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  Oh, this is even better than I imagined, Scruggs thought happily. Scruggs waved his hands for silence and raised his huge, silver scissors so that they caught the light of the blazing torches surrounding the stage.

  “My esteemed colleagues,” Scruggs drawled. “I must say, I’m overwhelmed by your outpouring of affection and obvious admiration for my person and talent.”

  There was scattered, halfhearted applause from the assembled Groundlings. They weren’t as interested in Scruggs as they were in the entertainment to come. A few wriggled in their seats and exchanged glances, fearing a long speech.

  Scruggs continued his planned speech, oblivious to his less than enthusiastic audience. “I have waited for this moment a long time. And although our lord and master, the Jackal, can’t be with us today, I received a communication from him earlier that expressed his profound gratitude to me for capturing one of his most disobedient servants.”

  This, of course, wasn’t true. Scruggs hadn’t heard anything from the Jackal since he’d brought Melchior into the Lair. But he took the fact that the Jackal hadn’t eliminated him from existence for failing him again as praise enough. Besides, it felt good to inspire jealousy among his fellow Groundlings. It would only help his rise to the top of the heap.

  “I promise not to keep you long.”

  There was more scattered applause from the Groundlings, but less than before. They all wanted him to get on with it. Everyone was eager to see the Clipping.

  Sensing that he was losing his audience, Scruggs raised his voice and spoke with more animation. “But let me just add that I couldn’t have done any of this without the help of one very important individual.”

  His eyes glinted and he gave a sharp-toothed smile. Murmurs of confusion echoed through the assembly. Everyone knew that Scruggs never acknowledged anyone other than himself. What was going on?

  The fat man waited until an expectant hush descended on the crowd and then added, with a mocking bow, “I’d like to thank Melchior’s son, Edward. Without his help, I wouldn’t have been able to capture my sworn enemy.”

  The crowd cackled at Scruggs’s little joke. This was the kind of thing they liked. Humiliating a victim prior to torture made for great entertainment.

  Scruggs paused to give Melchior a triumphant glance.

  “Yes, I must say,” Scruggs chuckled, “if it hadn’t been for Edward Macleod, we wouldn’t be sitting here today. It was he who made a rather inept attack on one of our forces, alerting me to Melchior’s presence.” Scruggs left out the part about Melchior having bitten him on the arm in order to help Edward escape. He kneaded his right forearm at the memory. Melchior’s teeth had gone uncomfortably deep.

  Scruggs’s words had their intended effect. There were more jeers from the crowd. They were eating it up! He had them in the palm of his hand. Scruggs beamed, relishing every second! Once again, he held up his plump hands and motioned for silence.

  “Yes, yes, I can’t take all the credit myself. Perhaps we have misjudged Edward Macleod? Perhaps he wishes to work for our esteemed master instead of following in the footsteps of his traitorous father?”

  Cheers rose from the crowd again. Mr. Spines flinched at Scruggs’s words, a motion that wasn’t lost on Scruggs. That struck a chord, he mused, noticing Melchior’s discomfort. Scruggs knew that his enemy couldn’t bear the thought of his son signing on to serve in the Jackal’s army.

  Scruggs continued, enjoying the audience’s enthusiastic response. “Well, I’m sure that after we catch this so called ‘Bridge Builder,’ and catch him we will . . .” he emphasized, “we will be able to persuade him that serving the Jackal is a much more rewarding venture than his current, misguided cause.”

  This statement was met with thunderous applause. Chants of “Jackal! Jackal! Jackal!” echoed through the mass of Groundlings; a general stamping of feet and claws, and snapping of beaks, added to the ovation. Scruggs, smiling wide, waited until the commotion had died down a bit to continue.

  “So now I must ask our prisoner that all-important question, and it is one that could affect his eternal fate.” Scruggs turned to Melchior and said with a booming voice, “Do you, Melchior, relinquish all alliance with the Higher Places? The Jackal himself awaits your plea for mercy. Perhaps if you show him that you are willing to return to his service and honor your contract, your pitiful existence might be spared.”

