Free Darkhenge by Catherine Fisher

out by an eagle. You know something about that.”
    Rob flipped the bike pedal up and rode past him, into the gateway. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said firmly. “I’m not getting involved. I want it all to stop.”
    â€œIt won’t stop.” Vetch came up behind him. “Whatever you or I do, the henge is emerging. But it’s a chance. A gateway.” Rob heard his voice alter; the calmness went out of it. “What is it, Rob, you want most in all the world?”
    â€œYou know what.” Rob turned.
    Vetch nodded. The starlight lit the star mark on his brow, and it shone, silver bright. “Then bring the key, at midnight. Because for me the henge leads home. And for you, it’s the way to the place where Chloe is.”
    Rob’s indrawn breath almost choked him. “You’re crazy,” he whispered.
    But halfway up the stairs he was stopped by a jolt of memory that went through him like pain, so that he shivered and gasped out loud.
    He had remembered where he had seen Clare Kavanagh before.
    The hawk, the dog, the otter, the woman.
    Hunting Vetch into the circle.

T. TINNE: HOLLY
    Now this caer is surrounded too. The outer walls were meshed first; then we heard a crash and the gates fell; a great trunk bursting through the glass.
    He caught my hand and made me run with him up the wide stairs, all made of crystal.
    â€œIt’s no use,” I said, breathless. “The trees will get inside. Why are you so afraid of them?”
    I remember reading somewhere that if you’re kidnapped, you talk to him. Get to know him. You get under his skin.
    He sat on the top step and rubbed his hand through his hair. “Never mind. I have a secret passageway to get us out.”
    I folded my arms. “Is the mask because you think I might recognize you?”
    He shrugged.
    I grinned. Mac would be proud of me. I’m beginning to work out a plan.

The green holly
Was a fierce fighter;
His dark spines defended,
Piercing palms.
    â€œT HE B ATTLE OF THE T REES ”
    R ob didn’t undress.
    He lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
    In the next room, he guessed, his mother was awake too, thinking of Chloe.
    Was a coma like being asleep? Did you know if it was night or day? Was Chloe’s mind working, even now, calling out to them, searching for a way back through the tangled forest of dreams and memories?
    Tormented, he rolled over.
    All he had to do was stay here, get undressed, go to sleep. They were drawing him in, these people, and he didn’t want to be drawn. He was the artist, he did the drawing. The pun pleased his tired mind; he smiled.
    When he woke, the alarm clock in his drawer was pinging.
    He groped for it, flicked it off, then looked at the dial blearily.
    Midnight.
    He’d barely slept an hour. Slowly, he sat up. Had he set the clock? He didn’t remember. After a moment he crossed to the open window and edged back the curtain. The drive was dark, but he could make out the outline of a car parked in the lane. It flashed its lights rapidly, a silent glimmer.
    Vetch was that sure of him.
    It made him want to go straight back to bed, but he didn’t, and wearily he came to know that he wouldn’t. There was something here he had to find, to touch and understand. He checked his pocket for the key, pulled a dark jacket on and went out onto the landing.
    The house was silent.
    A clock ticked somewhere. Through an open window the smell of roses drifted.
    His parents’ door was closed; Chloe’s ajar, and the doorway was black. He went quietly down the stairs, let himself out and slipped into the shrubs that lined the drive, so that if his mother looked out the window she wouldn’t see him.
    The bushes were holly and rhododendron, old and straggly, their centers grown open. Pushing through them, he felt as if he had stepped into that tangle of dreams and branches, the sharp smells of soil and prickly leaf close against