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The warriors, on horseback and foot, had a good laugh at that. Krom knelt to grab Cordelia.
“Get your hands off her!” Brendan yelled, kicking. Slayne dropped him – and punched him in the gut on his way down.
Brendan wheezed on the ground, writhing like a fish out of water. Slayne strode to where Eleanor lay trapped.
“As for you,” he said, kneeling over her, “take a look at your handiwork.” He showed her the left side of his face.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said, seeing the two holes in his cheek, “but you shouldn’t talk about eating horses.” Cordelia and Brendan looked at each other. Even though Brendan was just getting his breath back, they managed to share a smile at their sister’s bravery.
“For marring me,” Slayne said, “there’s a special punishment for you. You’ll be coming along to deal with someone much less forgiving, much less understanding, than me and my men.”
“Who?” Eleanor asked.
“Queen Daphne.” Slayne grinned. “She loves little children, even witchy ones. Loves to eat them while they’re still alive. And awake. She usually starts with the fingers.”
“I’ve seen her start with the ears. Rips ’em right off their head,” added Krom with a thoughtful nod.
Eleanor shuddered on the ground, scared speechless for the first time in her life.
“Wait!” called Cordelia. “Queen Daphne of where? Where are we?”
“Silence!” Slayne ordered. Krom kicked Cordelia in the stomach. “Don’t you dare open your mouth to me.”
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the pain in order to figure out what she was hearing. These warriors were familiar in some way she couldn’t put her finger on. It buzzed in her brain, but there was too much fear and pain in there to let it surface.
Slayne drew his sword and returned to Brendan, who was trying to sit up. Slayne pointed the blade at his throat.
“I—”
“Shh,” Slayne cooed, pressing the tip against Brendan’s skin. It didn’t break, but Brendan knew it would; he could see it happening – the thin membrane that separated him from the world would split, and he would die in a place where no one even knew he was. He was surprised to find his thoughts very simple. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes, or start thinking about all the things he wouldn’t get to do because he died at twelve; he just thought, No, no, make it stop, please, God, something!! And then—
ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
Brendan thought it sounded like a machine gun. Slayne looked up. Krom looked up. Everybody looked up.
“A Sopwith Camel!” Brendan yelled.
Brendan had seen the Sopwith in history books about World War One. It was the iconic early British fighter plane – single propeller, two sets of wings. And this one was coming right towards them.
It had torn through the tree canopy, raining down branches and leaves that were only now hitting the ground. It looked like it was held together with spit and glue. Black smoke streamed from its cockpit. Behind it, through the new hole in the foliage, came bursts of gunfire.
“German triplane!” Brendan called. He’d seen this plane too; it was what the Red Baron flew in old movies, with three sets of vertically stacked vermilion wings and black crosses. The triplane was in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the Sopwith Camel was going down, the German triplane veered up, made a sharp right turn, and disappeared into the clouds.
The Sopwith Camel arced lower. Its engine whined in the dense air. The warriors stared, dumbstruck; they could smell the smoke now. Slayne pulled his sword away from Brendan’s neck and demanded: “What creature of darkness is that?”
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The Walkers weren’t inclined to respond. Slayne’s warriors couldn’t respond, stunned as they were by the spewing, many-winged monster slaloming through the giant trees, smoke heralding flames from its mouth, veering skyward as if attempting to soar, but inevitably listing down – straight towards them.
The warriors dived to the ground. The Walkers huddled inside their net. The aircraft buzzed them, the vibration of its stuttering propeller only inches above their heads—
And then it crashed.
First the two oversize wheels at the front snapped off. Then the fuselage bounced up like a skipped stone and crunched back down. Then the plane skidded forward over rocks and sticks and roots, carving out a trench before coming to rest at a tree twenty metres away. The engine was still running. The propeller turned fitfully.
The pilot crawled out and collapsed. He was covered in black soot, with goggles and a leather helmet obscuring his face, wearing a bomber jacket zipped over a military uniform. He staggered to his feet, thin and miraculously uninjured, and legged it away from the plane.
“Who’s that?” Eleanor gasped.
“He looks like… a pilot,” Cordelia said, her voice hollowed by disbelief.
“A World War One fighter pilot,” said Brendan.
“Watch out!” the pilot shouted to the kids and warriors, throwing himself to the ground.
The Sopwith Camel exploded behind him.
Everyone ducked as shards of plane flew across the forest. Fabric strips rained down, along with a cascade of broken leafy branches. The plane was now a smouldering pit where the cockpit, engine, and propeller used to be.
“I always said too much of that plane was in the front,” remarked the pilot in a British accent. He turned to Slayne’s men and inclined his head. “What’s this? Are we performing a panto?”
The men drew their weapons. Krom said to Slayne: “I thought only gods fell from the sky.”
“He’s no god,” Slayne scoffed.
“How can you be sure?”
Slayne grabbed the bow from his man and notched an arrow. “Gods don’t bleed.”
“Now wait a minute!” objected the pilot, holding up his hands—
But Slayne shot an arrow into his right shoulder.
“Aaaagh!” The pilot fell to the ground and stared cross-eyed at the arrow, which stuck out of him like a sandwich toothpick. He seized it, snapped the shaft off and tossed it aside, wincing as he jostled a nerve.
“Savages,” he spat, heaving himself up and glaring at Slayne, eyes fierce.
“A mortal,” sneered Slayne. “You know what to do.”
