The Peculiar (21 page)

I will.
But Bartholomew knew there was no point answering. He kept his eyes fixed on Hettie, waiting to shout, to tell her it was time, and she could jump.

The door was shrinking quickly. The smaller it became the faster the wings spun, until suddenly a pillar of blackness burst upward, screeching along the elevator cable toward the airship. The imp gave a whine and was consumed. From somewhere high above came a deep, rolling boom.

The wings filled the door, blotting out everything. Bartholomew could see only snippets of the woods beyond, little glimpses of Hettie's frightened face, the cottage, the snowbound forest.

“Now!” Bartholomew shouted. “Now, Hettie, get out!
Jump!
”

She wasn't moving. Someone was standing behind her. A tall, thin, shadowy figure, a pale hand resting on her shoulder.

Bartholomew lunged forward. His arm went through. He felt Hettie, her dirty nightgown, her twig hair. He fumbled for her hand, trying to drag her to him, back to London and the warehouse. Home.

“Come on, Hettie, now! Jump!”

But the wings were everywhere, battering him, shutting him out. Hettie's hand was wrenched from his grasp. He was thrown back, flying through the air until he struck a wall of crates. He slid to the floor, head spinning. Something warm trickled across his brow. His tongue tasted blood.

Hettie
, he thought blearily.
Hettie needs to jump.
Slowly, painfully, he forced himself up, forced himself to move. “Hettie,” he called. “Hettie, you have to—”

Everything was still. The wind had stopped, the noise too. The wings were frozen in midair; splintering crates, hooks and chains all hung suspended. The door was a perfect ring at the center of the warehouse. And framed inside, standing small and lonely among the vaulting trees, was Hettie.

She looked at Bartholomew, her black eyes full of terror. Tears were streaming down from them, dripping over her sharp cheekbones. She raised her hand.

Then there was a sound like a violin string snapping. The spell was broken. Everything was in motion again. Rubble rained down from all sides—wood from the crates, stone from the walls, propellers and burning canvas from the airship. The door vanished.

Bartholomew gave a savage cry. He ran to the place where it had been, clawed at the air, clawed at the stones.

“Jump!” he cried. “Jump, Hettie, jump, jump!”

But it was too late for that.

Above him, there was a tremendous crash. Chunks of roof and burning beams collapsed around him, caging him in. Somewhere in the roiling smoke, an explosion. He fell to the floor, crying and screaming, and blackness enveloped him.

He didn't know how long he lay there. It might have been a year or a day. It would have been all the same to him if he were dead and this were the end of the world. Sounds echoed toward him from far away. Water, icy cold, stung his skin. The black and silver of fire fighters' uniforms glimmered dully through the fog of his vision. Then people were crowding around him, talking all at once.

“A Peculiar,” they said. “Half dead. Should we leave him? Leave him here?” And somewhere Mr. Jelliby was being angry, shouting, “You'll get him to the carriages, is what you'll do! You'll rush him to Harley Street, and if it takes you the rest of your lives, you'll save him! He saved you. He saved all of us.”

Go away,
Bartholomew thought.
Leave me alone.
He wanted to sleep. The darkness was there again, rolling beneath him and beckoning him. But before he let it take him, he opened his eyes and looked up. He could see the sky through the ruined roof. It was dawn. The sun was just rising over the city, piercing the heavy clouds.

“I'll come find you, Hettie,” he whispered as strong hands lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him away. “Wherever you are, I'll bring you home.”

About the Author

STEFAN BACHMANN
is a writer and musician. He was born in Colorado and now lives with his family in Zurich, Switzerland, where he attends the Zurich Conservatory. He began writing
The Peculiar
in 2010, when he was sixteen years old. www.stefanbachmann.com

To listen to Peculiar Pieces, music written by Stefan Bachmann to accompany the book, please visit ThePeculiarBook.com.

 

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Credits

Cover art © 2012 by Thierry Lafontaine, Imaginism Studios

Cover design by Paul Zakris

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

 

The Peculiar
Copyright © 2012 by Stefan Bachmann

 

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Bachmann, Stefan, 1993-

The Peculiar / by Stefan Bachmann.

p. cm.

Summary: After humans win the faery wars in England, a half-human, half-faery child, scorned by both races, finds himself at the center of a web of intrigue and danger when he is stalked by a sinister faery.

ISBN 978-0-06-219518-0 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-224501-4 (intl. bdg.)
Epub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062195203

[1. Fairies—Fiction. 2. Changelings—Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction.

4. England—Fiction. 5. Fantasy. 6. Youths' writings.] I. Title.

PZ7.B132173Pe 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012017914

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First Edition