Adam of Albion (2 page)

Crack!
came a second shot. This one spun him around but he
still kept going, lurching another few steps until he disappeared behind a
rockpile.

The
man with the rifle started walking forward. His head was shaved and he was
dressed like one of the Dearth-head fans, but he seemed older and really
tough-looking. He moved slowly and carefully, swinging the rifle barrel from
side to side like he was ready to shoot anything that so much as twitched. Adam
could see the laser night scope mounted on it, and the cylindrical sound
suppressor at the end of the muzzle.

He
swallowed hard, then got on his hands and knees and scuttled forward through
the shadows.

The
young wounded guy—he didn’t look all that much older than Adam—was lying curled
up on the church’s broken stone floor. His face was pale, his eyes were
closed—and a pool of blood was spreading out underneath him.

Adam
touched his shoulder gently. He groaned and his eyes opened. They were filled
with pain and desperation.

“Hang
on, okay?” Adam whispered, although he felt desperate, too. There was no way he
could run for help and get back in time, no place to drag the wounded guy and
hide him.

But
as his eyes focused on Adam, they lit up with hope. “Who are you?” he whispered
hoarsely.

“My
name’s Adam.”

“I’m
Jason.” He stared at Adam hard. “Can I trust you?”

Adam
swallowed again, but nodded.

“Quick—take
this and give me yours.” Jason feebly pushed his backpack into Adam’s arms.

Adam
was startled—it was a pretty strange request from a guy who seemed about to
die—but he took it and gave Jason his own. The two packs looked almost alike,
both shiny black nylon and the same size.

Jason’s
felt like it was empty except for a small hard lump.

“Keep
it secret and safe,” Jason rasped. “Be very, very careful. Besides these
enemies, there are also treacherous friends.”

As
Jason spoke, his hand was groping around on the ground. It closed over a
fist-sized rock—the same size as the lump in his pack.

“I—I
can’t just leave you here,” Adam stammered. He was breathless with fear, but
also sorrow. It was terrible enough that this young man was suffering and
probably about to die—but Adam felt a strange kinship with him.

“You
must! If you stick around you’ll die, too, and then we’ve lost.” Jason’s eyes
settled on the pack hanging from Adam’s shoulder. “That’s the only thing that
matters.”

“But
what do I
do
with it?” Adam whispered frantically.

Jason
mumbled a few words that he could barely hear.

Heed
the head,
was what they sounded
like—what did that mean? But there was no more time for questions—the gunman
had to be almost on top of them.

As
Adam backed away on hands and knees, he saw that Jason was stuffing the rock
into Adam’s backpack.

Then
it dawned on him what was happening. Jason had given Adam the “only thing that
matters”—the hard lump in his own daypack—and he was putting the rock in Adam’s
pack to substitute for it, as a decoy to stall the gunman.

Adam
kept moving as stealthily as a stalking lynx, staying low and darting from one
point of cover to the next. When he got to the far wall of the church, he found
an opening in the rocks and risked a peek.

The
gunman was in front of the stone cross where Jason had paused, twisting at the
gargoyle heads like he was turning doorknobs—or like he thought they might come
loose. When none of them did, he gave the cross a contemptuous kick and started
walking again—toward Jason.

He
disappeared behind the wall. Adam heard a thud that sounded like another kick,
this time to Jason’s body—as if the thug was making sure that he was dead. Then
came the rustling of nylon.

A
few seconds later he walked out again, carrying Adam’s backpack. He stepped
into a patch of moonlight, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and tore the pack
open, groping around inside.

His
hand came out clenched around the rock that Jason had slipped in there.

The
gunman turned toward the waiting car and held the rock above his head to
display it, with a fierce triumphant laugh. Whoever was in there started
driving down the hill toward him.

He
lowered the rock close to his face, studying it.

“So
you’re in disguise, my little friend?” he growled. “We expected as much. We’ll
strip your mask off soon enough.”

The
car stopped beside him and he got back in. A light came on, but the windows
were smoked and Adam couldn’t see inside—only hear the muffled sound of voices,
but not what they were saying. He started thinking this was his chance to run
for it—but what if somebody behind those darkened windows saw him?

