The Child Thief

Chapter Nine

---

First Blood
Sekeu led Nick over to the long table. It was spattered in
gruel and strewn with dirty spoons and bowls. The blue pixies were
swarming about the mess, scrambling to lick up any available crumb. Two
boys and a girl were doing their best to fend off the hissing pests while they
stacked the bowls and carted them over to a sudsy barrel.
“Your training will begin here,” Sekeu said and clapped her hands
twice.
The kids stopped, their eyes falling on Nick. These kids weren’t covered
in body paint, tattoos, or scarring. They lacked the hard angles in their
faces, the wiry muscles, and their eyes weren’t golden. For the most part,
they looked like your average middle-schoolers.
“Nick, this is Cricket.”
A girl with sandy, short-cropped hair stood with her hands on her waist
and a sassy thrust to her hips. She wore ragged camo pants rolled up to her
calves, a pair of well-worn orange high-tops, and a purple tank-top. She had
a bald spot on the side of her head, a scar maybe, which gave her a mangy
look. She cocked an eyebrow at Nick and smiled.
“And Danny.” Sekeu pointed to a pudgy kid wearing dark-rimmed
glasses and balancing a stack of bowls. His glasses were wrapped around
his head with a strap—it was a sport strap at least, but the strap still made
the kid look nerdy as hell to Nick. Danny had gruel in his hair and smeared
down the front of his white T-shirt. His brown corduroy pants were pulled
up high on the waist, with the legs tucked into a pair of boots. A pixie
landed on his head and tugged at the gruel in his hair. “Goddamn it!” he
yelled and flicked his head back and forth. The pixie held on but the stack
of bowls toppled, crashing down onto the table and floor. “Goddamn it!”
Danny yelled again, swatting at the pixie as it flitted away.
Sekeu shook her head. “Danny and Cricket, like you, are unproven.
They are New Blood. Once you prove yourself you become clan and only
then may you enter the ranks of Devil Kind.”
Nick rolled his eyes.

---

“This is Leroy.”
Leroy was a heavyset kid, not pudgy like Danny, but thick-boned and
solid through the chest and waist. His short, dark hair lay matted against his
skull. He wore a sleeveless sweatshirt and the same sort of stitched-up
leather britches as the Devils, but had none of their more extreme
adornment.
“Leroy has been with us for a while now. He is still unproven.” She
gave Leroy a somber look. “We are hoping Leroy will make his challenge
soon.”
Leroy flushed and his mouth tightened.
“Leroy will see to you. Make sure you get settled in.”
Leroy set hostile eyes on Nick.
Without another word, Sekeu turned and left them to their work.
“Get busy,” Leroy said and tossed his rag at Nick. It hit the table,
spattering chunks of wet gruel across the front of Nick’s shirt. “Oh, and for
the record,” Leroy added, “I ain’t your babysitter. So don’t come whining to
me with your problems. Got it?”
Nick let out a long breath, picked up the rag, and dragged it along the
table. The pixies hissed and buzzed his head as he made his way down the
length of the table. When he came to the end, he wiped the crumbs onto the
floor, then strolled over to the suds barrel, where the girl, Cricket, was
wiping out the bowls. He dropped his rag over the lip of the barrel and
started to walk away.
“HEY!” Leroy called from the far end of the table. “What the fuck? You
aren’t done. Look at all the crud you left.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. You want the fucking pixies crapping all over
everything? Get your rag and do it again. Do it right.”
Nick glared at Leroy.
“Lose the attitude,” Cricket said under her breath. “Trust me, you don’t
want to push him.”
Nick picked up the rag, walked back over to the table, and began to
wipe it again.
Leroy came up behind him. “Are you retarded? That’s not wiping. How
hard is it to wipe a stupid goddamn table?” He snatched the rag from Nick
and gave the table a good, hard wipe. “Like this. See? Now do it right.”
Leroy shoved the wet rag into Nick’s chest.

---

Nick slapped the rag on the table and started to walk away. He made it
two steps before he felt a hand on his collar, and the next thing he knew he
was yanked around and shoved against the table. Leroy snatched a clump of
his hair and pressed his cheek into the rag. Nick tried to twist away but
Leroy grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back. Nick let out a cry.
Leroy leaned into Nick’s face. Nick could see the kid’s pulse pumping
through the veins along his forehead, felt his hands biting into his wrist,
squeezing so hard Nick feared his bones might crack.
“Stop!” Nick pleaded.
“Look, you little shit. I tell you to do something and you better do it.
Got it?”
“Yes,” Nick said.
Leroy twisted his arm harder. “Got it?”
“YES!” Nick cried.
“What?”
“YES! YES!”
Leroy let Nick go. “Now wipe the table, fucktard.”
“YOU CAN WASH up in there,” Cricket said, pointing to a door with a
moon burned into its surface. “That’s the privy.”
Nick wrung out the washrag, hung it across the barrel, and headed to the
bathroom. He stepped in and shut the door, pressing his back against it. He
clenched his eyes and took several long, deep, hitching breaths, determined
not to start crying. He clutched his hands into fists. “Fuck all you bastards,”
he whispered. “Fucking, fucking bastards.”
Something rustled, a clacking sound.
Nick opened his eyes, glancing quickly around the small, dim room. An
oval mirror hung from one wall, a network of cracks ran across the surface,
fracturing his reflection into a dozen images. A tall window, about half a
foot wide, let in a thin slice of light. Enough light to make out an ancient-
looking brass pump in one corner and, below it, seated in the floor, a round
wood plank. Nick guessed that was the toilet and realized he needed to go
really bad.
There was a rope attached to the plank, which ran up through a pulley
and down again. Nick grabbed the rope, tugged the lid up, and was greeted
by a warm gush of stink. He was in the middle of relieving himself when he
heard the clattering again. It came from the hole. He caught movement.

---

Something about the size of a rat, black and hairy, with lots of spidery legs,
skittered out from between the stonework. It cocked its head and looked up
at Nick with six blank, soulless eyes, then dropped down out of sight. Nick
peered into the depths; in the darkness, hundreds of glowing eyes looked
back up at him. Nick kicked the lid down, then noticed piles of white goop,
what looked to be bird droppings, on the floor in one corner. He glanced up;
there, in the rafters, two of the little blue people stared back at him from
their straw nest. They drummed their wings, and hissed.
“What the fuck kinda place is this?” he said under his breath as he
zipped up. “Just what kind of hell is this?” He caught his reflection—a
dozen angry faces looking back at him. He thought he looked like someone
from a refugee camp—mud and gruel in his hair, his lip busted and swollen,
dried blood streaked down his face. “What’ve I gotten myself into?” All at
once an overwhelming need to see his mother crept up on him. His
reflection blurred as his eyes filled with tears.
“No. To hell with her,” he said. This is her fault, all of it. She’s the last
person I want to see. He wiped the tears angrily away and stepped over to
the pump.
Nick primed the pump, stuck his hands under the spout, and splashed
water on his face. The water was cool and refreshing. He washed the mud,
gruel, and blood out of his hair and from his face and arms. He looked back
in the mirror. I’ll play their game, he thought. But first chance I get I’m out
of here.