House of Secrets

Chapter 19

The Walters 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 toward them.

The warriors dove to the ground. The Walters 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 fifty feet 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 on his head, wearing a bomber jacket zipped over a military uniform. He staggered to his feet, thin and miraculously uninjured, and booked it away from the plane.

“Who’s that?” Nellie gasped.

“He looks like . . . a pilot,” Alyssa said, her voice hollowed by disbelief.

“A World War One fighter pilot,” said Jonathan.

“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 smoldering 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 Walters 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 Walters 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 Walters knew what to say until he finished and aimed his gun at them: “Sprechen Sie deutsch?”