Peter and the Secret of Rundoon.

Dave Barry; Ridley Pearson.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

We thank J. M. Barrie, who imagined one of the most wonderful stories ever, and Paige Pearson, who, upon hearing that story for the first time, asked her father how Peter Pan met Captain Hook in the first place.

Paige's question led us to write Peter and the Starcatchers, which led to Peter and the Shadow Thieves, which led to the book you're reading now. Our editor for all these books has been Wendya"yes, Wendya"Lefkon. We thank her for her unfailing support of these books, and for her gentle reminders that she cannot publish them until we actually finish them.

We thank our amazing ill.u.s.trator, the quietly brilliant Greg Call, for bringing our words to life.

We thank the people who keep us organized, or at least less disorganized than we'd be without them: Nancy Litzinger and Judi Smith. We thank our copy editors, David and Laurel Walters, and Judi again, for finding and rooting out our many boneheaded errors. Any remaining mistakes in this book are solely the fault of the evil Lord Ombra.

We thank Jennifer Levine for flying us all around the country to talk about a flying boy, and always getting us back home for birthdays.

We thank our smart and beautiful wives, Mich.e.l.le and Marcelle, for letting us go, and welcoming us back.

Above all, we thank our readers, the young ones and the less-young ones, but especially the ones who came to the bookstores dressed as pirates.

a"Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson.

CHAPTER 1.

THE GATHERING.

THE OLD MAN TRUDGED ALONG THE DIRT PATH, pulling his worn coat tighter to ward off the cold wind moaning across the Salisbury Plain. Dusk was near, and the man was glad to see his destination, the village of Amesbury, come into view.

The man glanced toward the cl.u.s.ter of ma.s.sive dark stones looming in the distance to his left. He had lived near Stonehenge his whole life, and until recently he had considered it an unremarkable feature of the landscape. But in the past few weeksa"since the night of the strange lights in the skya"he found that his eyes were drawn to the stones.

The old man turned his head away, disgusted with himself. He was a sensible person; he was not one to believe the stories that had been swirling through the village since that nighta"stories of evil spirits roaming among the stones, of animals behaving oddly, of people experiencing strange sensations.a "Rubbish," the man muttered to himself as he quickened his pace.

CAW! CAW! CAW!.

The bird's cry startled the man. He looked up and saw a large raven swooping across the plain. The man stopped and watched as it pa.s.sed low in front of him. He was watching the bird, not the ground, so he did not see its shadow pa.s.s across his.

But he felt it.

He didn't know it was a shadow; he thought it was a chill. A shudder went through his body, and he drew his coat even tighter. He felt suddenly light-headed and staggered sideways. Catching himself, he started walking againa"but not along the path. He veered to the right, toward a clump of trees. He didn't know why he did this; he wasn't thinking clearly.

He reached the trees and saw the strangest sight: animals, a dozen at leasta"a fox, a rabbit, two dogs, some squirrels, several birds, and a cat. They were lined up in a neat row, perfectly still, ignoring each other, watching the man approach.

The old man stopped about ten feet away; again, he had no idea why. For a moment he stood facing the animals. Then the fox trotted forward, but not directly to the man; it pa.s.sed by him, such that its shadow crossed his. As it did, two things happened: the man felt another shuddering chill, and the fox looked at him as if suddenly aware of his presence, then ran off.

Next, one of the dogs came forward, and it repeated the fox's actionsa"crossing shadows with the man, then running away. It was followed by the other dog and, one by one, the other animals.

Each time, the man felt the chill. But now he also felt something elsea"a new presenceaa presence growing inside him. It was weak, but the man could feel it grow stronger as each animal scampered away, and he understood that whatever it was, it was coming from the animals into him. He understood this, but there was nothing he could do about it except watch, as if in a dream.

When the last animal was gone, the old man returned to the path and, still in his dreamlike state, resumed trudging toward Amesbury. He reached the village as the sun dipped below the hills. But instead of going to his house, where his wife would be cooking his dinner, the man went to the George Hotel, the oldest accommodation in the village.

The old man didn't enter the hotel; he stopped in front of one of the windows. By the lamplight from inside, the man cast a shadow on the road in front of him. He had stood there for less than a minute when a woman walked past. The two knew each other, but neither spoke. The woman crossed in front of the man, her shadow touching his. The man felt the now-familiar chill. The woman let out a soft gasp, stumbled, then recovered and walked quickly away without looking at the man.

In a minute, another woman came by, then a man, then another woman, then a child, each crossing shadows with the man, then departing quickly into the darkness. Now the old man was acutely aware of the presence in him. It was still weaka"wounded, the man realizeda"but it was also fiercely determined. And angry. Very, very angry.

