The Curse of Arkady (33 page)

Trying not to sigh, Jason ducked his head and went into the office he'd grown to hate. He plopped down on the visitor's chair, tucked his feet around the side rungs, and waited, thinking.

His gaze swept the office. Everything was compulsively neat, what little there was of books and files. The only picture on the wall was a poster comparing a wizened chimpanzee face to an elderly Albert Einstein. Wrinkling his nose at that one, Jason turned back to the desk. He curled his fingers about his crystal, holding it close, running through his focusing exercises, feeling the anger and resentment drain away. This wasn't fair . . . but then, many things weren't. He'd get through it, and once he did, it would be a small victory. Any triumph could be enjoyed later.

“Here we go.” The counselor slid into his desk chair. “Thank Coach for me, for letting you out.”

“I'm off the team if I miss workouts again,” Jason told him.

The counselor said, without expression. “And how do you feel about that? About getting that kind of attention?”

“I feel like it's your fault, and I don't like getting into trouble for it.” Jason stared back at him.

“Do you enjoy assigning blame?”

“I enjoy making a deal and sticking to it. We agreed on Friday mornings.”

“As long as your behavior warranted it. But what I saw the other night convinced me that your case is a great deal more complicated than I thought.” Statler wrapped spindly hands about his coffee mug and laced his fingers together. “What would you like to tell me about that? The . . . trash bin . . . incident.”

“I saw a coyote trotting around the parking lot. It looked mean and hungry, so I dove into the can and made a lot of racket to chase it away.” Jason was glad his words stayed even and did not give away the lie, and he leveled his gaze on the counselor's face.

“Did anyone else see the coyote?”

“Apparently not. But they are pretty hard to see, especially since it was nearly dark.”

“Not a stray dog?”

He considered it. “Maybe. I thought it was a coyote. They come out of the hills, you know. It's been a dry year for them, and my stepdad says construction always chases them around a bit until they can resettle.”

Statler drank about half his mug of coffee in one gulp. “Interesting reaction. Why didn't you try to outrun it? Or go get help?”

“Everyone seemed gone, and if you try to outrun things like that, you only attract their attention. They'll chase, if that's their gig. Chase and bring down.”

Statler opened a desk drawer, reaching inside for his notepad and pencil. As he pushed through an assortment of writing instruments looking for one with a sharpened point, Jason saw deep into the drawer. Surprise hit him.

Crystals. Statler had focus crystals in his desk drawer. One, large enough to fill the man's thin hand, and two smaller ones. They glinted dully at him as the counselor pulled out what he needed and then shut the drawer tightly, and made a few notes as if deciding that Jason had finally said something worthwhile.

Jason watched. Why crystals? Why hidden? Did Finch know what they were for? Did he have an inkling of why and how they could be used? And if he did, where had he learned? An uncomfortable feeling prickled up the back of Jason's neck. He began to talk about soccer and why he loved it and why he wanted to stay on the team, not letting Statler get more than a word or two in edgewise. When he finally rambled to a halt, Statler had long since stopped scribbling whatever it was he wrote in his notebook and drained his coffee mug dry.

“And that is why,” Jason finished, “I can't come to any more afternoon sessions.”

Statler's eyebrows went up. “You're hardly in a position to dictate when you'll be here.”

“You'll ruin everything.”

“Blame again.” Statler smiled thinly. “That's an interesting issue we should discuss tomorrow morning, Jason.” He waggled his pencil at him. “Your usual appointment and I'll see you bright and early.”

Jason took his leave, trotting back through now deserted corridors, wondering what he was going to do. A door swung open in his path. He went nose to nose with a chart covering the inside door of the science lab. “Composition of the Human Body,” it read. “Seventy percent water.” Without further thought, he swung past the door, listening to the grumbles and laughs from kids who'd stayed behind to finish a lab or work on a science fair project. He got his things from his locker and headed for home, shoulders hunched against a cold, dry wind. What
were
crystals doing in Statler's desk? What were the odds he merely liked pretty rocks?

Jason didn't think it could be that simple. Brennard's forces had sent a spy deep into the camp at Ravenwyng. They could do it here, too . . . to watch and break him, if they got a chance. Or was he just beginning to think as crazily as the counselor thought him to be?

Coach grabbed Sam by the scruff of the neck as he started out of the P.E. building. Sam looked up, feeling his eyes go wide. “Come with me,” the teacher said. “We have an appointment with Statler Finch.”

Sam's heart sank. Just as Jason had warned. And, unlike Jason, he wasn't a stellar student and if any inkling of trouble reached home, his parents might ground him. He sighed unhappily as the coach marched him toward the offices at the front of the school. He wasn't any happier as Coach sat him down inside the office and said, his voice tight and annoyed. “I want to have a word with you, Finch.”

