mouse had been adjusted by the Circus of Marvels’ resident boffin and could now communicate with Ned, albeit in simple Morse code. Longer flashes of the eyes were a dash, shorter blinks a dot.
Ned wondered who was sending him a message. Only a few people knew the correct frequency to contact Whiskers: Ned’s parents, the Circus of Marvels and the Olswangs at number 24. His dad had insisted that if they were to return to a “normal” life, they would have to have friendly agents to watch over their son. “Fair-folk” used glamours outside the Hidden’s territory to remain human in appearance, but Mr Olswang clearly had dwarven blood in his veins and “Mrs” had to have been elven to be anywhere near as tall as she was. Either way, neither Ned’s parents nor the Olswangs had ever had cause to use the system until today, in Mr Johnston’s shed.
Ned’s friends looked at Whiskers in complete and utter horror.
“What in the name of everything is your mouse doing?” marvelled Archie.
“Shh, it’s blinking,” said Ned.
“DON’T GO, H, O, M,” he translated.
A single dot.
“E.”
There are few things less likely to make a boy stay where he is, than telling him not to go home. Especially when it means that his parents might be in danger.
“Y-y-you need to do some explaining,” stammered Gummy. “I mean, that’s just not right, not a bit! Your … your blinking mouse, Ned, what on earth is it?”
Archie leapt to his feet.
“It’s magic, innit?” said Archie. “You’ve got some weird magical rodent, you’re like blooming Gandalf or something. O,M,G, that is AWESOME!”
But when Ned spoke it was in a whisper. A whisper so cold that it stilled his friends to their cores.
“Say nothing, not to anyone. Promise?”
Whether because of Whiskers’ flashing eyes, or the look on Ned’s face, both of his friends remained silent.
“PROMISE!” forced Ned with a shout.
“Promise,” they murmured back sheepishly.
And with that, Ned was on his bicycle and pedalling away from the Johnstons’ as fast as its wheels would carry him.
“Ned, wait! You forgot your bag,” called Gummy, but Ned was already gone.
Where his dad had trained Ned with the ring at his finger, his mum had taught him circus skills. High-wire, tumbling, fencing, juggling (either knives or flames) and all-round acrobatics. Everyone who worked the borders of the Veil had to know them, to be able to fight, or get out of danger, and there was no better teacher than Olivia Armstrong.
She had not taught him how to ride a bike – that much he had already known – but she had honed his reflexes and kept him fit. Even so, he thought his lungs were going to explode by the time he finally made it to his house, though not as surely as his heart. Training only works, no matter how thorough, when you remember it. Ned could barely remember how to breathe.
He didn’t notice the blaring car alarms, or that the lawnmower from number 39 was floating several feet off the ground. His powers were spiking again. He approached the front door and let out a sigh of relief. The lights were on and everything looked quite normal from the outside. He even heard “White Christmas” playing on their kitchen radio again.
“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas …”
It was only when he pulled out his keys that he noticed the front door hanging very slightly ajar. That, in and of itself, would have been more than enough to make Ned worry, but it was the movement in his own shadow that made his hair stand on end. It spilt out across the ground, oozing with a will of its own. The shadow became a shape and then the shape rose up to greet him. Within it were two minuscule eyes, like a pair of stars on flowing black velvet.
Ned’s undulating familiar, the shadow-dwelling Gorrn, was a difficult creature, prone to taking offence over the smallest issue and also uncommonly lazy. Gorrn usually only came to Ned if he was summoned. The only time he showed himself without being asked was if there was very clear and very present danger nearby.
“Gorrn, is something wrong?”
“Arr,” groaned back the shadow.
Gorrn was a familiar of few words. “Roo” was either a question or a “don’t know”, “Unt” a flat refusal to help, but “Arr”?
“Arr” nearly always meant yes.
The inside looked normal enough, at least to begin with. There was no sign of trouble, and Ned could see that one of the gas rings in the kitchen had been lit, though the pan next to it was still waiting to go on. As if someone had been interrupted. Or taken by surprise.
“Mum! Dad?”
There was no answer.
Where were they, and why would they leave the front door open and the gas on?
“Kidnap,” blared the radio suddenly. “Tonight’s story focuses on how people are being taken from their homes, but also asks the big question – why?”
“Taken?” murmured a horrified Ned. “Whiskers – that Morse message, was it from the Olswangs?”
The Debussy Mark Twelve gave an affirmative bob of its head.
Ned peered through the living-room window, out across the street and on to the Olswangs’. Even as the day drew darker, he
