Ripper said, “This ain’t a good idea, Boss.”

“Do what I say,” his father ordered.

The Bright Boy released Emilie. “I’ll get your bows.”

His father patted Rafe on the shoulder.

“I know you missed me, son.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Rafe stood in the dark and dank backyard as his father gave orders to Ripper about the target, the distance. It seemed there were no floodlights in this version of the house. Would they have to wait until morning? Rafe couldn’t stomach the idea of spending a night in this place. He had to get Emilie and Jeremy to safety. At least she was there in the backyard with them, tied up but alive for now. Where was Jeremy? What had happened to him? Was he hurt?

He couldn’t think about it.

Bright Boys began to mass in the yard. A dozen, then two dozen, more…they all carried lit torches like a mob of angry villagers hungry for a good witch burning.

What had he done? He was crazy to think he could win this game. Once, when he was fifteen years old, he saved a queen’s life with a lucky shot. Now, years later, he had to do it again? And if he failed he’d have to stay in this place forever, this evil place two streets over from Hell?

Ripper nailed the paper target to the trunk of a skeleton tree forty yards from the line. Even by the light of so many torches, Rafe could barely see the spider in the center. They’d be shooting on pure instinct.

His father joined him behind the shooting line.

His father chuckled softly. “You and I both know how this ends already. And I’ve kept myself busy waiting for you to show yourself.”

Rafe’s mouth was dry when he answered, “You’ve been practicing.”

“Not much else to do here.”

One of the Bright Boys, a shorter one with a forked tongue and fangs like a snake, appeared carrying both Rafe’s bow and quiver and his father’s.

“Sire,” the boy hissed.

Rafe took his own bow and clutched it tightly. The bow his mother had given him. What if he never saw his mother again?

“So how do we wanna do this?” his father asked as he checked his own bow. “Six rounds? Twelve rounds?”

Two Bright Boys stood behind his father. The squat one with snake teeth and a taller one with skin so pale he looked like a ghost in gray. But their eyes gleamed with satisfaction. They looked sated. They ate fear. That’s why the Bright Boys had let a deadly sleeper spider loose in the throne room. Not to kill the queen but to create a feast of terror. And the ones by his father’s side looked especially well fed.

His father was afraid. Petrified. These creatures weren’t loyal, but hungry, and his father was an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Rafe looked around, caught Emilie’s eyes. Although her hands were tied in front of her, she could still move her fingers. She held up her index finger, then nodded as if giving him a secret message. She or Jeremy must have a plan.

Rafe said, “One.”

“One round?”

“One arrow.”

“One arrow? Just one?” His father sounded aghast.

“Just one.”

“No one gets it in one, son.”

“So you win,” Rafe said. “Right?”

“You can get it, Boss. We’ll be mighty disappointed if you don’t,” said Snake Teeth.

“You can do it, Big Man,” the Gray Ghost said.

“Go on,” Ripper said. “We can’t wait to see this. Show ’em why you’re the king around here.”

With the Bright Boys goading him on, his father had no choice but to step forward.

“I’ll go first, son.”

Rafe stepped back as his father stood on the shooting line. He pulled an arrow and nocked it. As a boy Rafe had loved watching his father shooting targets. Rafe wanted to be just like him. He’d wanted to be that good. Every day he practiced, trying to be that good. Strangely, the better Rafe got, the less his father seemed to enjoy their games. Rafe didn’t understand it then. He did now. Trying to be as good as his dad was one thing. Being better than him was another.

His father drew his arrow. It seemed an eternity passed between the draw and the release. The arrow flew and hit the target with a soft thud.

“Dammit,” his father said.

“You aimed,” Rafe said. His father turned to him, fire in his eyes, but maybe it was just the torches of the Bright Boys. “You taught me to never aim.”

“Just shoot, son.”

“Two seconds, Boss Man,” Ripper said. “Gotta make a little adjustment. Don’t mind us.”

Two Bright Boys emerged from the basement door, dragging Jeremy between them. His cheek was bruised, his shirt torn, but his eyes were still defiant.

Rage swelled in Rafe’s heart, threatening to overwhelm him. But he couldn’t give in to it, because now they were forcing Jeremy to sit under the target. On the ground, back to the trunk, the top of his red head touched the bottom of the blue ring. They didn’t tie him to the tree, however. Why not?

“Even on my worst days,” Rafe told his father, “I don’t miss the bull’s-eye by a foot.”

“You think you can kill spiders. Kill a spider then, son.”

In disgust and horror, Rafe watched Ripper’s mouth open wide, wider, until his face nearly split in two. He reached down his own throat and pulled from his gut a spider. A red spider. A red sleeper spider.

Gently, he placed the spider on the target.

So that’s why they hadn’t bothered to tie up Jeremy.

Rafe stared down the line. Jeremy sat motionless, barely breathing. But though the Bright Boys were immune from the spider’s venom, they still kept their distance from Jeremy as if they were repelled by him.

Jeremy wasn’t afraid. That was why they didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Fearlessness was poison to them. Love. Light. Trust. There was one and only one reason Jeremy wouldn’t be afraid with a sleeper spider eight inches from his head.

He knew Rafe could make the shot.