Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

grubs of any creature they could find, even to the larvae of bees in their cradles of honeycomb.

The ladybirds had no King or Queen. Their ruler was the Harlequin, an ancient creature of indeterminate gender and habits, with whom no ruler had ever established a treaty. The Harlequin could change its shape, becoming male or female at will, sometimes ate its own kind, and sometimes wore black spots on red, or red on black, or brown on gold. No one knew its hunting-grounds, or in what form it would strike next; but spotted, striped or dappled, it was always deadly.

“Beware the Harlequin, Your Majesty,” warned the Glow-Worm Chancellor. “It hunts in pied splendour, and it kills without mercy. It has no allegiance; no honour; no heart. Therein lies its power.”

But the Lacewing King was still too young to be afraid of bugbears. “Am I not the King?” he said to the Glow-Worm Chancellor. “Am I not the ruler of World Above and World Below? Do my folk not fill the Nine Worlds, even to the shores of Dream? I shall seek out this Harlequin, and make it bow to me.”

The Chancellor shook his bright head. “Oh, Your Majesty,” he said. “If ever you see the Harlequin, run for your life. Summon your guards. Lock yourself in your fortress. Above all, do not look at its eyes.”

“Why?” inquired the Lacewing King.

“Because,” said the Glow-Worm Chancellor, “the Harlequin’s eyes are mirrors that reflect the gateways to all the Worlds. Even a glance can drive you insane. They say, long ago, the Spider King once tried to tame the Harlequin. He looked into its eyes and fell through the gap between the Worlds, where he still wanders, lost and mad, forever, in the darkness.”

But the Lacewing King was too arrogant to take these warnings seriously. Instead, he became determined to do what his predecessor had not; and he longed for a glimpse of the Harlequin, and dreamed of breaking its power.

Time passed, and at last the King came across the Harlequin hunting in the forest. That day it had chosen a female form; tall and dark and languorous, with a corset of scarlet and black and a cloak of translucent silk. The young King approached. He was handsome; regal in the moths’-wing cloak that covered his coat of living bees, and he stood before the Harlequin—wary, perhaps, but unafraid.

The Harlequin watched as he approached, and felt a little curious. It was used to seeing prey run at the first glimpse of its colours. But the Lacewing King was no common prey. It knew him by reputation. From its lair it had heard the tale of how he had stolen the Spider Queen’s crown, and it knew him to be clever, if maybe more reckless than was good for him.

Not that it cared for those things, no. The Harlequin cared only for prey. Living, helpless, delicious prey; the younger and sweeter, the better. And the young King smelt of privilege, and honey, and damselfly comfits, and mealworm candies, and summer nights, and that subtle, fleeting scent of youth that clung to him like a perfume.

The Harlequin ran its honey tongue over its scarlet lips and beckoned to the Lacewing King. It was wearing long, black leather gloves that sheathed its claws and hid them from sight. Beneath the gloves, the elegance of its long-fingered hands was hypnotic.

The young King took a step forward. Remembering his Chancellor’s words, he did not face the creature directly, but averted his gaze just enough to avoid looking into its jet-black eyes.

“You must be the Lacewing King,” said the Harlequin, with a curtsey.

“And you must be the Harlequin,” said the King, with a gracious bow.

“That’s what your people call me,” said the Harlequin, coming closer (though still not quite close enough to be sure of catching him if it made a move). “But I was once a ruler myself, with a kingdom far greater than yours.”

“Really?” said the Lacewing King. “What happened to your kingdom?”

The Harlequin gave a smile that was at the same time tragic and predatory. “Come a little closer,” it said, “and I’ll tell you my story.”

Of course, the Harlequin had no desire to confide in the Lacewing King. But by luring him closer, it hoped to make him look into its languorous eyes, after which it intended to drink his young and privileged life. If it had to tell a tale to gain satisfaction, so be it. The Harlequin was a collector of tales, and it had many tales to tell.

The Lacewing King took a single step, but kept his gaze averted.

“Just a little closer, please,” purred the Harlequin, flexing its claws in the long gloves.

The Lacewing King smiled. “Later, perhaps. For now, let me hear your tale.”

The Harlequin gave another smile. Behind the scarlet of its lips, its mandibles worked silently. It hungered for the young King; his youth; his freshness; his promise. But it also knew how to be patient; besides, it was rather enjoying the hunt. If the King ran, it would catch him. What harm was there in telling a tale to a man about to die?

The Harlequin sat down on a stump. “Sit beside me, Your Majesty.”

The Lacewing King also sat—on a fallen tree some distance away. Beneath his cloak, his coat of bees winked and blinked in anxiety.

Don’t look! Don’t look! hummed the bees under the cloak.

“Look at me,” said the Harlequin.

“I listen better this way,” said the King, drawing a fold of his moths’-wing cloak over his eyes to shield them. “But, pray, tell me your tale. How did you become the Harlequin?”

The creature flexed its jaws again and began its tale.

“I was the Hallowe’en Queen,” it said. “I lived between the World of Men and the banks of the River Dream, which runs through all Worlds, to the Land of the Dead. My name was known, in those long-ago days. I fed well on the souls of the dead. Kings—and even gods—were my prey. Now I have