In the Great Forest, Crush the lion and Gentle the mouse were arguing.
‘Crush, you don’t understand!’ said Gentle. ‘Just because you’re stronger than someone, it doesn’t mean they have to admire you.’
‘But I am king of the forest! I am stronger than all other creatures! If an animal wants to speak to me, he should bow his head and call me “Sir Crush”. Otherwise, I shall eat him for being rude.’
Little Mike died this morning.
Sorry, let me give you the full story.
Little Mike was my first ever pet. My parents had always said I was too careless for one, but I looked after my stag beetle like he was the most important thing in the world. Once a week, Big Mike came round to visit Little Mike.
‘I think he’s growing bigger,’ he would say. ‘Soon he’ll be as big as you.’
I had always been good at hiding. In a crowd, a corner, or even just against the walls: I was always difficult to find. It caused my parents all kinds of trouble. When I was a baby and my cries filled the house, they ran from room to room, unable to find me. When I didn’t cry, it was even worse. The first few years of my life were awful for them. They spent half the time thinking they must be terrible parents. And they were boring for me, because I had to wait so long to be fed.
‘I guess it could’ve been a coven of v-vampires. But do you think this place is really…?’
‘Poorly looked after? It appears to be. Suppose we go to the kitchen and try to find some food?’
He began hopping towards the door, but then there was a strong gust of wind and it slammed loudly, putting out two lights with it. Pelha screamed.
‘Oh well, I suppose a vampire’s kitchen would be empty.’
The easiest victims were the businessmen and marketers. They had built up a wealthy, comfortable life with numbers and deals, and no longer needed to keep the old superstitions and gods alive, those backwater things. So when the monstrous gentleman and his assistant visited their huge buildings and smoky caves, they hardly noticed that something was sucking the most intimate and important aspect of their beings from them.
A dark cloud descended upon the lake late that afternoon. Quentin and the others had breakfasted on the terrace, enjoying the spring sunshine, and gone for a walk along the winding paths that spotted the hillsides, and by the time they got back, the cloud was hanging there, spitting rain threateningly.
The awful crows circled overhead. At least, they looked like crows when you first looked at them. But when you stared at them for long enough, you started to see strange things. Unnatural things. Real birds don’t stand in the same position for such a long time, without ever moving. And real birds don’t run out of batteries. The robot crows cried unnaturally often, and if their battery was dying, the cried would come out hoarse. Like they had smoked a whole packet of cigarettes in one sitting.