In his dream state, the man understood somehow that he was not the target of the anger: whatever the presence was, it was only using him as a means to achieve its ultimate goal. The man did not know what that was. Nor did he want to know.

From down the road came the sound of hooves clopping and wheels creaking. The old man turned his head to see the London-bound coach pulling up to the hotel. The driver, a big, red-faced man in a heavy wool coat, reined in the horses, set the brake, and climbed down from his perch. He nodded to the old man, and getting no response, shrugged, then went into the hotel. He emerged two minutes later with a pa.s.senger, whom he helped into the coach. The driver was about to climb back up to his seat when the old man felt himself suddenly step forward and to the side, causing his shadow to cross the driver's.

In that instant, the old man felt the presence rush from him. He staggered back and almost fell, catching himself against the wall of the hotel. He turned from the driver and stumbled away up the street toward his house. He did not look back. He had already decided that he would not tell his wife what had happened to him. He would never tell anyone.

Five hours later, the coach reached the London waterfront. The pa.s.sengers were confused and angry; this was not where the coach was supposed to take thema"their stops had all been bypa.s.sed. They had been complaining increasingly loudly for some time now, shouting and pounding on the coach roof. The driver had not responded at all. It was as if he didn't hear them.

The coach stopped on a street near St. Katherine's dock. The driver climbed down and walked away, abandoning the coach and its shouting pa.s.sengers. It was midnight and the docks were quiet, save for the creaking of lines and the slapping of water against the hulls of ships.

The coach driver walked purposefully along the dock to a ship called Le Fantome. He walked up the gangway and boarded the ship. A sailor on watch tried to block his path, but the coach driver, a much larger man, shoved him aside easily. The driver strode to a companionway, descended into the ship, and walked toward the stern along a pa.s.sageway until he reached a door. With a ma.s.sive fist, he pounded on it five times.

"What?" bellowed an angry voice from inside the cabin. "What is it?"

The door opened, and there stood the captain of Le Fantome, a man named Nerezza. There was a hole in the middle of his face where his nose should have been. Usually he wore a wooden nosepiece, but not when he was sleeping.

Nerezza stared at the coach driver, his face a mix of surprise and fury.

"Who the devil are you?" he said, his right hand reaching back for the knife he kept on his bedside table.

The coach driver opened his mouth, but no words came out. Something else did come out, however. It looked like a tendril of smokea"thin and wispy at first, but then thicker, darker.

Nerezza froze, his eyes on the man's mouth. The smoke was billowing out now, forming a thick column, flowing downward toward the floor. Nerezza looked at the coach driver's eyes and saw terror; the man clearly had no idea what was happening.

But Nerezza did. He stepped back into his cabin, away from the dark thing. In a few moments it had fully emerged from the driver's mouth. The big man fell backward, hitting his head against the wall of the pa.s.sageway. The dark thing was now a swirling black cloud on the floor of Nerezza's cabin. Nerezza stepped carefully around it into the pa.s.sageway, closing the door behind him. He yelled for his men, and in seconds, several sailors appeared.

Nerezza pointed at the driver.

"Get him off the ship," he said.

The men obeyed, though it took four of them to carry the coach driver up the companionway. They carried him down the gangway and left him lying on the dock, unconscious. He would awaken the next day with no idea how he'd gotten there, remembering nothing but a vivid, hideous nightmare.

Belowdecks, Nerezza stood outside his cabin door. He dreaded going inside, but he had no choice. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. His cabin was cold now. The dark swirling shape had moved to the corner. It was rising slowly, beginning to take the shape ofanot a man, exactly, but a cloak with a man inside. Or something inside.

Nerezza watched the thing rise, watched it take shape, waited.

Finally the thing spoke. Its voice was weaker than Nerezza remembered, but there was no mistaking ita"a low, inhuman moaning sound. Nerezza leaned close to make out the words.

"We sail tonight," the thing said. "For Rundoon."

"Yes, Lord Ombra," said Nerezza. "For Rundoon."

CHAPTER 2.

THE SCOUTING PARTY.

THREE DUGOUT CANOES, EACH PADDLED by four hard-muscled men, slid through the rolling indigo sea, which was empty from horizon to horizon. The afternoon sun blazed in a radiant blue sky that was equally empty, save for a low white cloud to the east.

The paddlers wore only loincloths. Their skin, sun-baked to a deep bronze, glistened with sweat. Each man's back was almost entirely covered with what appeared to be a large tattooa"a random pattern of dark swirling lines. Closer inspection, however, revealed that the "tattoos" were in fact scar tissue.