As
he tried to make up his mind, it got made up for him.

A
woman’s voice suddenly rose, sharp with fury: “Imbecile! You followed the wrong
one of them!”

An
instant later came the
crack!
of another gunshot.

Adam’s
whole body jerked. He burrowed into his niche, trying to turn himself
invisible.

The
driver’s side door of the car swung open. A slender figure stepped out—a young
woman who was also dressed like a Dearth-head in skin-tight clothes and
knee-high boots. Adam could hardly see her face—she had on a tight cap pulled
down low, and even in the dark night, huge sunglasses. Coolly, she strode
around the car, opened the passenger door—

And
the gunman’s lifeless body tumbled out onto the ground.

Adam
stared through his tiny peephole, afraid he’d start shaking so hard she’d hear
his bones rattle.

She
must have been very strong. She picked up the thug with no apparent effort and
dumped him in the car’s trunk, slamming down the lid on top of him. Then she
stalked back to the driver’s door, pausing to reach inside and come out with
the worthless decoy rock in her hand. She whirled and threw it furiously
against the old church wall with a force that a major league pitcher would have
envied.

Then
she slid into the seat, started the engine, and sped back up the hill toward
the concert.

Adam
collapsed with relief, hardly daring to believe it. Jason’s ruse had worked!
The woman thought someone at the concert had whatever was in his pack, and she
was on her way back there to find them. It must not have even entered her mind
that anyone besides Jason might be here at this lonely spot—let alone a
terrified boy.

As
the car faded away into the night, he got shakily to his feet, keeping an eye
in that direction in case it came back. That slender, enraged woman had scared
him more than anything else in this very scary night. She’d shot her accomplice
with no more emotion than if he was a sack of grain—just like he’d shot Jason.

Then
it hit Adam that he’d just seen two men killed. Abruptly, with no warning at
all, his stomach started to heave, and he stumbled away, retching. He felt covered
in cold, slimy sweat, and it was all he could do to keep from crying.

But
he clamped down on himself fast. Whatever was behind all this, it was bad, it
was dangerous, and it was
real,
as real as things ever got. He could
replay every second of it in his mind so clearly it was like a movie. It tore
his heart that he hadn’t been able to help Jason. But, Adam decided grimly, he
was going to do everything he possibly could to keep his promise and honor
Jason’s last request.

If
he could even figure out what it was.

Well,
one thing was for sure—he had to get out of here. And find Barry. Where was
he—still high-tailing it away as fast as his legs would carry him?

Adam
trotted over to the moped, wheeled it out into the moonlight, and looked it
over, forcing his hands to stay steady and his brain to focus. It looked
basically okay and the gas smell was gone. He spotted an exposed fuel filter
that was crusted with dirt from the crash. He quickly pulled it loose, tapped
it against the crankcase and blew through it, then replaced it—not much of a
cleaning, but it would have to do.

That
was when Barry came into sight, hurrying in from the fields.

“What
the hell’s going on here?” he panted. “It sounded like somebody was shooting. I
figured you’d turn to jello so I’d better come back and scare them off.”

Adam
stared at him in outrage.
Barry
was the one who’d vaporized at the first
hint of trouble—and now he was pretending that he was a hero?

But
he caught himself. It would be even stupider than usual to argue right now.
Barry obviously didn’t know what had really happened and Adam didn’t want him
to. Not only had Jason warned him to keep this secret, there was another
reason. It was kind of strange and he couldn’t really explain it, but the
feeling was almost fierce. Whatever the lump in his backpack was, it was
his,
at least for right now. He didn’t want anybody else messing with it until he’d
had a chance to look it over and think things through on his own.

Just
play along, Adam told himself. Let Barry think what he wants and thump his
chest.

“Thanks,
Barry,” he said. “You’re right, I was so scared I could hardly move.”

“So
was it somebody really shooting?” Barry asked excitedly.

Adam
hesitated, but he couldn’t come up with a good lie that quickly.

“Yeah,
but he wasn’t aiming at anything—just up into the air. Maybe he was mad about
the concert, or maybe just a crazy guy shooting at the moon. I hid and he took
off—he must have seen you coming.”

