Flock (26 page)

“Yes. You take on too much.”

Ouch again.

“You should know, however, Katla, that when you came to us one year ago, I knew it was a sign of change. Your age, your impulsiveness, your unwitting but lodestone or magnetite quality of attracting other powerful beings, all combined to portend transformation of our ways. All of this I suspected and resigned myself to, but I wonder now . . .” Here she laid her hands flat against the smooth surface of the wooden table, seemingly studying the fretwork of veins on the backs of her hands. “I wonder at your recklessness, your disregard for advice and counsel, your willful independence.” She paused, looking long and hard at me. “I don’t suppose you have anything more to tell me about recent events or your sudden interest in Norse legends.”

Tears stung at my eyes. How did I tease out the stuff that she could help with from the stuff that would endanger her, that would endanger other loved ones? And, finally, how did I even begin to describe the plan taking shape in my head? I simply couldn’t. Nor did I ever want her to think she missed an opportunity. “No,” I said; my throat was dry and my words raspy.

“I didn’t think so.” Hulda stood. She looked weary and sad. “Katla, should the World Council move to discipline you, I would have very little in the way of mitigating information.”

“I understand,” I said, my voice actually cracking now.

I don’t recall Hulda exiting the room. I only remember finding myself, some minutes later, alone in my grandfather’s back room. It had reverted to its utilitarian purpose, and I sat in a simple folding chair. Gone was my Robin’s chair. Gone was our massive oval table. Gone were the candles and sconces. Gone were my sister Storks.

I’d known I was on my own since the moment Marik had delivered his message, but now, having alienated both Jack and Hulda, I felt frightened and lonely and glum. And what did I have to look forward to? Possible disciplinary action. Man, I really knew how to screw things up royally.
Royally, ha.
As if I needed a pedigree to go with the doghouse I was in.

I had every intention of going to school on Monday morning, in spite of my lack of sleep and rock-bottom mood. My decision to walk that day and stop at Starbucks were supposed to be the jolts I needed to get my head back among the living. By now, the baristas and I were on friendly terms. They knew my usual, and I knew their names. It was a pleasant, if a little superficial, relationship. I was surprised, then, when Norah, even while smiling, muttered, “Must have been a rough night,” as she handed me my change. I know my face soured in reaction; I felt my mouth push into a crimp. She had the brass to smile, turn, and address the next customer in line.

I
had
had a rough night. Rough week. Rough year. But I hardly needed passing acquaintances pointing out my tangled ponytail and swollen eyes. It must have been a Monday-morning thing, because people, in general, were acting batty. I thought the guy standing next to me waiting for his beverage was on the phone; at first he was listing off the day’s commitments: “Meeting at ten, lunch with Joe at twelve, report due by three.” He wasn’t, though; he was seemingly standing there reading aloud his appointment book for us all to hear. Things got odder still when he observed with a double blink and a throaty “Well, good morning, girls” that barista Monica was sporting a too-tight T-shirt. Odd that she didn’t react to his comment. She didn’t seem the type to take that kind of ogling from anyone. More Monday weirdness, I supposed.

I took my drink from high-beam Monica and exited the shop. I was in a bit of a fog; the people in Starbucks adding to my morning dementia, paranoia, even, because I had the weird sensation that someone was following me. I was halfway down the block before realizing I was headed in the wrong direction. I should have turned around; there was still time to make it to first period on time, but I didn’t. I kept on going, eventually ending up at the old train tracks behind Afi’s store.

The line had been abandoned years ago, and the rails were pulled up in sections with weeds and grass reclaiming the land. With the woods to one side and the backs of the downtown shops to the other, it was a good spot for a private walk and afforded plenty of space to think. The area reminded me of Jacob, the soul I’d reunited with his original mother. It had been here that I’d felt his presence strongest, here that we came to an understanding. This brought me around to thinking of Jaelle, and I tossed my head in annoyance. An impasse was an unwelcome delay, if not a complete breakdown. It was not what I had expected. And with the possibility of disciplinary action coming my way, who knew what that would do for Jaelle’s cause?

Rounding a bend and coming to the huge fallen log where I’d once read to Jacob, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I was more than a little surprised to see Marik heading my way.

I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone. Him especially.

“Are you following me?” I asked, noting his school backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You seemed lost.”

“Trust me, I know my way around here by now.”

“Not land lost,” Marik said, coming to a stand beside me. I noticed that he limped and held one hand to his side gingerly. “Lost in spirit. Empty. Hurting. I thought maybe I could help. I’ve decided, in fact, that I want to help.”

I brought a fist to my mouth, trying — but failing — to fight back emotions. Marik, who pretty much had an expiration date stamped on his forehead, was reaching out to me.

“Why would you want to help me? I’ve screwed up in every possible way and hurt some really good people in the process. You said it yourself on Saturday. And I’m scared and confused.” I collapsed onto the log, splaying my legs in a wide V in front of me.

“Because what you pledged on Saturday was brave. If unwise, at least it was for all the right reasons. I admire that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“But you implied it was selfish. And probably pointless.”

“It may be pointless. She will do anything — anything — to procure an heir. Leira, she felt, was her last hope. I fear her reaction will be reckless, disastrous even.”

“You’re worried she’ll join forces with Brigid of Niflheim.”

He dropped onto the log next to me. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“Because together . . . ?”

