Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [106]
Peter was finished depositing all of his weapons in the fountain. He stood there, holding Frost’s case in one hand, waiting for Max to command him in some new way.
“Now strip,” Max said. “Just in case you missed anything.” Peter did so, and the tourists looked on, snapping pictures all the while. Perhaps they thought this was some sort of hypnotism show, to demonstrate the powers the legendary Piper was supposed to possess over people. Peter set Frost down again, on the edge of the fountain, worried that Max might rush forward to take it. But Max stayed away, reveling in the things he was forcing his brother to do. Peter removed his jacket and let it drop at his feet. Then he unbuckled his pants and let them fall beside it. He stepped out of his shoes, pulled off his socks and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Some of the impromptu audience members began to gasp and tsk tsk at this crude public display. “They go too far,” one of them said. “We have children here.”
“Don’t fret, my darlings,” Max turned to them. “I won’t be taking any of them today.” Then, after thinking a moment, “Well, I probably won’t. We’ll see how the evening goes.”
Peter stood naked in the street, in front of the Piper’s Fountain. He realized he was able to pick up Frost again, and did so. Some of the tourists began to huff away from them, looking for someone to complain to.
“And now,” Max said, “we come to the final part. Long ago you refused to hand Frost over to me, even though we both knew it was my rightful inheritance. That’s what you’re going to do now. And then, once Frost is mine, I have a final promise to fulfill to an old and treasured companion.” A long sword appeared in Max’s hand — the one that wasn’t already holding Fire.
“This is Frost Taker, and long ago I promised him he would be the one to taste your life’s blood on his blade. Take Frost out of its case, step forward and hand it to me. And then steel yourself for my gift in return.”
Peter did as he was commanded. In fact he found himself eager to do it. After all, despite his promises to Bo and to the authorities in Fabletown, this is what he’d planned to do all along, wasn’t it? He opened Frost’s case and let it fall away from the thin bone-white flute. Then, grasping Frost by its slightly belled end, he boldly walked forward and shoved its razor-sharp mouthpiece deep into Max’s chest.
As in the past, Max was cloaked in every sort of protective spell. Nothing could get through his invisible, magical armor save what Max wanted to get through. But Max wanted Frost more than he’d ever wanted anything else. Frost’s sharp end sliced through Max’s spells as though they weren’t there. It pierced his jacket and the flesh beneath it. It cut through bone and muscle, and finally penetrated Max’s coal-black heart. He was dead before he realized it. His legs crumpled beneath him. Dropping Fire and Frost Taker, Max’s lifeless body followed them in a tardy spray of blood.
Someone in the diminished crowd of onlookers screamed. Another shouted for the police to be called.
Peter ignored them. He placed a foot against Max’s still chest and pulled Frost out from it with both hands. Then he grabbed up Fire, followed by as many of his clothes as he could scoop up on the run, making sure at least that he took his pants, with its car keys, wallet and identification inside.
Holding his bundle of flutes and clothes tightly to his chest, Peter ran off, down Market Street, towards the old town’s south gate. In the distance he could hear the wa-wee, wa-wee of German police sirens. Closer behind him he heard a shouted “Halt!” followed by two sharp blasts on a whistle.
He ran faster, recalling the old days in a different, bigger version of Hamelin, when he was the boldest thief in the city.
In which our story
concludes.
FOLLOWING THE LONG HARSH WINTER OF THE new year, Beast, the sheriff of Fabletown, kissed his Beauty goodbye and drove the rusted red delivery truck north out of Manhattan, up past Albany, and into the wider expanses of Upstate