The Artifact Hunters - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Janet Fox writes award-winning fiction and non-fiction for children of all ages. Her published works include GET ORGANIZED WITHOUT LOSING IT (Free Spirit, new edition 2017), and the YA novels FAITHFUL, FORGIVEN, and SIRENS (all from Penguin). THE CHARMED CHILDREN OF ROOKSKILL CASTLE (Viking, 2016), her middle grade debut, received starred reviews from Kirkus, Booklist, Publishers Weekly, and Shelf Awareness, is on numerous lists, and received SCBWI's Crystal Kite award. VOLCANO DREAMS (Web of Life Books, 2018) is her debut picture book. A companion novel to CHARMED CHILDREN is due out from Viking in 2020. Janet is a former high school teacher and a 2010 graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts. She's represented by Erin Murphy, Erin Murphy Literary Agency. Find out more at www.janetsfox.com.

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Chapter 1

Guardian and Hunter

1942

At well past midnight, in the deep cold of winter, a man moved like a shadow through the snowy streets of Prague. He kept his head down and walked with a quick pace, finding his route over the slick cobbles of Josefov through old habit, trying not to stumble. Once, a cat startled him as it darted across the street—­a black cat, of course, he noted with a brief, grim smile—­and he paused for an instant.

Somewhere above him a window slid shut. Somewhere behind him his family slept.

His son slept, still oblivious.

The man passed the baroque facade of the church of Saint Nicholas, the stone statues of saints casting cold eyes downward. The great astronomical clock was silent at this hour, the apostles with their grave countenances hidden, the broad Old Town Square deserted. He crossed the space as quickly as he could, keeping to the edges, making for the House of the Stone Bell—­a carved bell that was as silent as the saints and the clock—­and the alley that ran between it and Our Lady Before Týn. He stopped only where he couldn’t be seen from any direction and then faced the wall that was crowned by the arch of a filled-­in remnant door, the plaster just inches from his nose. On that wall was a faint painted symbol. It looked like a looping vine.

He had to tug open the top button of his overcoat—­it was frigid and the sudden chill penetrated to his bones—­to draw out what he required. He placed his hand against the plaster and the air shimmered, the wall fading behind a watery veil, until a door appeared, a great carved oak door with no handle or lock, which swung open into darkness. He was through the door and gone, fading, as always, to nothing.

The prowling cat and the saints, had they been looking an instant later, would have seen no door, only the great blank wall and the cobbles of the empty alley glistening with icy snow.

In the dark, silent, frigid city, a hunter is looking, but not, in this moment, toward the square. This hunter, an Unseelie fae, perches on the pinnacle of the Charles Bridge’s eastern tower, peering this way and that but missing what it wants by a breath. It can only sense the magic that whispers through the air, then vanishes.

If such a creature could feel disappointment, it would. Instead, it feels only anger and centuries-­old resentment. It has been bidden by its master—­Moloch, leader of a small band of miserable outcasts—­to seek and find, and the hunter has missed its prey yet again.

The creature straightens with a barely audible snarl and stands for another moment before it lifts into the air on black wings that are each as big as a tall man, casting a chill shadow upon the city below.

The prowling cat, as it happens, crosses the Charles Bridge just as the great wings open. But even if the cat had lifted its head and looked all the way up to the top of the tower it would have seen nothing but a mist. Nothing but a dark, evanescent blot against the starless sky.

Nothing.

Oh, except . . . 

Except, had the hunter turned and looked down, the cat might have seen two red eyes, eyes as red as coals, as red as blood, as red as rage.

Chapter 2

Isaac

1942

Isaac Wolf lay on his stomach, propped on his elbows, book open before him. Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Yes, he read it because it helped him with his English, but this story about a scientist who found the secret of creation and made a monster, that’s what grabbed at Isaac’s heart. It gave him shivers but also made him wonder: Why did he feel sorry for the monster? Would Isaac have acted differently from Victor—­treated the monster differently—­and so maybe saved his friends? Reading this book plunged Isaac into a realm so darkly magical he was lost inside it, and coming out, wanted to dive right back in.

He rolled over and sat up, rubbing his eyes, returning to the real world. The world of war.

It was an afternoon of filmy gray light.

Last night he’d heard a noise and was up like a shot. He’d held his breath, straining to hear. The sound of a door closing? The distant, soft chime of a bell? But he heard no more in the deep and snowy silence, and he sank back into his bed, to his dreams of chasing strange creatures through shadowy forests.

A wolf should be a hero in a grand tale. That’s what Isaac wanted to be. Was sure he could be, one day. Maybe he could become a spy and that would be his spy name. He traced the name Wolf with his finger in the air.

But Prague had been made fearful since the Nazis had come. People were anxious, secretive, huddled into themselves as they hastened through near-­empty streets. His school was closed. His teacher’s sister, Miss Rachel, sobbing, had shooed all the boys away, telling them to go, now, go straight home now, don’t stop. He’d gone and he’d stayed put, because he was afraid of the Nazis, too.

One by one, his friends and neighbors had disappeared. Some had been “relocated.” Isaac had guessed what being relocated meant—­it meant that the forces of darkness were washing over all the world.

He lay back on his bed, staring at his ceiling, and became thinly aware that his parents were talking in their bedroom down the hall.

No.

Isaac sat up. They weren’t talking.

They were arguing.

His father’s voice was hard, his mother’s pleading. He heard his name: They were arguing about him. Loud enough to be heard through his closed door.

“. . . no time left”—­he heard his father’s muffled voice—­“tonight . . .”

“But . . . haven’t given him proper . . . should be trained . . .”

Isaac thought, Should be trained? He inched out of bed and opened his door, holding his breath.

“. . . too young. In another few months,” his father said, and Isaac could hear clearly now, “he’d be old enough. That’s when his training would have begun. But it’s too late, and for now, the less he knows, the safer he’ll be. As soon as it’s dark he must go.”

The word relocated floated back into Isaac’s brain.

“What about the others?”

A pause. His father said, “They’ve already gone into hiding. I haven’t heard from anyone else on the team for months.”

His mother, then, “Are you sure—­”

“They know,” his father interrupted, almost shouting. “I’m sure. They know about me. They know where we are. If we stay, they’ll find us, and then they’ll find Isaac.”

They? Who? The Nazis?

Isaac crept down the hallway toward their bedroom. The door to his parents’ room was open a crack.

His father lowered his voice. “There’s something else. I’ve heard that a mission is being planned by the resistance. Against the Reichsprotektor. Even if that mission goes well, it could mean reprisals. Upheaval. We’d all be in even greater danger.”

“What if we all went together?” his mother asked.

“Impossible,” his father answered. “They know about me, so I would draw them. They’d find us all. If he goes alone, he has a better chance.”

“Perhaps I can fashion a disguise,” his mother said. Her voice had risen in pitch, and she spoke faster. “Protective cover. I can make a shapeshift.”

“That may well attract...