A whisper drifted past her ears and she froze. Her pulse drummed as she turned in a full circle, searching.
The whisper came again and this time she was ready for it. The familiar poem turned her organs to ice.
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . .
She forced down a gulp.
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her . . .
She spun around again, her legs trembling. She wished she’d taken Jest’s sceptre or Hatta’s cane, anything to use as a weapon.
He put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.
She turned again and spotted the destroyed shell of one of the enormous, house-sized pumpkins. It was the one she and Mary Ann had seen before, the one they’d heard the strange scratching from. Now the shell lay in gigantic pieces scattered across the pumpkin patch, as if some beast had destroyed it from the inside.
Some beast. Like the Jabberwock.
Cath pushed ahead. The sooner she got Mary Ann out of here, the sooner she could return to Jest and begin her new life far away from the Kingdom of Hearts.
‘He’ll take you too.’
Cath yelped. The voices were louder now – right at her feet. She jumped back and looked down at a knee-high pumpkin that sat off the path. As she stared, its flesh peeled back, revealing two triangle eyes and a gap-toothed mouth.
‘Run away,’ the pumpkin told her, still whispering, as the carved pupils of its eyes slid from side to side. ‘Run away.’
‘Run away before he finds you,’ warned another pumpkin lantern two rows over.
‘You . . . you’re alive,’ she stammered.
‘He’ll kill you,’ said the first pumpkin, ‘to feed the insatiable Jabberwock.’
‘He killed our brothers, blaming us for what became of her.’
‘It wasn’t our fault.’
‘It wasn’t our fault.’
‘It was those other pumpkins. Those cruel pumpkins.’
‘The ones that came from the Looking Glass.’
‘They’re to blame, but we’ll all suffer for it.’
‘You should run away, run away with your human legs, run away . . .’
Cath hurried on, as much to get away from their nerve-tingling words as to heed their warnings. She thought of the pumpkin lanterns spiked on the wrought-iron fence and bile rose in her throat. She choked it back down as she rounded the corner of the cottage.
No ladder. No saw. No axe.
But there was a woodshed, not much further, the door ajar and black shadows spilling out. She lifted her skirts and jogged towards it, her eyes beginning to water with the suffocating presence of fear.
Something grabbed her and slammed her back against the cottage wall so hard the wind kicked out of her lungs. A scream died in her throat.
Peter hunched over her, eyes ablaze and a gleaming axe in his hand.
CHAPTER 47
‘SO YOU CAME BACK to finish it?’ Peter growled, his lips curled back to show yellowing teeth. Cath recoiled at the smell of rotting pumpkin on his breath, but he held her firm against the cottage’s side.
‘I – I came for Mary Ann,’ she stammered, wishing she could have sounded courageous, but her words came out a squeaking rush. ‘P-please let us go. We don’t wish you any harm . . . We just . . .’
‘Where is it?’ Peter said, ignoring her pleas as he thumped his big hands down Cath’s hips, pressing down the voluminous fabric, searching. ‘Where’s the sword?’
Cath squirmed against the wall. ‘I don’t have it, I swear. I just want to get Mary Ann and leave, and you’ll never see either of us again, I promise!’
‘Give it to me!’ Peter yelled, spittle flicking against Catherine’s cheeks.
A black shape appeared in the corner of her eyes, then a roar as Jest flung himself towards them and locked his sceptre beneath Peter’s chin. ‘Let her go!’
Whether it was the command or the sceptre or mere surprise, Peter did release her. Cath slid down the wall, grasping at her bruised shoulder.
No. No, Jest couldn’t be here.
The charcoal drawings flashed through her thoughts.
Peter was a head taller and twice the girth of Jest, and with a snarl he had grabbed the sceptre with his free hand and tossed Jest over his shoulder.
But Jest – blithe, magical Jest – turned the movement into a cartwheel, landing easily on his feet.
Hope fluttered through Cath’s rib cage, but then her eye caught on another shadowy figure. Someone large and unfamiliar, each step built upon a threat. It was a man, tall and lean and wearing a black hood that hung low, concealing his face. A leather belt was strapped over his black tunic, and tucked into it was a massive, curve-bladed axe.
The inked drawing. The hooded figure. The axe brandished over Jest’s headless form.
Cath screamed. ‘Jest! Look out!’
Peter loped forward, preparing to swing his axe.
Jest ducked away. He glanced at the hooded figure stalking towards them. ‘It’s all right, Cath,’ he panted, tumbling away from Peter again. ‘It’s only Raven.’
Her heart sputtered, and this did nothing to alleviate her panic. Murderer, martyr . . .
Jest snatched his sceptre off the ground where Peter had thrown it and danced out of reach. It occurred to Cath that he was leading Peter away from her. Protecting her.
‘He won’t hurt you,’ Jest yelled again, his eyes glued to Peter. ‘He just looks threatening because, well . . .’ He ducked. Spun. ‘He used to be an executioner for the White Queen.’
She looked back at the hooded man. Watched as he set his enormous hand, cloaked in a leather glove, atop his axe’s handle.