The Bone Thief Read online

  ALSO BY ALYSON NOËL

  FOR TEENS

  THE SOUL SEEKERS SERIES

  Fated

  Echo

  Mystic

  Horizon

  THE IMMORTALS SERIES

  Evermore

  Blue Moon

  Shadowland

  Dark Flame

  Night Star

  Everlasting

  THE BEAUTIFUL IDOLS SERIES

  Unrivaled

  Blacklist

  Infamous

  Cruel Summer

  Saving Zoë

  Kiss & Blog

  Fly Me to the Moon

  Laguna Cove

  Art Geeks and Prom Queens

  Faking 19

  FOR TWEENS

  THE RILEY BLOOM SERIES

  Radiance

  Shimmer

  Dreamland

  Whisper

  Five Days of Famous

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Alyson Noël LLC

  Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2017 by Vincent Chong

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  rhcbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780553538007 (trade) — ebook ISBN 9780553538021

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Alyson Noël

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  A Brief Note About Quiver Hollows

  Chapter One: Professor Snelling’s School for Spoon Bending

  Chapter Two: Sweetcraft’s Candy Cave

  Chapter Three: Dearly Departed Goldfish

  Chapter Four: No Quiver, No Shake

  Chapter Five: Bad Influence

  Chapter Six: Six Feet Under

  Chapter Seven: Pony Bones

  Chapter Eight: Torches and Pitchforks

  Chapter Nine: Into the Woods

  Chapter Ten: The Master’s Disguise

  Chapter Eleven: Not-So-Welcome Mat

  Chapter Twelve: Doppelganger

  Chapter Thirteen: Sweet Face

  Chapter Fourteen: Supernormalcy

  Chapter Fifteen: Map Quest

  Chapter Sixteen: Tilt-a-whirl

  Chapter Seventeen: Down a Darkened Tunnel

  Chapter Eighteen: Boy Meets World

  Chapter Nineteen: Dropouts and Delinquents

  Chapter Twenty: Sewer Swine

  Chapter Twenty-one: These Vagabond Shoes

  Chapter Twenty-two: The Moonsliver Makeover

  Chapter Twenty-three: The Skeleton Crew

  Chapter Twenty-four: Inside Voice

  Chapter Twenty-five: Midnight Run

  Chapter Twenty-six: Bone Dust

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Wishing Paper

  Chapter Twenty-eight: 3-D Movie

  Chapter Twenty-nine: The Ugly Truth

  Chapter Thirty: Revenge Agenda

  Chapter Thirty-one: Light as a Feather

  Chapter Thirty-two: Skeleton Key

  Chapter Thirty-three: Memento Mori

  Chapter Thirty-four: The Bone Palace

  Chapter Thirty-five: Parting Gift

  Chapter Thirty-six: Breaking and Exiting

  Chapter Thirty-seven: Moonsliver Landing

  Chapter Thirty-eight: Magic Tree House

  Chapter Thirty-nine: Bone Eaters

  Chapter Forty: Flying Ming

  Chapter Forty-one: The Power Within

  Chapter Forty-two: Bird Envy

  Chapter Forty-three: Mistaken Identity

  Chapter Forty-four: Bone Crusher

  Chapter Forty-five: Outside the Box

  Chapter Forty-six: Bad Bloodlines

  Chapter Forty-seven: Spell Spinner

  Chapter Forty-eight: Dearly Beloved

  Chapter Forty-nine: Masterpiece in the Making

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For those who fear they’re different.

  And for those who think they’re normal.

  It’s weird not to be weird.

  —John Lennon

  A BRIEF NOTE ABOUT QUIVER HOLLOWS

  If you’ve never been to Quiver Hollows (and let’s face it, most people haven’t), then you’ve probably never been forced to ride your bike onto a perpetually frozen lake to avoid crashing into a fluffle of blue bunnies idly crossing the road.

  It’s also entirely possible that you’ve never watched a dog give birth to a litter of purple piglets.

  And with that in mind, it’s safe to assume you’ve also never seen a waterfall flow in a loop. (For the record, it looks like a water zipper—zooming straight from the bottom to the top and then back again.)

  In fact, if you’ve never visited Quiver Hollows (and why would you, since you’ve probably never even heard of it until now?), then there’s a very good chance you doubt these sorts of things can exist.

  So later, when you read about a girl named Ming who can levitate high above the treetops, a boy named Ollie who can bend metal using only his mind, and another girl, Penelope, who can communicate through the images she creates in her head, you’ll probably doubt they exist too.

  By this point you may even suspect you’re reading the words of a pathological liar. A person who is downright delusional, and who absolutely, positively cannot be trusted and is better avoided.

  But that’s only because you’ve never set foot in Quiver Hollows.