The scars had been caused by the tentacles of a particularly nasty type of jellyfish, the poison of which inflicted agonizing pain. Each of the warriors in the canoes had endured an excruciating initiation ritual: as he stood before the tribe, a large, living jellyfish was draped across his shoulders and back, its toxic tentacles searing his flesh like fire. Some men crumpled immediately to the ground, screaming; others pa.s.sed out. Only those who stood still for a full minute, soundlessly enduring the agony, were allowed to become warriors in this tribe.

Poison played an important role in the tribe's culture. In battle, the warriors sometimes hurled venomous snakes and spiders at the enemy; they also coated the tips of their arrows with a special mixture of toxins that caused horrific, paralyzing pain. It was this practice that gave the tribe its name, the most feared name in this part of the ocean: Scorpions. It was a name that meant misery and death.

The warriors in the canoes made up a scouting party. They had been at sea for three grueling days, searching for an island that, according to their tribal lore, was somewhere in these waters. Their leader, the only man not paddling, sat in the prow of the front canoe. He was a large man, a bit older and thicker than the others, but still very strong. His earlobes stretched nearly to his shoulders, indicating his rank. A braided, black beard hung from his chin like a rat's tail. His dark eyes were fixed on the distant cloud.

He suddenly emitted a series of harsh sounds. Instantly, the warriors began paddling faster, and the canoes shot forward. They rose and fell with the rising and falling of the sea, aiming for the cloud, the men not yet seeing what had excited their leader. And then, a few minutes later, as an especially large wave lifted them high, they all saw ita"a speck on the horizon under the cloud. Now all the warriors were whooping and shouting. The leader raised his arm to quiet them, then spoke. They would wait here an hour, then move to the island as the sun set behind them. Its glare would blind anyone on the island looking in their direction. The warriors nodded, grateful for the rest. They sat in the open water and stared at the distant specka"their prey.

An hour later, with the sun low, the men began paddling again. As they neared the island, the cloud gave them a gifta"a small but intense rain squall, which further concealed the canoes from the land. Paddling through the rain, the warriors reached sh.o.r.e just as the squall ended. The showers left behind a damp and steamy island smelling of rotting vegetation.

They climbed out of the canoes, each man carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows. These weapons were to be used only as a last resort: the Scorpions did not intend to be seen. This was a scouting expedition. The attack would come later.

The men dragged the canoes up the narrow beach and hid them in the dense undergrowth. Using palm fronds, they carefully swept the sand clean of their footprints. Then, with the leader in front, they entered the jungle. Beneath the thick tree canopy, a cloak of near-darkness enveloped them, and the sound of songbirds gave way to the hum of insects and the rustle of lizards and snakes.

The men moved as if a single being, one after the other, in complete silence, yet with surprising speed. They dodged monkey-puzzle trees and bushes of ironwood, smelly swamp and patches of fireweed. In time they came to a footpath. The leader bent to inspect it, smiling at the sight of fresh footprints. He rose and signaled the men to follow him, staying in the jungle but now moving alongside the path, which was just to their right. The leader moved more slowly now, pausing every few yards to listen.

He raised his hand, and the line of men stopped. He touched his eyes, then pointed. Just ahead on the path were two boys. They didn't look like islanders; they had light skin and hair. They were talking to each other in a language that sounded strange to the Scorpions.

Chattering away, the boys ambled along the path, oblivious to the men following them. The boys came to a clearing, in the middle of which was a tree stump. As the Scorpions watched with interest, the boys pulled on the stump, tipping it over. Underneath was a hole. The boys climbed into the hole, then pulled the stump back upright and were gone.

The Scorpions' leader left two men to keep an eye on the stump. He led the rest silently forward, still following the footpath but remaining within the cover of the dark jungle. After a few hundred yards they stopped again. Ahead was a much larger clearing and a high wall of sharpened poles lashed together with vines.

Signaling to his men to stay hidden, the leader crept forward to the wall and put his eye to a crack between two logs. On the other side, he saw a bustling village of thirty or more gra.s.s huts, as well as pens holding goats and wild pigs. Dozens of men and women were gathered around cooking fires, eating and talking; children darted about, chasing each other, shouting, laughing.

The Scorpion leader focused on the men, studying the markings on their arms and chests. He tensed with excitement: these were the markings he had hoped to seea"the markings that according to legend were used by the Mollusk tribe. The Scorpion leader smiled grimly. The legend was true. They had found Mollusk Island. And soon they would conquer it.

