carving on your chest? Healing up nicely?’
Ash took another step back, and another. He glanced across at Callie. She was staring at Chris Brooker as if she wanted to punch him.
‘Earth and stone,’ hissed Brooker, ‘fire and ash, blood and bone.’
Ash grabbed Callie’s wrist. ‘Run,’ he said. ‘Just run!’
So they ran, dodging along the crowded pavement, between shoppers who swung wide-eyed faces at them like startled cattle.
Behind them, laughter, fast footfalls, angry passers-by yelling.
‘This way,’ said Callie. Pulled him with her across a courtyard then into a crowded cafe and out through open glass doors to a terraced garden. An old man staring at them, cup of tea stalled midway to his lips. Two women, a baby squalling in a pram. Ash twisted his body around the pram, muttered, ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Past a tortoiseshell cat curled up in the sunshine and out through a rickety green door onto a narrow back lane that smelled of rotting cabbage. He followed Callie along a snicket between two garages to another lane and then another where they stopped to catch their breath, crouching among tall weeds beside a stone wall. The cuts on Ash’s chest felt tight and hot and sore under the dressings. He looked down at his chest, half expecting to see blood seeping through his T-shirt, but there was nothing.
‘That sweaty boy,’ said Callie. ‘What did he say? That stuff about earth and blood or whatever it was?’
‘Earth and stone, fire and ash, blood and bone.’
‘What does that mean? Why did it make you run?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ash. ‘I’ve heard it before though. I heard Mark say it yesterday.’
‘What exactly went on that made you come and find me?’
‘Mark …’ He paused, wondering how much to tell her. ‘He left a note for me, telling me to meet him. I didn’t go but he found me out in the mountains and I followed him back to his camp in the woods. All the hound boys were waiting for me there. Mark must have set it up, I suppose. Then he came out dressed as the stag god.’
She shot him a sideways look. ‘Dressed as the what?’
He didn’t answer right away.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I can’t take any more of people not telling me things. My dad was like that before he killed himself. Now Mark. I’ve had enough of it. I know Mark is into some strange stuff so I don’t care if you tell me something weird or bad. I’m ready for that. Just tell me.’
Dark memories played through Ash’s mind. Knife and blood, the severed stag’s head, the stink of rotting meat. He didn’t want to tell her about those things. They were too bleak, too horrifying.
But she had a right to know. So he started to talk and the words tumbled out, jumbled and urgent, a chaotic stream of consciousness. He told her all of it, not just the stuff about Mark but about Dad as well. She didn’t stop him, just crouched by the wall, listening, frowning. He described the weird Stag Chase he’d seen up on the Leap and the shadows that raced along behind him afterwards. He told her about Mark’s threats to kill him if he ran as the stag boy, about the raggedy man in the mountains whom Mark had called Bone Jack, and about the wolf-dog, and about Mark as the stag god, and even about the stag’s head that he’d carved on Ash’s chest. He told her about Dad freaking out and the black feather and the bloody handprint on the window and the sheep skull, Mark trying to push Dad over the edge into madness, trying to scare Ash into pulling out of the Stag Chase.
He told her everything and then he waited.
NINETEEN
Callie was quiet for a long while, staring ahead at nothing. His heart sank.
‘Callie—’
‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking. It’s a lot to process.’
So he shut up, tilted his head back and watched a gull cut silvery arcs against the pale sky. Nerves fluttered in his stomach.
‘I know where he got some of this stuff from,’ she said at last. ‘Grandpa and Dad used to tell
Ash took another step back, and another. He glanced across at Callie. She was staring at Chris Brooker as if she wanted to punch him.
‘Earth and stone,’ hissed Brooker, ‘fire and ash, blood and bone.’
Ash grabbed Callie’s wrist. ‘Run,’ he said. ‘Just run!’
So they ran, dodging along the crowded pavement, between shoppers who swung wide-eyed faces at them like startled cattle.
Behind them, laughter, fast footfalls, angry passers-by yelling.
‘This way,’ said Callie. Pulled him with her across a courtyard then into a crowded cafe and out through open glass doors to a terraced garden. An old man staring at them, cup of tea stalled midway to his lips. Two women, a baby squalling in a pram. Ash twisted his body around the pram, muttered, ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Past a tortoiseshell cat curled up in the sunshine and out through a rickety green door onto a narrow back lane that smelled of rotting cabbage. He followed Callie along a snicket between two garages to another lane and then another where they stopped to catch their breath, crouching among tall weeds beside a stone wall. The cuts on Ash’s chest felt tight and hot and sore under the dressings. He looked down at his chest, half expecting to see blood seeping through his T-shirt, but there was nothing.
‘That sweaty boy,’ said Callie. ‘What did he say? That stuff about earth and blood or whatever it was?’
‘Earth and stone, fire and ash, blood and bone.’
‘What does that mean? Why did it make you run?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ash. ‘I’ve heard it before though. I heard Mark say it yesterday.’
‘What exactly went on that made you come and find me?’
‘Mark …’ He paused, wondering how much to tell her. ‘He left a note for me, telling me to meet him. I didn’t go but he found me out in the mountains and I followed him back to his camp in the woods. All the hound boys were waiting for me there. Mark must have set it up, I suppose. Then he came out dressed as the stag god.’
She shot him a sideways look. ‘Dressed as the what?’
He didn’t answer right away.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘I can’t take any more of people not telling me things. My dad was like that before he killed himself. Now Mark. I’ve had enough of it. I know Mark is into some strange stuff so I don’t care if you tell me something weird or bad. I’m ready for that. Just tell me.’
Dark memories played through Ash’s mind. Knife and blood, the severed stag’s head, the stink of rotting meat. He didn’t want to tell her about those things. They were too bleak, too horrifying.
But she had a right to know. So he started to talk and the words tumbled out, jumbled and urgent, a chaotic stream of consciousness. He told her all of it, not just the stuff about Mark but about Dad as well. She didn’t stop him, just crouched by the wall, listening, frowning. He described the weird Stag Chase he’d seen up on the Leap and the shadows that raced along behind him afterwards. He told her about Mark’s threats to kill him if he ran as the stag boy, about the raggedy man in the mountains whom Mark had called Bone Jack, and about the wolf-dog, and about Mark as the stag god, and even about the stag’s head that he’d carved on Ash’s chest. He told her about Dad freaking out and the black feather and the bloody handprint on the window and the sheep skull, Mark trying to push Dad over the edge into madness, trying to scare Ash into pulling out of the Stag Chase.
He told her everything and then he waited.
NINETEEN
Callie was quiet for a long while, staring ahead at nothing. His heart sank.
‘Callie—’
‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking. It’s a lot to process.’
So he shut up, tilted his head back and watched a gull cut silvery arcs against the pale sky. Nerves fluttered in his stomach.
‘I know where he got some of this stuff from,’ she said at last. ‘Grandpa and Dad used to tell
Similar Books