  If you had, you’d be nodding in solidarity, secure in the knowledge that the world is indeed so much stranger than it seems.

  Professor Snelling swipes a spoon from the top of my pile, pinches the base between his forefinger and thumb, and using only the powers of his mind, bends it first into a circle, then a heart, before finishing with a five-pointed star.

  “See, Grimsly—see how easy and uncomplicated it is? And it all begins and ends here.” He taps a long, twisted talon to his temple and nods encouragingly, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was bragging. But the truth is, I’ve seen him make much more complicated shapes in a lot less time. As far as spoon benders go, Professor Snelling is considered the best in Quiver Hollows—almost as good as our town’s founder, Yegor Quiver, which is really saying something.

  With the tips of his curlicue mustache twitching and the flesh around his eyes crinkling like origami, Snelling looks at me and says, “Now let’s see you try. But first—what’s the secret to spoon-bending success?”

  I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, and in a clear, strong voice recite the words on the silver-framed sign hanging on the opposite wall.

  TO ACHIEVE IT, YOU FIRST HAVE TO SEE IT AND BELIEVE IT.

  IMAGINATION IS KEY!

  Just to be clear, it’s not like I needed to read straight from the sign. The words are part of our daily drills. They’re practically tattooed on my brain.

  Still, on an important day like today—the day of the sixth-grade final spoon-bending exam—my confidence is running so low I can’t afford to take any risks.

  Des
pite the countless hours of careful instruction—despite all my classmates’ having grasped the art from the very first day only to spend the rest of the semester improving their skills—I’m still no closer to performing the sort of mental magic required of spoon bending than I was on the very first day in this class. And as much as I’m hoping that today is the day when all those lessons will begin to make sense and I’ll find myself twisting this heaping pile of spoons into unrecognizable silver bits, fact is I’ll be lucky if I can manage just enough of a crook in one handle to walk out of this room with some slim shred of dignity intact.

  Everyone in Quiver Hollows has a thing—at least one major peculiarity (and sometimes as many as two or three) that makes them really different, extremely odd, and unique.

  Everyone except me, that is. The only odd thing about me is I’m as normal, average, and boring as a person can be.

  Snelling grins in a way that sets his face into a riot of wrinkles that obscures everything but his nose, which remains splendidly long, triumphantly hooklike, and completely unaffected by the rest of his features. He plucks another spoon from the top of the pile and presents it with great flourish, and when he places it before me, I instantly break into a cold, clammy sweat. There’s no more delaying. The moment has come.

  “Grimsly,” he says, his voice assuming a more serious, professorial tone. “You can do this, you’ll see. Just remember what I taught you—all that’s required is a dash of mind magic and the belief that you can.”

  I settle near the edge of my seat and frown. It’s not that I doubt what he says, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that what’s true for Professor Snelling is not necessarily true for me.

  I glance around the room. My focus moves from the oversized gilt-framed portrait of Yegor Quiver, his wise, all-seeing gaze aiming to inspire us from beyond the grave, to the large glass-fronted display case crammed with all manner of intricately contorted metal sculptures crafted by Professor Snelling’s former students, to the glistening mobiles hanging overhead fashioned entirely of twisted gold and silver cutlery before turning hesitantly toward the single unyielding spoon lying before me.

  “You know the rules,” he says. “Exactly one minute for the lot.”

  Then, just when I’m sure he’s decided to cut me some slack by giving me one less spoon to worry about, he plucks the star from the table and with a blink returns it to its original shape and places it on top of the heap.

  Great. Sixty spoons in sixty seconds. Only a miracle can save me now.

  I take a deep breath and look at the words of inspiration scrawled across the chalkboard:

  FOCUS! CONCENTRATE! IMAGINE! BELIEVE!

  THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT—YOU’LL SEE!

  It sounds reasonable enough in theory, but after watching Snelling plow through his own pile of spoons before he was forced to delve into mine, molding them easily, as though they were made of rubber, it’s time to face the unavoidable truth: I’m about to become the very first person in Quiver Hollows to ever fail the spoon-bending exam. Exactly the sort of distinction I’d prefer not to claim.

  With a simple nod, Professor Snelling makes a quick jab at the pocket watch he pulls from his robe and the wall of clocks reset to zero. The countdown is on.

  The second hand begins its descent, sending time marching forward with an audible tick-tick-tick as I close my eyes and go through the steps. First I picture a circle looming large in my head, and since my expectations are already low, it’s not even a perfect circle. Its sides are uneven, with one popped out, the other pushed in—the sort of thing even the most challenged student should be able to replicate. Then I follow the short list of steps that for the last several months have been drilled into my brain.

  I focus.

  Concentrate.

  And believe in that lopsided circle with all my heart.

  And then…

  Something extraordinary happens.

