Mari licked her lips. It was true, Puck was overdue. But she didn’t think Trev had much of a chance of finding him by lurking in the Riverton streets at night. Her real worry she didn’t want to tell him openly: she feared he would be kidnapped or beaten by strangers who didn’t like his silver hair, big eyes and quiet, quick ways. Too many children had been disappearing lately. It was all in the gossip. Some said it was Wee Folk, but most said it was the half-breeds that had been springing up around town lately. Mongrels, that’s what people called children like Trev. The mongrels had been shameful family secrets at first, but such secrets can’t be kept forever.

  The lovely elf brides the river-boys had brought home with them from the Twilight Lands had often birthed lovely children—like Trev. But almost as often, things went badly. When the elf mother and the child survived a bad birth, they were shunned. They were kept in basements and barns. Some were sent packing back home to the Twilight Lands with their freak offspring humping alongside. Others went to live in the Deepwood or even the marshes. Sometimes their men went with them, sometimes not. But no one was in a trusting mood toward a half-breed like Trev, who could never seem to keep his silver hair stuffed up into his cap no matter how hard Mari tried to hide it there.

  “Trev, honey,” she said, kneeling in front of her son. “I want you to promise me you won’t go outside at night.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if there is a fire?” he asked. “This place burnt down before, you know.”

  Mari winced. She knew all too well. The fire had started when her Wee roommate had lit it.

  “Okay, unless there is a serious danger, I want you to promise me you’ll stay in this room after dark.”

  Trev looked at her and sighed. She felt something relax inside her. Here it was, he was about to promise. She knew he would twist facts, but he had enough of his father in him to stick to a bargain—to honor a promise made.

  “I’m sorry mother,” he said.

  “Sorry?” she asked, blinking at him.

  “I can’t tell you that. I don’t want to break a promise.”

  Mari’s lips compressed into a line. Her mother would have backhanded the boy. She knew that, and honestly, she felt the urge upon her. She had to protect him. Puck was gone, and Kaavi had left as well. She had no idea what they were doing, but she had felt wrong about events lately. She had learned since Piskin to trust her instincts in these situations.

  “Trev,” she said, “listen to me. It’s getting dangerous out there. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” he said.

  “Then why won’t you obey me?”

  Trev shuffled and fidgeted. “Because, the Dead won’t hurt me, mother. They can’t. Not for about a year. I made a bargain with their King. Everyone in this town is in danger except for me. Can’t you see?”

  Mari stared at her son and in that moment she did see. She saw her future. He was not like the other children. His mind didn’t work like theirs. He was just like Puck, his father. He was a wanderer, and as he grew older, things would only worsen. She knew right then with heartsick certainty that he would forever be taking off for days, weeks or even years at a time, only to reappear later with a cheery wave. She was to spend countless days and nights worrying about him and wondering if he was alive or dead—exactly as she did now for his father.

  The elves were so odd. They grew up faster than humans, but part of them was still child-like ten centuries later. It was as if they matured faster, but never quite matured all the way. Now, she was faced with a son whose mind worked like a child twice his age. But he was still so young and inexperienced. She didn’t know what to do and desperately wished Puck would come home to her. She began to weep.

  “Don’t do that, mother,” Trev said.

  “I think I’m going to call your father again,” she said.

  “But he’s on an important mission. I’m not lost or anything. Shouldn’t you wait until there is a real problem?”

  There it was again, judgment beyond his years. It made her both sick and delighted to hear it.

  “Where is it you want to go so badly, Trev?” she asked him. “When you sneak out, where do you go?”

  Trev worked his lips. “I—I go up the hill.”

  Mari walked to the window. The nearest hill was at the far end of town, the furthest spot in Riverton from the docks. Drake Manor stood there. She could see it through trees when she leaned her head out the window.

  “You go up to the Manor?” she asked hopefully. “Do you meet friends of yours up there?”

  “No mother. The other hill.”

  Mari’s eyes roved the landscape. Her face and mind froze. He had to be talking about the cemetery.

  “Why there Trev?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “That’s where the dead-things are,” he said brightly. “But don’t worry. Like I said, they can’t hurt me. Not for another year.”

  Mari stared at him, and she made herself a promise. If the boy slipped away again, she would follow.

  * * *

  Among all the countless Dead of the River Haven, Morcant Drake had been one of the first to rise. Today as evening came, he heard the call he’d been waiting for and became active again. He sat up in the wooded area at the bottom of the hilltop cemetery. This was the very spot he’d taken Tegan for their numerous trysts years ago. He did not remember the spot fondly, the way he had when he was alive, but he did tend to drift here when he wished to stop moving for long periods of time. To say he liked the spot would have added concepts that were beyond one of the Dead that functioned at his level. He simply tended to come here often, as he had in the past.

  His kind were known as shepherds. He was the only one of the Dead left here in Riverton as a shepherd, charged with aiding the rest and guiding them toward their goals when the time came. Today, as twilight fell over the land, the call had finally come. Morcant knew what to do: he was to gather the Dead in his vicinity and herd them toward the Living. He had no further function, unless given a direct order by their King—which was unlikely.