The leader turned and crept back to his men. The expression on his face told them that their scouting mission was a success. Eager now to get back to their canoes, they retraced their steps, traveling alongside the footpath.

By the time they reached the boys' tree stump, night was descending, the sky lit by the last faint rays of the dwindling sun. The Scorpion leader was surprised to find that his two sentries, instead of staying concealed in the jungle, were standing in the middle of the clearing. Furious that they had taken such a risk, the leader ran toward them, only to stop when he saw the fearful expressions on their upturned faces.

Following their gaze, the leader looked up at the sky and saw what had so alarmed them.

A boy.

A flying boy.

The boy, his hair fiery red in the sun's dying rays, was swooping among some trees about twenty-five yards away. He shot from tree to tree, knocking coconuts to the ground. Apparently, he had not seen the Scorpions. The Scorpion leader blinked, but there was no question: the boy was not swinging on a vine or jumping. He was flying.

For a moment, the leader could only stare, his mouth hanging open. He came to his senses just in time to see one of his men, panicked by the sight of the boy, fitting an arrow to his bow and drawing it back. With a quickness that belied his size, the leader lunged toward the man, reaching him and grabbing the arrow just as the man released it. It burned through his grip, sending splinters into the meat of his hand, but he did not let go.

Angrily, the leader broke the arrow across his knee. He grabbed the man by the neck and lifted him off the ground, holding his face only inches from his own. No words were spoken, but none were needed: this man understood that he had almost ruined everything by giving their presence away. With his feet back on the ground, the man hung his head shamefully.

Still angry, the leader waved his men back toward the canoes. He went last, constantly glancing backward at the flying boy, who was still darting from tree to tree, growing smaller and smaller until he was finally absorbed by the night. Turning to follow his men, the leader could feel his mind racing as he tried to comprehend what he had seen, and to figure out how much of a problem this boy would be.

These thoughts so occupied him that he forgot altogether about something that, ordinarily, he would have remembered: the broken arrow lying in the mud.

CHAPTER 3.

WORRYING QUESTIONS.

COLD RAIN FELL IN SHEETS FROM THE DARK LONDON sky. The gusting wind spattered raindrops against the dining-room window of the grand Aster mansion on Kensington Palace Gardens. Inside, at a table large enough for dozens of people, sat just three: young Molly Aster and her parents, Leonard and Louise.

The room was warm and bright, but the mood of its occupants more closely matched the gloomy weather outside. Lord Aster had spent the afternoon in his study, meeting with four men, all of them members of the Starcatchers, a secret group to which the Aster family had belonged for many generations.

Leonard had emerged from the meeting with a somber, troubled look. Both Molly and Louise knew he had something to tell them; they also knew that it would have to wait until they were alone. Now, with their meal finally served and the household staff back in the kitchen, Molly and her mother looked at Leonard with questioning faces. He glanced at the doorway to make sure he would not be overheard, then spoke quietly.

"I must go to Paris," he said. "There's to be a meeting of the senior Starcatchers."

"Is it about what happened at Stonehenge?" asked Molly. She shuddered, recalling the terrifying night among the ma.s.sive stonesa"her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded; her mother a ghastly sleepwalking sh.e.l.l, unable to recognize her husband or her daughter, her life spirit stolen by the hideous shadow creature that called itself Ombra. That night Molly had very nearly lost both of her parents, and the Starcatchers a huge quant.i.ty of precious, powerful starstuff, which would have fallen into the hands of humanity's most evil enemies. If Peter hadn't been therea "Yes," said Leonard, his voice low. "It's about what happened at Stonehenge. And some other troubling things, which I was a fool not to recognize earlier."

"What troubling things?" said Molly.

Leonard hesitated before responding, and for a moment Molly thought she had pressed too hard. Until recently, her parents had revealed little to her about the inner workings of the Starcatchers. But since the awful night at Stonehenge, and the courage Molly had displayed there, Leonard had been more willing to answer his daughter's questions.

"Actually," said Leonard, "what's most troubling is something that didn't happen. That was a very large batch of starstuff we hada"the largest in centuries, at least. Yet we received no warning before it fell in Scotland. That's why the Others got to it first. We were so concerned about getting it to the Return that we didn't stop to ask ourselves why we weren't warned about it in the first place."

"What kind of warning?" asked Molly. "I thought the Starcatchers could sense when starstuff fell."

"Yes, we do feel something when a large amount of starstuff falls," said Leonard. "But the Others feel it, too. The reason we always manage to reach fallen starstuff before they do is that we always receive warnings before it falls."

"Warnings from whom?" said Molly.