Freax and Rejex. Robin Jarvis

clatter out on to the main road. He reined it around, looking right and left for the fleeing reporter. Presently the other riders were alongside him.

      “Where is she?” the Jill of Spades asked. “Did you mark where she went?”

      Jack shook his head. “We must divide our number,” he instructed. “You come with me; we shall take the left way. The others must ride yonder!”

      “Why can I not go with you?” the Jill of Hearts asked. “I like the look of that left way better.”

      “Are you sure it is the way you prefer the look of?” the Jill of Spades asked pointedly.

      The girls exchanged spiked glances. By now the car was almost level with them. It slowed to a stop and the driver, a woman in her fifties with a five of clubs pinned to her coat, got out and sank to her knees.

      “My Lords and Ladies!” she exclaimed, elated beyond measure. “A mighty honour this is, to find you here, in my grey dream – of all places! ’Tis really you! Our dear own Jacks and Jills, right in front of me, here in this nothing place! How blessed I am!”

      The Jill of Spades sneered at her and the Jack of Diamonds leaned over to whisper in the Jill of Hearts’ ear. They laughed together.

      “Good mistress,” the Jack of Clubs declared, with a charming smile. “We are hunting one who has defied the Holy Enchanter. Have you seen sign of her?”

      The woman nodded her head vigorously. “Just seconds ago!” she cried, delighted to be of assistance and pointing with excitement back down the road. “She ran across that way, through those trees!”

      The Jack of Clubs thanked her and they spurred their horses on.

      “Blessed be!” the woman shouted after them.

      She rose to her feet just as a black SUV, with impenetrable tinted windows, pulled out of the forest road, flanked and followed by a crowd of stern-looking people.

      “These dreams are so peculiar,” the woman said, getting back into her modest hatchback.

      Kate Kryzewski was over halfway across the heath when she heard the horses’ hooves leave the tarmac and come thumping on to the grass behind.

      Another area of woodland spread out ahead. If she could reach that, the riders might not be able to follow. But, as she ran nearer, she saw the trees were too evenly spaced to prove any obstacle to her pursuers. Her efforts would be wasted. Undeterred, she sped on. One thing those early years growing up in army bases had taught her: you never gave up.

      The galloping came closer and closer.

      Kate sprinted past the first of the trees and looked around wildly. Filtering through new spring leaves, the warm sunshine caused the bluebell-carpeted floor to glow. It was an enchanting, idyllic place, but its beauty was lost on the reporter. Escape was all she could think of.

      Some distance away there was a dense thicket of young birches. No horse could get through there. With renewed hope, she tore off diagonally towards it.

      The four riders came charging into the wood.

      Before Dancing Jax had ensnared them, not one of those teenagers had ever ridden a horse. The book had made them masters of the saddle. Now, flushed with the thrill of the chase, the Jacks stood in their stirrups and urged their steeds on. The Jill of Spades applied her riding whip and the horses thundered through the bluebells.

      Kate called on her last reserve of strength. The birches were almost within reach. She might just make it.

      “Bring the peasant down!” the Jill of Spades cried, pulling a dagger from her belt and waving it threateningly.

      Kate felt the ground shudder. The horses were almost upon her. A snorting breath blasted against her neck. She yelled and, with an extra spurt of energy, flung herself forward. The horses shied and reared behind her as she stumbled into the cover of the birches. She heard the Jacks call out in anger and frustration and she gave a rueful grin before hurrying on.

      As she ran, she discarded the jacket and fumbled with the laptop. To her overwhelming relief and surprise, the wireless symbol was blinking. She couldn’t believe it and staggered to a stop. Her fingers were shaking from exertion and fear and it took two attempts to reopen the email.

      “Go…” she blessed it breathlessly. “Get this party started.”

      But the email was never sent. At that moment, a violent blow punched into her spine. The laptop flew from her hands and suddenly she was on the ground – her face buried in bluebells.

      Almost immediately she flipped over on to her back and there was the Jack of Diamonds standing astride her, looking very pleased with himself. He had leaped off his horse and come tearing after her.

      Having just turned twelve, he was the youngest of the Jacks. Kate knew everything about him, who he had been before the book had taken control.

      “You’re Paul,” she panted desperately. “Paul Thornbury.”

      “Be silent, serf!” he commanded. “You must not address me so.”

      “I’ve spoken to Martin Baxter. You remember him. You and your mother lived with him in Felixstowe, remember?”

      “I am the Jack of Diamonds!” the boy retorted haughtily. “Son and heir of an Under King. I will not heed such untruths from so common a ditch trull as you!”

      Kate shook her head in exasperation. He was too profoundly lost in the book’s power. There wasn’t time for this.

      “In dances Magpie Jack,” the boy began to chant, the expression draining from his face and his eyes staring fixedly ahead, the pupils dark and glassy. “So hide what he may lack. In his palm there is an itch and the spell he cannot crack. Jools and trinkets he will…”

      “Oh, shut up, Your Royal Jackness!” the woman snapped. With an angry yell, she brought her legs up and kicked him in the chest.

      The boy cried out in astonishment and tumbled backwards, hurled off balance.

      Kate scrambled to her knees. The laptop was still open and lying upside down, just out of reach. The woman lunged for it, but the heel of a riding boot slammed her aside. Then she felt a steel blade press against her neck.

      “You dare strike out at a Prince of the Royal House of Diamonds?” the Jill of Spades snarled. “You will die for this, serf!”

      Kate twisted around and saw the fierce expression on the girl’s face. She knew that was no empty threat.

      “Emma Taylor,” the reporter told her. “Your name is Emma Taylor. Think before you do this. You’re Emma Taylor!”

      “I know who I am in my dreams!” the teenager scoffed. “What business is it of yours?”

      “This isn’t a dream! This is the real world. There is no White Castle. There is no Mooncaster! You’re caught up in some mad delusion. If you use that knife, you’ll be committing murder.”

      The teenager snorted with scorn.

      “The girl Emma is already guilty of so many crimes,” she boasted. “What is one more? It will make good viewing for her reality show here.”

      Behind her, the Jack of Clubs and the Jill of Hearts were dismounting and the Jack of Diamonds picked himself up, brushing grass from his doublet.

      “Is it proper for serfs and thieves to affront and assail us so?” asked the Jill of Hearts. “Dispatch her quick and let us return to the merrymaking.”

      The Jill of Spades grinned cruelly and turned the dagger in her hand, admiring the sunlight flashing over the blade.

      “Hold!” the Jack of Clubs ordered. “The Ismus wishes her unharmed.”

      “That Ismus is a sick, psycho wack-job!” Kate blurted. “You kids don’t know what you’re doing!”

      The teenagers