  Next to the spot where he became aware was a shovel. He’d placed it here when he’d last ceased functioning, but he had no memory of that. For his kind, memories were limited to the here and now. He picked up the shovel with stiff limbs and headed toward the open field of green grass and tombstones that made up the cemetery proper. He stopped at the first grave he came to and began to dig. At the bottom of each grave was a corpse that had heard the same call he had and now scratched to be let out. It was his job to free them all.

  The first body he exhumed came out flipping dirt everywhere with long, yellow-gray hair. It was Gram Rabing, although it would have been hard for any of her Clan to recognize her now. Her face was a greenish-brown, having lain in the earth for nearly a year. Her hair was longer than it had been when she had been laid down, having continued to leech upon her flesh and grow. Her skeleton showed through in places.

  Gram Rabing grabbed for Morcant’s huge black boots when she came out of the dirt. She snarled and clacked the few ancient teeth she had left. He ignored her, ripping his boot from her grasp and stepping to the next grave where he began digging anew. Soon Gram Rabing understood he was a dead-thing as well, and she wandered aimlessly over the hillside, looking for Life.

  Morcant dug up more bodies. Each time they came crawling up out of the earth, he moved on to the next. Morcant didn’t have ambition. He had not achieved the rank of shepherd through special effort, nor did he dislike the appointment. It simply was. His only thought—if it could be called that—was to obey his master as best he could. His only desire was to perform his appointed task as a shepherd of the Dead. When he dug each man, woman, child and beast from their tombs and sent them tottering on their way down the hill, he did not find it ironic that he had spent his last days burying these same individuals. The entire concept of irony was truly lost upon him now.

  The day died and became night. The moon rose and stars swam overhead. Dozens of the Dead now shuffled and roamed about the hillside. They bumped into trees and tripped over headstones.

  At the appointed hour, when the night was half gone, Morcant walked to the shack where he’d kept a group of living children captive for days. He opened the door, which creaked loudly. He pulled the first child out by the hair. It was a dirty-faced, wide-eyed Timmy Hoot. The boy had been locked up inside the root cellar—which had no roots in it at all. Instead, it harbored a hundred strange, stinking liquids in glass jars which Daz the caretaker had used to anoint the bodies he prepared. Morcant slammed the door closed behind him and locked it again.

  Morcant then shuffled past the terrified child and lifted the bar on the outside door. He stood aside to give the boy room. Timid at first, the Living boy soon took his opportunity and bolted. This was exactly as was planned, and Morcant made no attempt to stop him.

  Timmy Hoot ran screaming down the hill, following the lane toward Riverton. No other course of action was expected. His noisy passage alerted the throng of Dead stumbling about on the cemetery hillside. Every one of them froze and fixated upon the boy, as might a hundred hounds when seeing a fox run near. Then, as one, they hobbled forward excitedly, giving chase. The pack moved together in a mass downhill toward Riverton where they would find lights, movement—Life.

  After the throng had passed down the lane, Morcant went back to digging up fresh graves. There were hundreds more still to be opened. When he had opened enough, he would release another child. The throng would chase after the child, sending a new wave of death scuttling down the hillside into Riverton.

  * * *

  Trev had agreed in the end not to go up to the graveyard. He had also agreed not to leave the room at all today. But as midnight passed, Trev knew it was now a different day. One of the first things they’d taught him in his brief stay at school was about clocks and hours. He knew exactly when one day ended and another began. Many people thought a day lasted until the sun came up to light the sky the next morning, but that wasn’t true. Days started and ended at midnight.

  When midnight came and passed, Trev climbed out of bed and slipped away. He was as quiet as a cat wearing slippers, at least, that’s what his grandfather often said about him.

  Minutes later, Trev stood upon the High Street cobbles in a shadowy spot. He gazed uphill toward the woods at the bottom of the cemetery. He wanted to walk up there and investigate, but he held back. The trouble was, he had promised not to go up to the graveyard alone. Not just today, not ever. That was a problem for him. He tried to make the best of the situation, telling himself that officially he was able to travel anywhere else he felt like—just not the cemetery.

  He left the High Street and walked down quieter lanes. His path took him closer to the cemetery, but not actually onto the grounds. At the bottom of the hill a circle of houses ringed the wooded land. There were a few tinkering shops here, all dark and quiet. Most of the houses were small and tired-looking. They were the homes of laborers: bricklayers, carpenters, seamstresses and the like. They were not so poor as the people who lived on stilted shacks along the docks, but neither were they rich enough to live on the good side of town.

  Trev moved like a shadow among a thousand other shadows. He felt at home in the dark, but he soon realized he was not alone here in this neighborhood. Something was moving in the alleyway nearby. He heard a trash-barrel creak and rattle. Probably a stray cat looking for a meal, he thought. Just to be sure, he hunkered down in a deep pool of shadow beside a smith’s anvil and watched the alleyway. The sounds continued. If it was a cat, the animal was having a hard time of it. Had it somehow fallen inside a barrel and gotten trapped in there?