  Scruggs leaned in to Melchior’s ear and whispered, “After I’m through with you, I’ll capture your son and do the same thing to him. Two quick snips! Then I’ll go after your wife . . .”

  Suddenly Scruggs reared back, clutching his eye and shouting curses. Melchior’s well-aimed glob of spit had found its mark.

  “That was very rude, old friend,” Scruggs growled, wiping his eye with his sleeve. He turned to the massed crowd and shouted, “WE HAVE OUR ANSWER. LET THE CLIPPING BEGIN!”

  A roar of approval swept through the crowd as Scruggs displayed his gleaming scissors. Soon the chant was taken up again, but this time, instead of “Jackal!” the crowd was shouting “Moloc! Moloc! Moloc!”

  Scruggs grinned at the use of his ancient name. Once, long ago, human empires had feared him so much that they had made sacrifices to him. He hadn’t felt powerful like that in ages.

  Until now . . .

  The scissors flashed. A scream tore from Melchior’s lips as a withered wing, a shadow of the glorious being that he had once been, fell to the floor.

  Chapter Six

  ROAD

  Edward flew low, skimming over the mountaintops that surrounded Cornelius’s Valley. His expression was fixed, his eyes seeing both everything and nothing at all. He was lost in his world of playing cards, an internal place that enabled him to fly.

  The ace of spades, a shovel with a grinning skull. The jack of spades, in rusted armor fending off a dragon . . .

  Each of the cards in his unusually illustrated deck was positioned in an elaborate, imaginary card house of his own design. Building card houses had been Edward’s only true talent, and even without the aid of his real deck, he could still see exactly how everything was supposed to fit together. But where the images had once been crystal clear, now he was having a hard time visualizing them.

  It took everything Edward had to hold the images firmly in his mind. Beads of sweat froze on his forehead. Edward didn’t know that the Four’s poison was working its way through his system, filling him with doubts and nagging insecurities that threatened to rob him of his ability to fly. The poison ate away at his concentration, making him feel like a tightrope walker who could fall several stories with the merest slip.

  While Edward struggled to keep focused, Bridgette clung to the boy’s thin back and shoulders as she had when he’d first flown her to Cornelius’s Valley. The icy winds above the mountains cut through her pearl-buttoned coat, causing her to shiver so badly that she was barely able to maintain her grip.

  Far below, she could hear the faint cry of the horsemen’s alarm, a sound so piercing that it seemed to carry through the entire Woodbine.

  Bridgette noticed that the frigid air was causing little ice crystals to form on Edward’s ebony wings, making it harder for him to ride the currents. She was worried about him, but was afraid to talk to him for fear that he would lose his concentration. Instead, she prayed that he could focus for a few minutes more, just until they were past the mountains that surrounded Cornelius’s Valley.

  Bridgette’s fingers were so numb that she couldn’t feel them anymore. Her teeth chattered incessantly, but her eyes remained fixed on the long, silver trail far below—the Seven Bridges Road, which would eventually lead them to the Jackal’s Lair.

  The legends said that one day the Bridge Builder would stand at the end of that road and rebuild what had been destroyed. She knew that the countless souls trapped in the Woodbine—which had been designed only as a resting place for those with unfinished business—would be relieved to journey onward to the next of the Seven Worlds.

&
nbsp; Bridgette’s muscles ached from trying to maintain her hold. To distract herself from the pain, she recited the poem about the Seven Worlds that her uncle, Jack the faun, had taught her.

  Earth is first, a mortal realm,

  Woodbine second, where Guardian’s dwell,

  Lelakek third, for food and drink,

  Jubal fourth, a place to think,

  Baradil fifth, with secret rain,

  Akamai sixth, the Jackal’s bane,

  Zeshar seventh, without the rails,

  and Iona lost when the Dark One fell.

  Uncle Jack had taught her all he knew about the worlds, but his knowledge was surprisingly limited. She remembered him saying, “All we know about the worlds between the Seven Bridges is what’s written on a couple of pieces of ancient parchment. And those things were copied down by Guardians who are no longer with us.”

  She recalled the frustration in his voice as he said it.

