The Wicked Day by Christopher Bunn Read Free Book Online Page A

They sounded as if they were gaining on him. Jute ducked down an alley and then clambered up a stonewall and out onto a roof. He peered over the edge. A man ran along the alley. As he passed by Jute’s hiding place, he slowed. It was one of the men from the inn. Not the drunk Ollic, but one of the other men from his table. The one with yellow eyes. He crept down the alley, stopping every few steps to examine the ground. Not that there could be anything to see in the rain. The alley was practically a stream sluicing between the stone walls on either side. But still, the man bent his head low over the mud and water. He had a large, strangely shaped head. Long and stretched. And there was also something peculiar about how he moved. His stance was more like that of a dog sniffing for the scent of its prey.
    Jute froze.
    The man was sniffing!
    Sniffing and snuffling, his head lower and lower until he was so bent over that he had to steady himself with one hand in the mud. After a moment, though, the man straightened up and hurried down the alley, disappearing into the night.
    “Was he trying to smell you?” said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack.
    “I don’t know. Yes, I think so.”
    “Wake me up when this is all over,” said the ghost. “My nerves can’t stand it anymore.”
    “Ghost aren’t supposed to be afraid,” said Jute.
    “Shows how much you know about ghosts.”
    For some reason, this cheered Jute up. True, he was lying on top of a roof in a strange village in the cold rain in the middle of the night, and Declan and the hawk were nowhere to be seen. The day (rather, the night) was turning out badly. But the fact that the ghost was afraid was, oddly enough, an encouraging thought.
    Jute wiped rain from his eyes and inspected his surroundings. He was on top of a stable behind a house. A muddy yard separated the two. Light glimmered in one of the windows of the house, but then vanished. Further on his right, past a rubbish pile, loomed the back of another house. From what he could see, squinting in the dark, he did not have much choice other than the alley, unless he wanted to start climbing over roofs. He scowled.
    It would be much simpler if I could fly.
    Hawk! Where are you?
    But there was no answer. There was only the patter of the rain and the moan of the wind. Jute hitched his knapsack up more securely on his shoulders and then climbed back down the wall to the alley below. He slunk through the darkness. The moon was down. Not a single star could be seen. His senses felt raw, quivering, and desperate to hear and smell and feel danger before it found him. He sidled up the end of the alley and peered out.
    Further down the street, visible only as a dark shape, walked the figure of a man. The man stopped at the first house he came to and tapped on the door. The door opened and Jute saw the blur of a face in the opening. He could not hear their conversation. They were too far away. The door shut again and the man went to the next house. Again, he knocked softly on the door. The scene was repeated. The door opened, and a face peered out and then disappeared again behind the door after their conversation.
    The man moved onto the third house. This time, however, the house was uncomfortably near where Jute was hiding across the street. He could easily see the face peering out of the door, a candle clutched in one hand. The light illumined the face of an old man in a nightshirt, knuckling sleepily at his eyes. The first man quickly reached out and extinguished the candle, but not before Jute saw his face as well. It was the drunk from the inn. Ollic. And despite the wind sighing around the chimneys and through the eaves and the hiss of the rain around him, Jute could hear their conversation.
    “Put that out, ya old fool,” said Ollic.
    “Whatter ya doin’ here?” said the old man. “Tain’t but after midnight. Go on w’ ya afore my wife wakes. Go on.” He tried to shut the door, but Ollic stuck his