The Iron King. Julie Kagawa

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out of place in a world that wished me harm.

      Ethan, I reminded myself. You’re doing this for Ethan. Once you get him, you can go home and everything will go back to normal.

      The rustling grew louder, and twigs snapped as whatever was out there drew closer. “Princess,” Puck snapped, right next to me. I jumped and bit down a shriek as he grabbed my wrist. “The aforementioned nasties have picked up our scent and are coming for us.” Though his voice was casual, I could see the strain in his eyes. “If you don’t want your first day in the Nevernever to be your last, I suggest we move.”

      I looked back and saw the door we came through standing upright in the middle of the clearing. “Will we be able to get back home this way?” I asked as Puck pulled me along.

      â€œNope.” When I stared at him in horror, he shrugged.

      â€œWell, you can’t expect the doors to stand around in one place, princess. Don’t worry, though. You have me, remember? When the time comes, we’ll find the way home.”

      We ran for the far side of the clearing, straight for a tangle of bushes with hooked yellow thorns as long as my thumb. I held back, sure we’d be sliced to ribbons, but as we neared, the branches shivered and peeled away from us, revealing a narrow path cutting through the trees. As we stepped through, the bushes knitted together again, hiding the trail and protecting our retreat.

      We walked for hours, or at least it felt that way to me. Puck kept up a steady pace, neither hurrying nor slowing down, and in time the sounds of pursuit faded away. Sometimes the trail split, wending off in different directions, but Puck always chose a path without hesitation. Many times, I’d catch movement from the corner of my eye—a flash of color in the brush, a figure silhouetted between the trees—but when I turned, there’d be nothing. Sometimes, I almost swore I heard singing or music, but, of course, it would fade when I tried to focus on it. The sickly luminescence of the forest never dimmed or brightened, and when I asked Puck what time night would fall, he cocked an eyebrow at me and said night would come when it was ready.

      Annoyed, I checked my watch, wondering how long we’d been traveling. I received an unpleasant shock. The slender hands were frozen in place. Either the watch’s battery was dead, or something else was interfering.

      Or maybe time doesn’t exist in this place. I don’t know why I found that immensely disturbing, but I did.

      My feet were aching, my stomach hurt, and my legs were burning with exhaustion when the eternal twilight finally began to dim. Puck stopped, gazing up at the sky, where an enormous moon glimmered over the treetops, so close you could see pits and craters marring the surface.

      â€œI suppose we should rest for the night.” Puck sounded reluctant. He gave me a sideways grin as I collapsed on a moldy log. “We wouldn’t want you stumbling onto a dancing mound, or following a white bunny down a dark hole. Come on, I know a place not far from here where we can sleep undisturbed.”

      He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. My limbs screamed in protest, and I almost sat down again. I was tired, cranky, and the last thing I wanted was more hiking. Gazing around, I saw a lovely little pond through a stand of trees. The water shimmered in the moonlight, and I paused, gazing out over the mirrored surface. “Why not stop there?” I asked.

      Puck took one look at the pond, grimaced, and pulled me onward. “Ah, no,” he said quickly. “Too many nasties lurking underwater—kelpies and glaistigs and mermaids and such. Best not to risk it.”

      I looked back and saw a dark shape breach the perfect surface of the pond, sending ripples across the still water. The top of a horse’s head, coal-black and slick like a seal, watched me with baleful white eyes. With a gasp, I hurried on.

      A few minutes later, we came to the trunk of a huge, gnarled tree. The bark was so knobby and rough that I could almost see faces peering out of the trunk. It reminded me of wrinkled old men, stacked atop each other and waving their crooked arms indignantly.

      Puck knelt among the roots and knocked on the wood. I peered over his shoulder and, with a start, saw a tiny door, barely a foot tall, near the base of the tree. As I watched, wide-eyed, the door creaked open, and a head peered out suspiciously.

      â€œEh? Who’s there?” a rough, squeaky voice asked as I stared in wonder. The little man’s skin was the color of walnuts; his hair looked like a bundle of twigs sticking out of his scalp. He wore a brown tunic and brown leggings, and looked like a stick come to life, except for the eyes peering out of his face, black and shiny like a beetle’s.

      â€œGood evening, Twiggs,” Puck greeted politely.

      The little man blinked, squinting up at the figure towering over him. “Robin Good fellow?” he squeaked at last. “Haven’t seen you round these parts in a while. What brings you to my humble tree?”

      â€œEscort service,” Puck replied, shifting to the side so that Twiggs could get a clear view of me. Those beady eyes fixed on me, blinking in confusion. Then, suddenly, they got huge and round, as Twiggs looked back at Puck.

      â€œIs … is that … ?”

      â€œIt is.”

      â€œDoes she … ?”

      â€œNo.”

      â€œOh, my.” Twiggs opened the door wide, beckoning with a sticklike arm. “Come in, come in. Quickly, now. Before the dryads catch sight of you, the irritating gossips.” He vanished inside, and Puck turned to me.

      â€œI’ll never be able to fit in there,” I told him before he could say a word. “There’s no way I’m going to squeeze through, unless you’ve got a magic toadstool that’ll shrink me to the size of a wasp. And I’m not eating anything like that. I’ve seen Alice in Wonderland, you know.”

      Puck grinned and took my hand.

      â€œClose your eyes,” he told me, “and just walk.”

      I did, half expecting to walk nose first into the tree, courtesy of a great Robbie-prank. When nothing happened, I almost peeked but thought better of it. The air turned warm, and I heard a door slam behind me, when Puck said I could open my eyes again.

      I stood in a cozy, round room, the walls made of smooth red wood, the floor covered with mossy carpet. A flat rock on three stumps served as a table in the center of the room, displaying berries the size of soccer balls. A rope ladder hung on the far wall, and when my gaze followed it up, I nearly fainted. Dozens of insects crawled on the walls or hovered in the air high above us, for the trunk extended farther than I could see. Each bug was the size of a cocker spaniel, and their rear ends glowed a luminescent yellow-green.

      â€œYou’ve been renovating, Twiggs,” Puck said, sitting on a bundle of furs that passed for a couch. I looked closer and saw the head of a squirrel still attached to the skin, and had to look away. “This place was barely a hole in the tree when I saw it last.”

      Twiggs looked pleased. He was our height now—actually, I guess we were more his height—and up close he smelled of cedar and moss.

      â€œYes,

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