here. In a place like Bluewood , he co uld almost believe in the possibility a new life, a normal life, where he and Jason were just normal people.
But that was years ago . He was nineteen now, and he felt like all his dreams had been burned out of him. These days, Nasser only made the trip to Bluewood so he could troop around in the woods and find mushrooms to grind into powder or boil into potions. And today he’d made the trip so he could troop around in the woods and look for his foolish little brother.
From the bus stop , it was about a ten -minute walk to reach the woods outside of town. He tried to lose himself as he walked, to focus on the barking of dogs out for a mid-morning walk, the soft rumble of cars , the Halloween decorations up in store windows. But his thoughts kept straying back to Jason , to scenarios of all the trouble Jason might be in . Grimacing, Nasser hunched his shoulders and walked on.
* * *
Filo crossed the vaca nt lot, which was crowded with w ithered bushes, discarded tires and trash cans. On the far side of the lot, a pile of broken boards and wooden crates was nestled against a chain-link fence. Litter-filled holes were dug all over, like traps.
He’d checked the address three times. This was definitely the place.
“Hello?” Filo turned in a small circle, g lancing around the lot. “Anybody home?”
A nearby trash bin rattled violently. It tipped over with a crash, and Filo had to jump to avoid several pieces of flying garbage. A short, stocky creature scrambled out of the bin . He had bat-like features, and the top of hi s head was covered in scraggly hair. His clothes appeared to have been stitched out of burla p sacks and filthy pillowcases.
“Are you the hob?” Filo asked.
“Hob goblin ,” corrected the ho b. He had a wet, mushy voice, and was just slightly taller than Filo’s knee.
“Whatever you say,” Filo shrugged . “I’m from Flicker. I’m here to deliver your o rder.” He fished around insid e his bag until he came up with a small wrapped package.
The hob jumped up and snatched the package from Filo’s hands. “Let’s have a look, then,” he muttered. He tore the paper and turned away from Filo, peering closely at the package. A moment passed, and he looked up at Filo . “Good enough.”
“Works for me. Now pay up.”
The hob made a great show of hacking something up from deep in his chest and spitting it at Filo’s feet.
“Jeeze!” Filo shouted, disgusted. “What was that for?”
“You were late.”
“By, what—five minutes?”
“Late is late,” said the hob. He puffed out his chest a bit, like he was trying to make himself more intimidating . “ And you call yourself a businessman?”
“Five minutes,” Filo cried, gesturing toward the overturned trash can. “Five minutes, and you didn’t even miss it!”
The hob squinted up at Filo. “How do you know what I miss?”
“You were rooting through garbage,” Filo said , through clenched teeth . “ Garbage . Don’t get all high-and-mighty with me.”
“Insolent little human .” The hob flattened his e ars against his skull like a cat . “I won’t pay.”
“ Oh yes you will.” Filo reached i nto his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with clumpy powder. It was the same mixture of uncooked oatmeal flakes and salt that he kept in all of his pockets, just for situations like these. Faeries—especially weaker ones, like hobs—hated the scent of it. He dangled the bag in front of the little creature . “Smell that?”
The hob scowled, wrinkling his fleshy nose in distaste. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wanna bet?”
Hissing , the hob turned and scampered across the l ot. He dove headfirst into a deep ditch and rooted through it . He finally resurfaced and ran back over to where Filo stood. The hob chucked something at him; Filo caught it handily . It was a Block: a puzzl e-piece-shaped piece of wood, carved with runes, used in casting certain
But that was years ago . He was nineteen now, and he felt like all his dreams had been burned out of him. These days, Nasser only made the trip to Bluewood so he could troop around in the woods and find mushrooms to grind into powder or boil into potions. And today he’d made the trip so he could troop around in the woods and look for his foolish little brother.
From the bus stop , it was about a ten -minute walk to reach the woods outside of town. He tried to lose himself as he walked, to focus on the barking of dogs out for a mid-morning walk, the soft rumble of cars , the Halloween decorations up in store windows. But his thoughts kept straying back to Jason , to scenarios of all the trouble Jason might be in . Grimacing, Nasser hunched his shoulders and walked on.
* * *
Filo crossed the vaca nt lot, which was crowded with w ithered bushes, discarded tires and trash cans. On the far side of the lot, a pile of broken boards and wooden crates was nestled against a chain-link fence. Litter-filled holes were dug all over, like traps.
He’d checked the address three times. This was definitely the place.
“Hello?” Filo turned in a small circle, g lancing around the lot. “Anybody home?”
A nearby trash bin rattled violently. It tipped over with a crash, and Filo had to jump to avoid several pieces of flying garbage. A short, stocky creature scrambled out of the bin . He had bat-like features, and the top of hi s head was covered in scraggly hair. His clothes appeared to have been stitched out of burla p sacks and filthy pillowcases.
“Are you the hob?” Filo asked.
“Hob goblin ,” corrected the ho b. He had a wet, mushy voice, and was just slightly taller than Filo’s knee.
“Whatever you say,” Filo shrugged . “I’m from Flicker. I’m here to deliver your o rder.” He fished around insid e his bag until he came up with a small wrapped package.
The hob jumped up and snatched the package from Filo’s hands. “Let’s have a look, then,” he muttered. He tore the paper and turned away from Filo, peering closely at the package. A moment passed, and he looked up at Filo . “Good enough.”
“Works for me. Now pay up.”
The hob made a great show of hacking something up from deep in his chest and spitting it at Filo’s feet.
“Jeeze!” Filo shouted, disgusted. “What was that for?”
“You were late.”
“By, what—five minutes?”
“Late is late,” said the hob. He puffed out his chest a bit, like he was trying to make himself more intimidating . “ And you call yourself a businessman?”
“Five minutes,” Filo cried, gesturing toward the overturned trash can. “Five minutes, and you didn’t even miss it!”
The hob squinted up at Filo. “How do you know what I miss?”
“You were rooting through garbage,” Filo said , through clenched teeth . “ Garbage . Don’t get all high-and-mighty with me.”
“Insolent little human .” The hob flattened his e ars against his skull like a cat . “I won’t pay.”
“ Oh yes you will.” Filo reached i nto his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with clumpy powder. It was the same mixture of uncooked oatmeal flakes and salt that he kept in all of his pockets, just for situations like these. Faeries—especially weaker ones, like hobs—hated the scent of it. He dangled the bag in front of the little creature . “Smell that?”
The hob scowled, wrinkling his fleshy nose in distaste. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wanna bet?”
Hissing , the hob turned and scampered across the l ot. He dove headfirst into a deep ditch and rooted through it . He finally resurfaced and ran back over to where Filo stood. The hob chucked something at him; Filo caught it handily . It was a Block: a puzzl e-piece-shaped piece of wood, carved with runes, used in casting certain
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