Will Draper was nothing more than a boy who wanted to fly.’ Now hold on a minute! What’s the meaning of this?”

“Uh, you?” Cordelia said.

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