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Back Timberdark Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Title Page
  2. Contents
  3. Dedication
  4. Praise for Wranglestone
  5. Epigraph
  6. Map
  7. Part I
  8. Prologue
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. Part II
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. Part III
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 5 Years Later
  43. Acknowledgements
  44. About the Author

Only now did Peter see that the deer’s head was attached to a body. The gown the intruder was wearing was as black as the darkness filling the chalet. The skull’s hollow sockets fixed their empty gaze on him. Footsteps broke across the boards. The Ghost Ranger was already here.

7

There was only one place to hide. The ravine. Peter flung the screen door open. It clattered violently against the chalet wall on broken hinges, and he ran. He leaped down the steps, taking out three at a time, missing the jetty entirely and skidded on to the ice. He heard the screen door clatter open again behind him and ran on towards the Whistles.

Halfway across, he bent double, wincing at a stitch in his guts. He hunched over, hand clasped at his side, heart pounding like wild horses, and hobbled on. But he didn’t look back. He didn’t turn to see the Ghost Ranger make easy work of the ice on his way towards him.

Boulders littered the frozen lake at the foot of the black cliffs below the Whistles. Half of them were above the water line. The other half, below. It was as if winter had caught them mid-fall and stopped them from sinking by clenching them inside its icy gums. Over time, the rocks had become steepled with towering pines. Some of them were young of branch and plump with fresh snowfall. But not all. Some had been worn down to the bone, their spindle branches so blackened by rot that the wood was spongy to the touch. Peter’s hand sank into the mulchy wood, but he got purchase and pulled himself between the boulders, out of sight of the lake, and collapsed.

He glanced back. The ranger was standing on the lake a short distance from Boulder, scoping out his choices, and for a moment Peter thought he might have lost the trail. The skull rotated towards the islands of Six Little Fishes. Then seemingly decided against it. The watchtower, perhaps. Not there either. The ranger looked down at his feet so the ragged muzzle dug into his chest and those two hollow sockets scanned the ice. He spotted Peter’s footprints and the antlers turned his way.