  He’d gone on to mention that he thought there was far more to the other worlds than what was known. He believed that they had all been tainted by the Jackal’s power when he fell.

  All the worlds except for the Higher Places, of course, she thought. Bridgette was distracted from her thoughts when she felt Edward’s long body turn and begin its descent to a grassy spot at the foot of the mountains. Her numb fingers started to prickle with new feeling as the air grew less frigid.

  Edward and Bridgette rushed toward the grassy meadow. Edward landed as gently as he could, his long legs hitting the ground running. But in spite of his best efforts, having Bridgette clinging to his back upset his balance and the two tumbled into a shaggy hill of clover.

  “S-sorry,” Edward said, stumbling to his feet and extending a hand to Bridgette. She took it and pulled herself up next to him. After checking herself for bumps and bruises, she began to brush the grass from her ruffled skirt.

  “That wasn’t your best landing,” she said gently, not wanting to offend him. “What’s wrong? You were doing so much better the last couple of days.” She smiled when she said it, but Edward blushed deep crimson.

  The horsemen’s poison continued its subtle work. It was fully in Edward’s bloodstream now, affecting his mind and making every doubt and fear he’d ever felt much worse. He was confused and angry without really knowing why.

  Scowling, he turned away from Bridgette and stared up at the majestic, snowcapped mountains he’d just flown over. She’s right.You’re not a Guardian. You can barely fly! How are you ever going to defeat the Jackal?

  “Shut up!” Edward shouted, trying to quell the voices inside his head.

  Bridgette glanced up, thinking he was talking to her. “I’m sorry, Edward, I didn’t mean . . .” she began.

  “I didn’t mean you,” Edward interrupted. His face was pale and he looked confused. “It’s j-just that . . . ever since the b-battle, I k-keep hearing th-these voices in my head.”

  As soon as he said it, he knew it sounded insane. Bridgette looked at him curiously for a moment, but said nothing.

  She thinks you’re crazy,the voices said. And you actually liked her! How could you ever think a beautiful girl like that would like you back? You’re worthless! A freak! Telling her that you hear voices in your head? Nonsense! Pathetic!

  Edward grew so agitated his fingers began to twitch. He wanted to shove the thoughts out of his mind, but the harder he tried to fight them, the more relentless they seemed to grow.

  Am I really that bad?he wondered.

  You are!the voices shouted. You’re nothing! Because of you, your mother died and your father left. Because of you, Tabitha lost her wings. You’ll let them all down, you’ll see.

  Edward sunk to his knees, his hands clutching the sides of his head. Despair overwhelmed him. In spite of some small part of him that insisted that what the voices told him couldn’t be true, it seemed much easier to believe them.

  Edward shivered. Whether it was from the cold or something else, he wasn’t sure. His head throbbed and he felt sick to his stomach.

  Maybe I don’t want to be a Guardian after all.

  Chapter Seven

  MEETING

  Jack the faun paced outside the towering doors that led to the prestigious Guardian Court, rehearsing what he’d come to say.

  His cottage had been the first place Edward had come when he’d arrived in the Woodbine, and Jack had recognized the boy as the prophesied Bridge Builder almost immediately. But he knew that convincing the Guardians of this would be difficult. Guardians were notoriously slow to act, and skeptical when it came to doing anything that broke with tradition or daily procedure. He could only hope that the respect the Council had shown him in the past would count for something. He’d always made a point to ensure that his research into the Woodbine’s vast library of historical documents was done very carefully, and he had a good reputation among the Guardians.

  It had taken Jack just an hour to get to Estrella, the Woodbine’s beautiful capital city. This was exceptionally fast, considering the fact that his cottage was over fifty miles away. But he’d had the help of two Guardians from Cornelius’s Valley, who had flown him there, slung between them in a small, wicker basket. Had the circumstances been different, he would have enjoyed the experience, having never had the opportunity to study the Woodbine from the air before. But as it were, the news that the Guardians had brought him was so distressing that he’d barely noticed the journey.

