Half-blinded, Jive snatched at Harvey’s throat.

“What…have…you…done?” he coughed.

Harvey had no difficulty shaking himself free.

“It’s all dust,” he said. “Dirt and dust and ashes! All the food! All the presents! Everything!”

“Help me!” Jive said, clawing at his mouth. “Somebody help me!”

“There’s no help for you now!” came a solemn voice,

Harvey looked around. It was Rictus who had spoken, and he was retreating across the hallway, his hands clamped to his face. He stared at Jive between his fingers, his teeth chattering as he voiced the horrid truth. “You shouldn’t have eaten that pie,” he said. “It’s reminding your belly of what you’re made of.”

“What’s that?” Jive said.

“What the boy says,” Rictus replied. “Dirt and ashes!”

Jive threw back his head, howling Noooo! at this, but even as he opened his mouth to deny it the truth came pouring forth: dry streams of dust that ran from ms his gullet and flowed over ms angers. It was like a fatal message being passed from one part of his body to another. Touched by the dust his fingers began to crumble in their turn, and as they dropped, the same whisper of decay spread to his thighs and knees and feet.

He started to drop to the ground, but with a final pirouette, swung himself around and grabbed hold of Me banister.

“Save me!” he yelled up the stairs. “Mr. Hood, can you hear me? Please! Please, save me!”

His legs crumbled beneath him now, but he refused to give up. He started to haul himself up the stairs, still yelling for Mr. Hood to heal him: There was no reply from the heights of the House, however, nor any sound now from Rictus. There were only Jive’s pleas and wheezings, and the hiss of dust as it ran away down the stairs from the emptying sack of his body.

“What’s going on?” Wendell said, appearing from the kitchen with ketchup smeared around his mouth.

He stared at the cloud of dust that hung around the stairs, unable to see the creature at its heart. Harvey was closer to the cloud, however, and so was witness to Jive’s last, terrible moments. The dying creature reached up with an almost fingerless hand, still hoping—even as its life drifted away—that its creator would come to save it. Then it sank down upon the stairs, and its last pitiful fragments crumbled.

“Somebody been beating the carpets?” Wendell said, as Jive’s dust settled.

“Two down,” Harvey murmured to himself.

“What did you say?” Wendell wanted to know.

Before he replied, Harvey glanced around the hallway, looking for Rictus. But Hood’s third servant had disappeared. “It doesn’t matter,” Harvey said. “Are you done eating?”

“Yeah.”

“Was the food good?”

Wendell grinned. “Yeah.”

Harvey shook his head. “What does that mean?” Wendell asked.

Harvey was on the verge of saying: It means you can’t help me; it means I have to go up and face Mr. Hood on my own. But what was the use? The House had claimed Wendell entirely. He’d be more of a hindrance than a help in the battle ahead. So instead he said: “Mrs. Griffin’s outside.”

“So we found her?”

“We found her.”

“I’ll go say hi,” Wendell said with a cheery smile.

“Good idea.”

Wendell had his hand on the door when he turned and said: “Where will you be?”

But Harvey didn’t answer. He’d already climbed past the heap of dust that marked Jive’s demise, and was nearing the top of the first flight, on his way to meet the power that lay waiting in the darkness of the attic.

Glimpsing the dusty truth masquerading as pie and ice cream was one thing, but scratching the veneer of deceits that the House had polished to such perfection was quite another. As Harvey climbed the stairs he kept hoping he’d find some little detail in the walls or the carpets that would allow him to get his mind’s fingers beneath the lid of this illusion and lift it up to see what charmless thing lay inside. If Marr had been made of stale mud and spittle, and Jive of dust, what was the House itself made of? But it knew its business too well. However hard Harvey stared, he could not pierce its lies. It delighted his senses with warmth and color and the scents of summer; it cooed softly in his ear and played its gentle airs against his face.

Even when he reached the dark landing at the top of the final flight, the House continued to pretend that this was just another innocent game of hide-and-seek, like the countless games it had seen played in its shadow.

There were five doors ahead of him, everyone of them ajar a few inches, as if to say: There are no secrets here, not from a boy who wants the truth. Come look! Come see! If you dare.

He dared, but not in the way the House had planned. After spending a few moments examining the doors, he ignored all of them, and instead went back down a flight, chose a strong chair from one of the bedrooms, brought it back upstairs, climbed onto it and pushed open the trapdoor that let onto the attic.

It was hard work hauling himself up, but he knew, when he’d finished and lay panting on the attic floor, that his pursuit of Hood was almost at an end. The Vampire King was near. Who else but a master of illusions would live in a place so bereft of them? The attic was all the House was not: filthy, murky and cobwebbed.

“Where are you?” he said. It was no use thinking he could surprise the enemy. Hood had watched his ascent from the first stair. “Come out,” he yelled, “I want to see what a thief looks like.”

There was no reply at first, but then—from somewhere at the other end of the attic—Harvey heard a low, guttural growl. Not whiting for his eyes to become fully accustomed to the gloom he started toward the utterance, the boards creaking beneath his feet as he went.

Twice he stopped to look up, because a noise somewhere in the darkness overhead caught his attention. Was it a trapped bird, panicking as it flew blindly back and forth? Or roaches, perhaps, massed on the beams above him?

He told himself to put such imaginings out of his head and concentrate on finding Hood. There were enough real reasons to be fearful here without inventing more. Unlike the area around the trapdoor, this end of the attic served as some kind of storeroom, and his enemy was surely lurking in the maze of rotting pictures and mildewed furniture. In fact, wasn’t that a fluttering motion he saw now out of the corner of his eye?

“Hood?” he said, squinting to try and make better sense of the shape in the shadows. “What are you doing hiding up here?”

He took another step forward, and as he did so he realized his error. This wasn’t the mysterious Mr. Hood. He knew this shape, mangled though it was: the half-rotted wings; the tiny black eyes; the teeth, the endless teeth.

It was Carna!

The creature half rose from its squalid nest, snapping at Harvey as it did so. He made a stumbling retreat, and might have been seized after three steps had Carna not been so hobbled by its wounds and slowed by the chaos of its surroundings.

It struck out at the piles of detritus to the left and right of it, scattering chairs and overturning boxes; then hauled itself in pained pursuit of its prey. Harvey kept his eyes fixed upon the beast as he backed away, his mind buzzing with questions. Where was Hood? That was the main mystery. Mrs. Griffin had been certain he was up here somewhere, but Harvey had now wandered the attic from end to end, and its only occupant was the creature driving him back toward the exit.

He chanced several glances into the shadows as he retreated in case he’d missed some figure hiding there. It was not a human form his eyes alighted upon, however; it was a globe the size of a tennis ball, glowing as though filled with starlight. It appeared like a bubble from the boards and rose toward the roof. Momentarily forgetting his jeopardy, Harvey watched it as it ascended, joined by another, then a third and a fourth.