Demon Thief Read Online Free PDF

yawning, looking for Art.
    He isn’t there.
    At first I think he’s just slipped farther down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.
    I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mom’s last words to me — “Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs. Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.
    My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mom and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?
    I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.
    Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles that Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-colored, like the light.
    Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right — nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch
has
been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.
    “Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”
    A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.
    “Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.
    I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual — the patches often change size.
    I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light that Mrs. Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.

DING DONG
    T WO days later. The orange light is still pulsing and changing size. Although I can call it closer like the other patches, I can’t send it away more than twenty or twenty-five feet. It’s started to bug me, like an insect that keeps buzzing in front of my face. An uneasiness chews away at me every time I catch sight of it. I know it’s crazy, worrying about a light, but I can’t help myself. I have a bad feeling about this.
    It’s a lovely, sunny day. Our teacher, Logan Rile, decided not to waste the weather, so we’re having lessons outside, in one of the fields around Paskinston. There are thirty-four of us, a variety of classes and ages, sitting in a semicircle around Logan. He’s telling us about tectonic plates. Logan’s not the best teacher. He sometimes forgets he’s talking to children and gets too technical. Very few of us understand everything he says. But he’s interesting, and the bits that make sense are fascinating. It’s also fun when you
do
understand him — it makes you feel clever.
    Some of the younger children from the nursery have come with us. Their normal caretaker has gone to the fair, and her replacement’s finding it hard to cope with so many little ones. She was