The warriors charged, descending with swords and axes, but the pilot drew a revolver, lightning-fast with his left hand, and squeezed off six crackling rounds—
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The Walkers let out a gasp: not only was the pilot a quick draw, but every one of his shots hit a man’s hand. The warriors cried out and dropped their weapons, cradling their fingers as blood ran through them. Slayne’s grin twisted into an expression the Walkers hadn’t seen on him yet: fear.
“Retreat! Black magic! Away to Castle Corroway!”
The men raced to their horses, climbed on awkwardly and rode into the depths of the forest, each guiding his steed with one good hand – except for Slayne, who had to keep both hands from shaking.
The pilot reloaded as they receded. He moved slowly, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder. None of the Walkers knew what to say until he finished and aimed his gun at them: “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
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“Help us!” cried Eleanor.
“Dude, you’d totally rock Call of Duty,” gasped Brendan.
But Cordelia silenced them both. “No, we don’t speak German.”
The pilot removed his helmet and let his goggles hang from his neck. He was just a few years older than Cordelia, she could see now, with shaggy brown hair and deep blue eyes. He reminded her of a young F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“You certainly seem to understand German,” he said.
“Of course I understand ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch’. I’m an educated person. Everyone understands that.”
“I don’t,” said Brendan.
“Quiet!” the pilot ordered. “You speak German because you are German. Now who were those men?”
“We don’t know,” Cordelia said.
“And I don’t believe you. I think you’re Kraut spies.”
“Hey!” Brendan said. “David Beckham! We’re American. Get it? From San Francisco.”
“Is that right? Because I was shot down over Amiens, not San bloody Francisco. Perhaps you’ve seen the plane?” The pilot nodded to the smouldering wreckage of the Sopwith Camel. The flames hadn’t caught against the tough bark of the tree… but they’d made quick work of the wings and tail.
“Anybody with half a brain could see you’re not in Germany,” said Brendan.
“Course not. Amiens is in France.”
“You’re not in France, either! Hello? Does France have trees like this?”
“Perhaps I’m in a Gallic hunting preserve.”
“Perhaps you’re in a special state I’ve heard of called denial.”
“Bren! Stop!”
“I say, you do sound like an American,” said the pilot. “Only a Yank would attempt such a pathetic joke.”
He holstered his gun and started to walk away. He didn’t get far before he stumbled and gripped his shoulder. The blood was still flowing freely, adhering his uniform to his skin. He tried to pull out the broken arrow, but the pain was too intense.
“Come on!” Cordelia said. “We’ve got to help him.”
“No, we don’t—”
“Bren, he’s hurt. And he saved our lives.”
Cordelia pushed at the net until she found an opening. She stepped out and held it wide for her brother and sister. They went (Brendan very reluctantly) to the pilot, who was kneeling on the ground, having torn a cuff off his trousers and tied it around his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Cordelia asked.
“Draper, Miss. Wing Commander Will Draper. Royal Flying Corps, Squadron Seventy.”
“I’m Cordelia Walker.” She stuck out her hand and spoke quickly. “This is my brother, Brendan, and sister, Eleanor. We can help you, Mr D—”
“Call me Will.” Will took her hand and lightly kissed it, managing a winning smile through his pain.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, OK. Oh.” She took her hand back and stared at it briefly. “We have a house nearby. Can you walk?”
Will stood, leaning away from the pain, and lurched as his knees buckled. Cordelia caught him and propped him up on his uninjured side.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
The group made its way back to Kristoff House. It was easy to see which direction they’d come – the horses had trampled a path in the undergrowth. Brendan walked sullenly in front, tearing the tips off ferns and disassembling them piece by piece. Cordelia stayed next to Will, supporting his left side, smelling the smoke and sweat and blood coming off him and trying to explain exactly who they were, what decade they were from, and what they were doing here. (Will wouldn’t believe a word of it.) Eleanor walked beside them, at one point tapping Cordelia’s shin with a twig and mouthing: You like him!
In a few minutes, Kristoff House appeared. Will blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Is it possible that arrow was tipped with a hallucinogenic drug? I’m having visions.”
“We told you we had a house,” Eleanor said.
“But how did it get here? Brought by woodland creatures?”
Cordelia sighed. “I told you—”
“It flew in from San Francisco,” Brendan said.
“Come off it, I won’t be made a fool—”
“We’re not making fun of you,” said Cordelia. “We don’t know how it got here, but it’s our house, and inside we’ve got stuff that will help your shoulder.”
Will furrowed his brow. “It’s much nicer than my house,” he finally admitted, before allowing the Walkers to lead him in.
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Soon afterwards they took Will to the kitchen. The sun was lower now; the light coming through the windows was amber instead of yellow. Eleanor found her barbecue fork in the dumbwaiter and declared she was going to search the house to make sure they were safe. Cordelia said that was fine as long as she screamed if she saw anything strange. Eleanor left as Cordelia and Brendan helped Will on to the kitchen table.
“I’ll get you some ice to numb the pain,” Cordelia told Will. Brendan followed her to the fridge, whispering, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What?”
“Taking in strangers? We’re about to spend a night here without electricity. We have limited food. We don’t know who this guy is or—”
“Bren,” Cordelia said with a smile, “you don’t have to be jealous just because he’s better-looking than you.”
“That’s not true! He’s not—”
Cordelia raised her eyebrows like, Really? Behind her, Will took off his shirt – very delicately so as not to disturb the arrow.