  He became aware of another, softer sound nearby. After a moment, frowning and listening, he became certain of it: someone was coming down the street behind him. This someone was trying to be quiet, but wasn’t quite managing it. Their shoes slapped the cobbles now and then. Trev shook his head. He never wore shoes when he wanted to be quiet. His bare feet were much softer and almost never made a sound when he walked.

  Hunkering down even lower behind the anvil, Trev watched with growing excitement. There was something inexplicably fun about hiding and watching others when they didn’t know they were being observed. He did not even consider the possibility he was being stalked by someone dangerous.

  The person coming down the street paused, then moved toward the alley, where the steady sounds were coming from. Those sounds had escalated to a rhythmic banging by now.

  Trev frowned. What kind of cat would make such a ruckus for so long? Unable to contain his curiosity, he slid around the anvil and looked to see what was what.

  His surprise was complete when he saw the person stalking toward the alleyway was a woman, and one that he recognized.

  “Mother?” he said aloud.

  The woman whirled, and it was indeed his mother Mari, her wide eyes sought him in the darkness. Sighing, he rose from his hiding spot and walked forward.

  “What are you doing out here?” he whispered.

  “Keeping an eye on you, boy,” she said.

  “It is tomorrow now, you know. I didn’t break my promise.”

  “I know.”

  The banging in the alleyway stopped with a crash. Mari and Trev both looked toward it. They heard shuffling footsteps.

  “Who’s in my yard making a fuss?” another voice called.

  A man had come out of his door. He was from the house with the anvil, so Trev figured he must be a smith.

  “I’m Trev,” said Trev. “My mother and I heard something strange in the alley.”

  Mari nodded. “It’s true,” she said.

  The blacksmith fumbled with a small oil lamp and finally got it lit. “Someone needs a thumping, that’s for certain,” he muttered. He walked toward the alleyway.

  “You there,” he called out. “People are trying to sleep, do you mind? Go down to the docks if you want to dig—”

  The blacksmith made a funny noise then. Trev wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that someone else had grabbed hold of his face. Trev trotted closer to see what was happening.

  “Trev!” shouted Mari, “Let’s get out of here.”

  She took him by the hand and dragged him away. Trev kept looking back all the while. The fight was interesting. The blacksmith was strong, and he took out a long knife. He stabbed at the man who held him—but that had no effect. Then he slashed away the hands that held onto his face and throat. His attacker staggered away, wrist stumps flailing. The blacksmith fell onto his back in the street. There were still a hand on the smith’s throat, and it was still squeezing.

  Mari dragged Trev another block, but after that she let him go and knelt to have a whispered talk with him.

  “That was a dead-thing, Mother!” he said. “Back there in the alley.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “It was probably some drunk or a burglar trying to sneak into a house.”

  “If you would just let me show you,” he said.

  “Show me what?” she hissed.

  “Up there, on the hill,” he said, pointing.

  Mari followed his pointing finger and she shuddered. “We are not going up there at night. No sir!”

  “Can we go up in the morning?” Trev asked.

  Mari sighed. “All right, if you’ll come back to the Spotted Hog with me.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Mari nodded. “Okay then, we have a deal.”

  No sooner had she said these words than Trev bolted. He ran for the wooded area at the bottom of the cemetery hill.

  “Where are you going?” cried Mari.

  “It’s morning now, remember? It’s after midnight!”

  “But you said you would come back to our room!”

  “I will, mother! After I show you. Come on!”

  Mari ran after the boy. She loudly cursed the day she’d become pregnant, and cursed every elf in the wood. She cursed Puck in particular for providing her with his tricky seed.

  Trev knew she could never catch him. He led her on a merry chase, but didn’t run so fast as to make her lose her way. He really did want her to see what was up there. The grown-ups ought to know about it.

  He led her the long way around, so they would come up behind the caretaker’s shack instead of into the open where the graveyard was. When they were at the rear of the shack, he waited, panting with his back against the rough plank walls.

  Mari came trotting and puffing up, holding her skirts up by plucking at them. She crouched by Trev. He could barely see her in the moonlight that filtered down through the trees.

  “You’ll not get away from me again, boy,” she puffed when she was able. “Now I’ve come up here and I’m ready to leave again. Honor your bargain and come back to bed.”

  Trev cocked his head. “Do you hear something?” he whispered.

  She listened for a moment. They both heard it then. It sounded like a sob coming from inside the shack.

  “The Dead don’t cry,” he said.

  “We have to get out of here,” Mari whispered.

  “Don’t you want to know who is crying?”

  “I want to get you out of here safely. I don’t know why I bother sometimes, Trev, honestly.”

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  His mother made a sound of quiet frustration in the darkness. She stood up and took his hand. “We’ll look inside. If we find anything awful, we’re going to run for it.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Together, they entered the shack. It took them a minute or so to open the cellar door on its creaking hinges. Inside, a group of children huddled in the dark, too scared to speak.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Mari said, reaching to take the nearest little girl by the hand.

  The child snatched her hand away and pointed past Mari and Trev. They turned to see Morcant’s huge form standing in the doorway. He had a shovel in his hand that dripped with fresh earth.

  * * *