Crik by Karl Beer Read Free Book Online

Hatchling feeling hungry, he nevertheless entered the wide room.
    The kitchen, both larger and more ordered than was his own, had storage shelves for a myriad of frying pans and pots. Wooden cabinets fit the far wall, and a large marble-topped worktable sat at the centre of the beech floor. Overhead more pans hung from hooks, together with a set of three deadly looking cleavers. He deliberated taking a cleaver instead of the sword; despite the cleaver’s advantage of a smaller size, he decided to keep hold of the sword. Having a fighting man’s weapon gave him all the false courage he needed to carry on with his search.
    Sweat dripped from him. He could not believe his daring in entering the house, if Grandma Poulis discovered him the Hatchling would be the least of his worries. Unlike Bill’s grandfather, who always used his Talent to transform himself into a boy, Grandma Poulis kept her Talent hidden, creating wild conjecture amongst Jack and the other children of what it was. To his continued annoyance, Bill refused to relinquish her secret. As far as he knew, Bill was the only member of Crik without a unique Talent. Perhaps that was why his friend read so many books. It couldn’t be much fun having Liza Manfry call you a freak every chance she got.
    A shape residing in the corner of the kitchen moved. Jack seeing the circumspect shift of weight reluctantly moved toward it, holding the blunt-edged sword high, ready to drive its point into the Hatchling’s stomach. When he was no more than a few feet away, he recognised a familiar tail. Relaxing his arm he grinned as Wolf moved in his sleep. He had forgotten about the old dog. Careful not to wake him he tiptoed back to the workbench.
    The Hatchling was not in here, unless it hid in the cupboards amongst the pots and pans. His breath faltered as he cast his eye back from where he had come. It would have been too easy if he found it downstairs. Shaking his head, he retraced his steps back to the passage and the pregnant stairs.
    The stairs became a mountain face; its steps leading to the dark summit felt as treacherous underfoot as scree-filled slopes, which at any moment could creak, bringing Bill’s grandparents down on him. Wishing for a carpet to mask his steps, but instead finding varnished wood, he mounted the first step. Snatching the banister, he clung to the woven wood with tenacious strength. Wooden flowers spiralled up his own staircase, whereas roping vines and small intricate shaped leaves stretched to meet his fingers here. Creeping vines wrapped the entire banister length in loping python coils. Nothing about the aesthetics soothed him, the hardness, and sharp angles, only heightened his tension. Pictures presented themselves as dark squares along the wall. He recalled one of the paintings had red puddles that gradually grew into a lake. Rain swept the scene, rippling the lake’s surface in hundreds of small circles. Bill named the painting as "The Blood Storm". Why anyone would want such an image in their home had eluded Jack then and now. 
    He almost reached the landing when a blue glow filled the house, throwing warped outlines across his path from stationary furniture. Yang spawned across the wall, anchored to Jack’s feet. Frantic, Jack caught his shadow’s attention and demanded Yang to his side before anyone saw them.
    A door, standing ajar down the hallway, allowed the blue light to invade the darkness. The location of the room at the front of the house identified it as the same one Jack had spied illuminated earlier from behind drawn curtains. Bill’s room looked over the trees at the back of the house. Ignoring the shot of adrenaline surging through his limbs, he refused to bolt, knowing he couldn’t leave while the Hatchling remained in the house.
    The door opened on well-oiled hinges.
    Vaporous material escaped the room; each thread floating on the air as though cast forward by a sudden gust. It took him a moment to realise light did not