Free Boys of Blur by N. D. Wilson

Cotton said. “Maybe not. This map is older than the dike. It’s not just water on the other side. Some of the wildest swamp is over there—places so thick only a snake could get through.”
    Cotton tapped the map. “I’m telling you, coz, the death stones matter. Don’t know why, but they do. Stanks know they do or they wouldn’t have slapped them on the church in blood.”
    “But why paint the map on a church?” Charlie asked.
    “Thugs and punks always tag things,” Cotton said. “Maybe the Stanks were marking turf … or marking what they want to be their turf. Could be the mounds and everything used to be theirs and they want it back.”
    “Stanks …,” Charlie said, testing the name.
    “They are called Gren.”
    Charlie and Cotton both jumped. Lio stood only fifteenfeet away from them. His helmet was on and his sword was in his belt. He scratched slowly at the tight, curly scruff on his neck. In the daylight, Charlie could see patches of white in his beard, clustered along his jaw.
    “And what they want,” Lio said. “
Tout bagay
. Which is to say: everything. You. Me. The wind. But first, all that the mounds touch. The Gren are slaves to a Belly the mounds feed, and that Belly can never be filled. It sleeps. It wakes. It is devouring.”
    “What do you mean?” Charlie asked. “What Belly?”
    “Hold on,” Cotton said. “First tell us why you stole Coach. You’ve been pretty freaky yourself.”
    “William Wisdom was my father, and he would have been defiled. I have honored him even as you have honored my fallen lion—removing him from a place that was wrong and giving him to peace. I thank you. His mate thanks you.”
    “Panther, actually,” Cotton said. “And you’re welcome. But why should we trust a crazy grave robber in a helmet?”
    “Why should I trust you?” Lio asked. “Boy liar and book thief.”
    Cotton shrugged. “Do or don’t, I don’t care.”
    “Nor I,” Lio said. He smiled.
    “Fine,” Cotton said. “We’ll be leaving.”
    “I trust you,” Charlie said. “Mack saw you once. You saved his brother from a snakebite.”
    Lio took one step forward and stared at Charlie with wide, unblinking eyes. Charlie wanted to look away, but he knew he shouldn’t. Finally, the man spoke.
    “And I give trust to you. You are my brother, born of trouble.”
    Cotton shook his head. “Charlie—”
    “What happened to the panther?” Charlie asked.
    Lio sighed, then clenched his right fist and touched it to his chest. His face was solemn. “Gren happened. As Wisdom grew ill, Gren grew strong. When Wisdom died, Gren sought his body for the Mother’s evil. Under old moons, Gren fled from my cats like prey. Under this moon, he stood strong. My great one, my lion, is mouri—is dead.”
    Charlie shifted his weight on the soft ground. The panther, the mounds, the foul shadow, the dead coach, the strange man in front of him, all of them were sliding around in his head like pieces in a puzzle that wouldn’t quite click together. There was a picture here, and he could almost see it. He wouldn’t stop looking until he did. Cotton was restless beside him, scanning the trees.
    “Where’s the other panther?” Cotton asked.
    Lio pointed up. Ten feet above them, the big, sleek cat was crouching on a branch—ears forward, eyes locked down on the boys, black-tipped tail swaying slowly beneath the branch.
    Charlie didn’t move. He stared into the wide livingeyes, beautiful and certain like his mother’s. They had clearly already made sense of him, and he was no enemy.
    “That shadow, the smell, the Gren, what is it really?” Charlie asked.
    “He is the mouth, the jaw, the fangs—Gren is he who chews and swallows. He is made of man,” Lio said. “But when the mounds wake and the stars pull, he is much more than man. And much less.”
    Thick air moved. The paper map lifted and slid along the log. Cotton jumped forward and grabbed it.
    Lio’s nostrils widened and he pulled in the