  He and his wife, Joyce, had been startled by the sudden appearance of two green-skinned Guardians at their home. The Guardians had told him all that had happened at Cornelius’s Valley, from the arrival of the horsemen to Edward and Bridgette flying away. When he’d learned that Edward was being pursued by the Four, Jack had known immediately what had to be done. He’d left his cottage, determined to convince the Guardian High Council to act. The stakes had been raised! He hoped that the Council would raise a Guardian army to help Edward with his quest. If they didn’t act soon, all hope could be lost!

  Jack had been waiting for over an hour when the majestic doors finally slid open. An important-looking Guardian emerged, her sandals making a light clip-cloppingnoise on the white marble tile as she walked.

  “Jack the faun?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, thinking that this should be obvious considering that he was the only faun in the empty corridor.

  “I apologize for the wait. My name is Rachel. Guardian Zephath is ready to see you in his chambers.”

  Jack nodded and followed her through the entrance. A long hallway with immensely high ceilings stretched on either side of him. Tapestries depicting ancient battles between Guardians and Groundlings decorated every wall. At any other time Jack would have enjoyed the opportunity to get a closer look at them. It was rare for a mortal to be given the chance to enter the High Council’s courtroom. Fortunately, Zephath was a friend and held him in high regard. Otherwise his request to be heard might have been filed in the immense stacks of waiting cases, a process that could sometimes take more than a hundred years! It was a stark reminder that time in the Afterlife was largely irrelevant.

  Rachel approached a bronze door with a knocker in the shape of an eagle and knocked sharply three times. A faint voice from behind the door replied, “Enter.”

  Rachel opened the door for Jack and he rushed inside, eager to speak with his friend. As the assistant closed the door, Jack spotted Zephath sitting behind a huge mahogany desk that looked as if it had been carved from a single oak tree.

  “Jack!” The Guardian’s tanned face broke into a huge smile. He was one of the older Guardians, a handsome man with silver hair and wings. Jack approached and shook his outstretched hand.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Zephath. I wouldn’t have bothered you if it hadn’t been a matter of such high importance.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the Guardian said, motioning for Jack to sit in one of the two elegant, leather guest chairs. As Jack sat down, he noticed that the material
wasn’t leather as he’d first assumed. The chair was exceptionally soft, but covered with small, red scales.

  “Dragonskin,” the Guardian said, reading Jack’s expression. “Fought them during the Battle of Elysium Fields. They were quick, but my ring was quicker. I sure could throw back in those days . . .” The elderly Guardian trailed off, reminiscing.

  Jack cleared his throat, anxious to continue. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this matter I’ve come to see you about . . .”

  “Oh, yes,” the Guardian interrupted. “This matter of the . . . er . . . Bridge Builder?” Zephath shot Jack an amused glance.

  “Exactly,” Jack replied, feeling nervous about the way that Zephath was treating the matter. It seemed like the Guardian was making fun of him.

  “Yes, yes, I heard about it from Jemial. He mentioned that there was some kind of Groundling disturbance back at your place a week or so ago. Did they steal anything important? Any of your books go missing?”

  “No, no, that wasn’t it at all,” Jack said, trying to control his temper. “It was Moloc, and he attacked because Melchior and his son, Edward, are here in the Woodbine. Edward is . . .”

  “I know, I know . . . You think he’s the prophetic hero who will release the trapped souls.” The Guardian waved his hand dismissively. “Would that it were true, Jack. But I’m afraid the Council doesn’t have time for such matters. We’ve got several Guardians who need to be assigned charges on Earth, not to mention the usual backup of cases up here. We just don’t have time to investigate any far-fetched ‘Bridge Builder’ claims. I’m sorry, old friend, but I think you’ve been reading too much into those old books of yours.”

  He offered Jack a smile and the faun felt the blood rush to his pointed ears. He hadn’t expected that he wouldn’t be taken seriously.

  “Zephath, I think you’re making a grave mistake. Edward isthe Bridge Builder. And without the help of a troop of Guardians, he’ll never succeed in defeating the Jackal. The Four have been awakened and are chasing him. Even if he gets through the Jackal’s wall . . .”