  Something that seems almost too good to be true.

  The spoon begins to curve in a place where it once used to be straight!

  Since my eyes are closed in deep concentration, it’s not like I can actually see it, but somehow I just know that stubborn slab of metal is finally, magically, yielding to my forces of will. And while it’s only one spoon, I no longer doubt that the others will follow.

  When the sixty seconds are up, the collection of clocks gets to buzzing so loudly the whole room seems to vibrate. I snap my eyes open and plant a wide grin on my face in anticipation of the celebration to come.

  Until I catch Professor Snelling’s look of despair. He stares unbelievingly at the single unremarkable spoon lying stupidly before me. My grin fades as I realize that whatever images I saw in my head, whatever sensations I felt in my heart, none of them managed to find their way out. The spoon is exactly the same as it started, and no amount of effort on my part will ever convince it to become anything else.

  Snelling’s shoulders slump in defeat, his beard falls limp, even his curlicue mustache seems to tilt the wrong way. Its cobalt-blue tips are now pointing due south. “I don’t understand.” The words tumble forth in a tone so bereaved I suddenly realize just how much he had riding on this. In his mind, we share this failure equally.

  He sucks his lips inward until all that’s left of the bottom half of his face is a wilting mustache and a long-bearded chin.

  I tug nervously at the stiff white cuffs of my shirtsleeves and loosen the plain black tie looped high at my neck. I’m unable to recall one moment in all my life when I felt worse than this.

  “Sir,” I begin, determined to turn this around and try to convince him he’s still a great teacher, he bears none of the blame.

  But before I can finish, his lips pop back into place, and he says, “Grimsly—”

  My fingers nervously pluck at the black buttons lining the front of my suit. And while I’m braced for just about anything, mostly I’m hoping he won’t mention something about trying again. It’s important to know when to quit. Sometimes surrender is the only solution.

  “Never forget you have your own unique gifts. Your own duty and purpose.” His voice thunders with conviction; his gaze locks on mine. “Some of which you’ve yet to discover. And as one of Quiver Hollows’s most revered and respected citizens, there’s absolutely no reason for you to feel bad about…” He waves a dismissive hand toward the shameful heap of unbent spoons, as though it doesn’t matter in the least. While it’s nice of him to try to make me feel better, I think we both know the scope of my failure is colossal at best.

  A heavy silence descends. I’m desperate to break it, but I can’t think of a single word to say that would make this moment any less disappointing for either of us.

  Then, just when I’m least expecting it, he breaches the professor-student agreement we stick to whenever I’m in class. For a brief moment he’s back to being my trusted guardian who’s looked after me since I was an infant.

  “Now go.” He clutches my shoulder with a heavily bejeweled hand in a way that’s meant to be comforting. But considering how I just failed him, his continued kindness only makes me feel worse. “And be quick. You don’t want to be late to your own funeral, now, do you?” His eyes twinkle when he says it, and while the joke usually makes me laugh, at the moment I can’t even fake it.

  Being Quiver Hollows’s first, foremost, and only pet funeral director is the one weird thing about me. I used to enjoy all the perks that came with it, namely the way everyone makes such a big deal about me. But the truth is, it’s not even that weird. All I do is wear a black suit and come up with the right words to memorialize whatever hamster, goldfish, and/or turtle has recently passed. There are no tails, scales, or supernatural abilities required. It’s a made-up weird as opposed to a genuine weird, so it’s not like it counts.

  “Will you let the next student in? I’ve got a few more exams still ahead.” My guardian’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts and back to the present.

  He turns away, sending
his long blue braid sailing over his shoulder, landing just shy of the bright green sash he wears at his waist. Then he busies himself with straightening his own pile of spoons (no need to straighten mine) as I grasp my bag by the strap and open the door for the next kid in line.

  “Hey, Grimsly!” My classmate greets me with the kind of enthusiasm I no longer deserve. “How’d it go? Did you bend all the spoons?” His dark hair is styled the same way as mine, and he’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie with a messenger bag strapped across his chest—same outfit I’m wearing. And believe me, it’s not a school uniform, it’s just the way I dress. Lately I’ve noticed a few other kids have taken to copying the look. The kid’s face breaks into a grin that sends his whiskers twitching and displays two massive front teeth that protrude way past his lips.

  Clearly he looks up to me, so I try to act cool, pretend the outcome wasn’t nearly as tragic as I know it to be. But I’ve never been much good at lying. So it comes as no surprise when I glimpse my reflection in the glass-paneled door and catch myself grimacing. With the absence of any sort of physical oddity, my mop of straight brown hair, somber blue eyes, and full set of unremarkable teeth that fit well within the confines of my mouth pretty much makes me the most boring person around. This kid must be crazy to want to imitate me.