Barry
nodded gruffly. “No problem. Just keep watching how I handle things, and maybe
you’ll start learning not to lose your cool.” But even he looked a little
embarrassed at his own blustering. Then he slapped his hand on the bike. “So
how about it, genius? You got this thing working again?”

“I’m
about to try.” Adam straddled the seat, turned on the ignition, and kicked the
starter. The engine just coughed.

“Yeah,
great,” Barry muttered.

Adam
gritted his teeth and kicked the starter again. This time the cough was more of
a sputter and lasted a few seconds, with a little cloud of dirty smoke from the
exhaust.

“Way
to go,” Barry sneered. “Guess we’d better start walking.”

But
Adam knew what the sputter and smoke meant—the fuel system was getting primed
to go. He gave it one more shot, this time really cranking down. The sputter
lingered, almost died—but then the engine caught and smoothed out into a steady
purr.

Barry
grunted, a sound of annoyance that Adam had succeeded mixed with relief that
they were saved.

Adam
stepped off the bike and gave the handlebars over to Barry. But then he suddenly
had the overpowering urge to go look at Jason once more—to pay his final
respects the way people did at a funeral.

“Whoa,
I dropped my wallet,” he said, slapping his pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

“Well,
hurry, dammit!”

Adam
trotted across the church and behind the rockpile where Jason’s body was
hidden.

It
was gone.

He
stared at the spot, thinking he must be in the wrong place. But no—the pool of
blood was still there.

He
lifted his gaze and scanned the area, in case Jason had crawled away. There was
nothing like the shape of a human being that he could see.

But—far
out in the field, so faint he might have been imagining it, he thought he
glimpsed a cluster of tiny flickers. Maybe they were some kind of glowing
insects like fireflies—but moving close to the ground, in formation, at a fast,
steady pace?

“Come
on, moron!” Barry yelled.

Reluctantly,
Adam ran back to the bike and hopped on.

As
they chugged back along the narrow country road they’d come in on, the world
seemed very dark and silent, and Adam—with the cold weight of the “only thing
that matters” bouncing between his shoulderblades—felt very far from home.

They
made it back to Blackthorn Manor just before 10 P.M. The grownups weren’t home
yet, which was a huge stroke of luck. Adam wasn’t even worried any more about
getting in trouble—that seemed tiny compared to everything else that had
happened. But he didn’t want anyone to know that they’d been anywhere near the
Watching Druids or the ruined church, and whatever cover story Barry made up
would have been complicated, Adam was too lousy a liar to follow it well, and
he was bound to trip up. Instead, they’d just say they’d spent the evening
watching weird British sitcoms on TV, playing video games, listening to
music—stuff the grownups couldn’t care less about—and they’d never left the
house. Unless something else went wrong, it would probably work.

They
rushed to stash the moped in its shed, with Adam dampening a rag and quickly
wiping off the dirt. The bike had a few new scrapes and dents, but it was
dinged up anyway. Since Reg was usually half drunk, he probably wouldn’t
notice. He probably
would
notice that his gas tank was down, but if he
accused them they’d just deny it and get him thinking he remembered it wrong.
At any rate, at least they wouldn’t be caught red-handed.

Then
they snuck into the huge old house, using a back entrance to avoid the
servants. Adam had been here three days now and he was still getting lost
inside. Right now, especially, it seemed like they had to run through half a
mile of hallways.

Their
rooms were on the third floor, across the hall from each other. Adam darted
into his own, shut the door, and flopped on the bed. As soon as he stopped
moving, he felt as limp as cooked spaghetti, and also still kind of queasy. But
his brain was buzzing with questions.

It
was obvious that the man and woman in the car were after whatever was in
Jason’s backpack—and that they were both ruthless murderers. But who were they
and what was behind all this?

What
had happened to Jason? He was too badly hurt to have gotten away from there on
his own, Adam was sure of that. Could those little lights he’d seen have
anything to do with it? Had he really even seen them, or was he just so stunned
by then that he’d started hallucinating?

