Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) Read Free Page A

thought of my house, my bedroom, the street where we lived. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, I just want to go home.”
    And nothing happened. Hot tears stung at the corners of my eyes and I screwed my eyes shut tighter. I swallowed hard. “Please,” I said, my voice hoarse and unsteady. “Please. Please, please, please, please. I…” But I didn’t know what to say. What was I going to do—promise to be a good boy from now on?
    I shook my head. It’s not working . And of course it wasn’t. I’d no idea how the stone worked, or if it worked at all. I bit my lip and thought again of my family and my friends. But they couldn’t help me now. There was no one to rely on, no one to turn to. I was on my own. If I wanted to get home, I’d have to do something about it.
    I opened my eyes and pushed myself up to my feet. I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands and looked out at the acres of countryside surrounding me on every side. There were no signs of civilisation, but there had to be someone out there. The nearest town was probably just hidden in the dip of a valley or tucked away behind a hill. And there would be a road to follow, or a signpost, or at the very least, some sort of path through the trees. There had to be something. It wasn’t like I was in the middle of a tropical rainforest or a jungle. It looked like England. The gently rolling hills, the forest—it all seemed familiar; a picture postcard view of the English countryside. And the weather was right too. The early morning air was cool and fresh despite the almost cloudless sky. It felt like England. And in England you couldn’t go far without seeing a farm or a village or a road. There had to be something useful nearby; some clue as to where I was.
    I turned my head and scanned the horizon, letting my eyes follow the almost unbroken line of dense woodland. I chewed the inside of my cheek, and for a moment, I pictured the vast woodlands in other countries. There were forests in America and Canada that covered countless acres, weren’t there? I pushed the thought away.
    “England,” I muttered. “I’m still in England.” After all, I’d seen no evidence I was anywhere else. Don’t get carried away , I told myself. This isn’t The Wizard of Oz. I allowed myself a small smile. But even in England, people got lost in the countryside. Hardly a year went by without a news story of search parties sent out to rescue hikers who’d underestimated the demands of Snowdonia or Dartmoor. And often enough, I’d watched the TV news as they’d shown the helicopters landing, the exhausted walkers led out with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. There was always talk of exposure and dehydration.
    I nodded to myself. I was getting thirsty already. I need to find some water . Yes. Water first, and then food, and if it came to it, some shelter. I’d look after my basic needs first, and while I did that, I might even come across someone who could help me or at least tell me where I was. It was a plan.
    I looked down at the stone slab and narrowed my eyes. “Stupid bloody thing,” I whispered. It had taken me away from everything I valued, ripped me from my life, torn the heart out of my existence, and now it just sat there, impassive, as though it was a hunk of ordinary rock. I let out a snort of frustration. “This is your last chance,” I said. “Take me back home. Take me back right now or I’m going away and I’m never coming back.”
    And nothing happened. No flashes of light, no strange noises, not even a flicker of colour or a hint of an unexpected reflection. Nothing. “Right,” I growled. “That’s it.”
    I slid across to the edge and lowered myself down. “I’m out of here.” I found my backpack, still lying where I’d dumped it on the ground the night before and as I picked it up, I felt the weight of the old tools inside it. For a moment I thought of throwing the tools away to save carrying them, but the heavy old hammer