He shuddered in reaction.

“Marik, what if I told you I was working on a substitute for Leira?”

“What? Who?”

“I can’t say. Not yet, anyway.”

He kicked a toe into a scruff of weeds. “She’ll accept no second-rate substitute. Lineage and birthright and prophecy are critical.”

So that last one would be a bit tricky. But it was
my
prophecy, after all, and a fabrication to begin with. The crazy thing was this wasn’t the biggest of my obstacles. What I had ahead of me was a logistical puzzle the size and scope of Kennedy’s man-on-the-moon mission. At least he had a team of scientists. All I had was a failing merman.

“Then I’ll have to make sure my substitute’s a good one.”

He dug a look so deep into my eyes I had to blink him away.

“And you won’t get in my way?” I continued.

“Not if you keep Jack out of mine.” His voice went gruff just mentioning Jack’s name. “That storm Saturday night almost killed me.”

“He’s hurt,” I said.

“He’s reckless,” Marik replied.

I’d always been his undoing.

“We’re taking a break,” I said, hanging my hands between my knees. “There shouldn’t be any more of his . . . displays.”

“Good.” He exhaled with relief.

But nothing was good. Not for any of us.

“Come,” Marik said, holding out his hand to me.

“Where?”

“School.”

“School? You’ve got to be kidding.” My hand stayed put.

“Our project is due this week. We have to finish it. Ms. Bryant is allowing class time all week to work on it.”

“You think I care about a Design project with everything else going on?”

“I think you need this project —” He held his hand out farther.

“Need it?” I interrupted.

“Need the distraction.”

“How will that help?”

“It will keep you sane while you work this out.”

“I gave up on ‘sane’ about four stops back,” I said.

“If not sane, then busy. In doing so, I believe you’ll come up with something.” Clearly having given up on my accepting his assistance, he reached down and pulled me to my feet.

“I warn you,” I said. “This could be a bumpy ride.”

“I have no doubt of it. You are some sort of giant mayhem magnet.”

“Someone else called me a lodestone.”

“You do seem to attract more than your share of trouble.”

As we walked back toward school, I had to admit I felt slightly better. Just having one person say, “I believe in you,” made a difference, even after being called a “mayhem magnet.” Granted, I’d have preferred it to be Jack, would have expected it to be him, but the situation didn’t afford for that. I’d just have to make do with Marik. Even if he was just another piece of space junk I’d pulled in like some huge strip of cosmic flypaper.

While walking up the front steps, I heard an engine gun. I turned around to catch the tail end of a truck — a beat-up old green thing — fishtailing around the corner.

Marik froze, folding in two with pain. “You said . . .”

I looked from Marik to the corner and back. The truck was a block away by then.

“He’s gone,” I said, fearing the truth of the words as they exited my mouth.

Wednesday after school I was in Ms. Bryant’s classroom using her aerosol adhesive to mount our graphics onto the trifold display board. Marik had been right. Go figure. With every other thing falling apart in my life, somehow the assignment became of paramount importance. It made about as much sense as flossing after the Last Supper, but focusing on this one thing put me to bed late and woke me up early two days in a row.

Even with the windows open, the spray glue emitted a stinging plume of toxic haze. Burrowing my mouth and nose into the crook of my elbow, I sat back on my haunches.

At home, things were in a holding pattern. Leira was still hospitalized but had stabilized enough to be taken off the ventilator. Her doctors weren’t happy with her overall “failure to thrive,” but the little fighter was hanging in there. Afi had been discharged and was convalescing at home. The doctors hadn’t found an infection so were stumped as to the cause of the edema. Lack of oxygen didn’t keep an old cuss like Afi from grumbling, which was probably a good sign. My chart-maker mom had devised a schedule so that Afi had dinner and someone to kvetch at every night of the week. My turn had been yesterday; I’d made BLTs and split-pea soup, the latter a favorite of Afi’s, not mine.

Jack was the sandbag on my chest. On at least two occasions I’d thought I’d heard or seen his truck. I couldn’t be sure, but both times my heart had crashed to my heels.

“Whoa,” Ms. Bryant said, entering the room and fanning the air. “Maybe you should do that outside.”

I took a deep breath, reexposing my airways to the vapors. I feared almost nothing at this point. “I’m done. Sorry about the fumes.”

She picked up a file folder from her desk and waved it back and forth in front of her. “How’s your grandfather doing today?”

“Better.” I pressed my lips together, wondering how she knew he was sick. I hadn’t said anything.

“And did your dad decide to go with chili or beef stew for his meal with him tonight?”

Now I added a jaw clench to my clamped lips. I had definitely not mentioned our meals-on-wheels program. Moreover, I didn’t even know tonight was my dad’s turn, never mind menu options. This was odd. I’d just spoken to my dad last night. It wasn’t like him to keep anything from me. So if he and Ms. Bryant were conversing, he’d have told me. Unless . . .

“I’m not sure which he’s going with,” I said, playing along.

Ms. Bryant had taken a seat at her desk and tapped a pencil against a stack of papers. “He thinks the beef stew is probably the safer choice. He claims the chili is his specialty, but it packs a bit of heat.” Ms. Bryant looked up, her eyes focused on something out the window, and her index finger trailed along her bottom lip. “If it’s even half as hot as his kisses, it should only be served with a fire extinguisher handy.”