But above
all—what was the “only thing that matters?” His curiosity was driving him
crazy, but he didn’t dare look just yet because Barry might come barging in any
second. In fact, Adam figured he’d better hide it—Barry also felt totally free
to rummage around through his stuff—so he slipped the backpack under the bed.

He’d
just settled back down again when he heard a car door slam outside. His first,
split second thought was:
the woman in the Jaguar!
He sat up so fast he
got a cramp in his mid-section, and skidded on his knees to a window.

Then
he exhaled a big sigh of relief. The car was a Rolls-Royce, bringing the
grownups home: Barry’s mother and father, who were Adam’s Aunt Isabelle and
Uncle Giles; and Barry’s aunt and uncle, Lord Geoffrey—Giles’s brother—and his
wife, Lady Winnifred, the owners of Blackthorn Manor.

Besides
them and the chauffeur, busily helping the ladies out of the car and handling
the luggage, there was one other person:

A
girl about his own age, who looked tiny except for her hair. It fell almost to
her waist, a great wild cloud that was somewhere between blond and white.

This,
Adam realized, must be Geoffrey and Winnifred’s daughter, who’d been away
visiting other relatives.

Her
name was Artemis, which Adam thought was geeky in a way he kind of liked. He
knew his mythology pretty well—Artemis was the goddess of hunting and of the
moon. In fact, that was the color this girl’s hair seemed to be—moonlight. It
floated around her as she walked toward the house, and somehow gave the
impression that she was floating, too.

Adam
stared at her, fascinated. He’d never seen anyone like her. Her skin was as
pale as her hair, and she wore a ton of black eyeshadow and silvery lipstick.
She was dressed entirely in black, with a T-shirt that came down to the
fashionably torn knees of her jeans, which were tucked into heavy black
boots—sort of like a Dearth-head, except that there was a definite sense of
class.

The
only things he’d heard about her were that she was supposed to be very smart,
and Barry didn’t like her. “She’s a freak,” he’d said sullenly. “You’ll see
what I mean.” But he said it the same way he talked about other people he
didn’t like because they knew how to put him in his place.

Well,
Adam would have a chance to make up his own mind, starting tomorrow morning.
Meantime, he had plenty of other things to think about, and they came flooding
back as he stretched out on the bed again—waiting for a chance to check out
that backpack. It looked like Barry wasn’t going to come bother him after all—he
was probably too wiped out. The grownups wouldn’t stay up much longer, and Adam
was so wired he wouldn’t have any trouble staying awake until the house was
quiet. He kept his clothes on and pulled the thick comforter over him.

At
least, he thought he wouldn’t have any trouble staying awake. But in the dimly
lit room and warm bed, his muscles couldn’t help relaxing and sleep tugged at
his eyelids like gentle fingertips.

He
forced them open again, straining them as wide as they’d go, but that set his
jangled nerves even more on edge. He decided to try a trick he’d learned when
he was little, to calm himself down: checking the ranch’s fence line in his
head. That had been his first job—well, his first real job, not counting
feeding the chickens and Walter, the rooster whose main goal in life was to
terrify the little boy (he still had a scar over his right eye where Walter had
attacked him).

At
first he’d ridden the line with his father, sitting behind him on their old
gray mare (which his Mom had actually named Mare) with Dad’s broad back
sheltering him from the wind, and learning to take care of the taut wire
fencing that looped around the ranch and sometimes seemed endless. It was very
important to keep the cattle safe and secure, and the fencing constantly needed
to be fixed, especially in spring after the blizzards and harsh winter winds
had done their damage. By the time he was eight, he’d been doing most of the
repair work himself.

After
his mom died, his father started riding the line by himself again. By now, Adam
realized that his dad was grieving—that being out there alone, drifting through
that lonely landscape on the slow-walking old horse, was his way of dealing
with his heartbreak. Dad had never been much of a talker and when he did talk
it was usually about the weather, or the health of the bull they’d bought last
year, or some lame-brained thing Congress had cooked up.

Neither
of them ever talked about how much they missed the wife and mother they loved.

But
checking the fence line soothed them both in their own ways, kind of like
praying or meditating, and it worked just fine for Adam tonight.

In
fact, it worked too well.