Statler Finch got to his feet. Sam watched him, thinking all the while of Ichabod Crane. He even has a bird name like the character, he thought, as the two men went out and down the hallway. He could hear Coach's voice rising with every step.

“. . . Trying to . . . ruin . . . my team?”

Sam looked around. He wasn't exactly sure why he was there or what he should say. Sure, he wanted to help Jason, but at what cost? He couldn't very well lie either till he knew what was going on!

He stood. Finch had left papers scattered across his desk. He craned his neck to look at them.

“Dear Student. This is an official notification that your loan package has been turned over for collection. As stipulated in original loan applications, all student's loans come eligible for repayment six months after leaving classes, whether graduated from a program or not. Your loans for the Masters program have been forwarded accordingly, and a payment program will be set up. . . .”

Something crashed down the hallway. Backing up guiltily from the desk, Sam jumped. His elbow hit the cubicle wall and a picture frame fell down. He almost caught it. Almost.

The frame cracked slightly, losing its tension, and the glass fell out. The diploma behind it slid out as well. Sam frantically tried to gather everything up, but as he did, the gold-embossed seal on the diploma flaked off and sailed through the air.

With muffled curses, he set the framing down on a chair seat and managed to get it back together, and the glass in place, with only a tiny nick in the corner of it. As for the diploma, Sam looked at it as he retrieved the fallen seal. It just looked . . . well . . . fake. And besides, Finch couldn't have graduated with a Masters if the letter on the desk said he'd dropped out. So how could he have the diploma?

He could hear a shout and footfalls coming back his way. Hurriedly, he licked the golden seal and managed to get it stuck back on the diploma and the whole thing back together and on the wall.

“Do what you gotta do,” the coach practically bellowed. “But if you take my team apart for the sake of one kid, I will see this program of yours stopped.” He paused just outside the open office door and then stomped off. A pale and shaken Statler Finch stepped inside.

He blinked at Sam as though he'd forgotten he was there. Then, he took a deep breath and sat down. “I'll make this very, very brief, Samuel.”

“No, it's Sam.”

“Whatever. Very brief.” Hands shaking, the counselor swept his papers into his desk drawer and then drew out a notebook.

Sam appeared to be looking at Finch as the man started asking questions, and he started answering. But in reality he was looking at the diploma on the wall, and thinking about his friendship, and the team, and what everything meant.

H
ENRY got up early, readying himself for school. He always liked the last day of the week, even though it invariably meant tests in English and Math and often small quizzes in History. He liked it because he loved to sleep in on Saturdays, which his mother let them all do, because she liked to sleep in on Saturdays. If any of them did get up, they were under the strictest orders to do so quietly and stay that way, so as not to disturb the peaceful rest of anyone else. So he had only one more day to wait until Saturday, when his time was his, to be spent (in the morning anyway), any which way he could so long as it was quiet.

He'd decided to take charge of his destiny. And, although it might be just as well to wait a day or two, today was probably as good as any time to begin. There was a shop on the way home from school, a little store carrying candles and crystals and incense and stuff. He didn't intend to spend his time wondering if a wolfjackal or a terrible Magicker stood in the shadow waiting to steal his powers again. No. He'd get a crystal of his own, and he'd fight back!

The morning sun shone brightly in the backyard, and Henry took the opportunity to box his shadow around, showing it who was boss! He danced about in proper kung fu style, kicking and jabbing. It felt good to have Jason and Trent, Bailey and Ting all believing in him again. How could he have forgotten them? Well, he'd been enchanted to, but still! And to become a full-fledged Magicker again? He could hardly wait. If only he had his crystal!

He wouldn't have the summer back, but he had days of it in his mind, vivid and happy. With the exception of Jonnard who'd betrayed all of them, the memories he had seeping back were good ones. Magick lessons and campfire sing-alongs and warm days canoeing on the lake and afternoons playing sandlot baseball. He'd never been happier. Who'd want to forget that?

He punched and kicked at his shadowy self who deftly danced and twisted out of range. In the house and upstairs, he could hear his siblings clattering out of the house for school. One more good kick box . . .

He halted in his tracks. The thick, unruly hair on his head stood on end. Something—someone?—hissed at him from the shadows.

He turned, straightening his glasses. The morning sun lay across his backyard in sharp contrast to the early shadows cast by corners, and fencing, and the garage. The yard almost looked black and white, rather than shades of greens and browns, edged and dotted with colorful flowers. This was his home! How could anything have got in?

But he knew better even as he thought that.

Could wolfjackals talk? And if they did, did he really want to listen? Henry pivoted cautiously and began to walk toward his back door. His sneakers swished through grass thick with dew, the bottoms of his jeans going dark purple with the wetness. Something trailed behind him. Cautious, slow, but he could hear footfalls.

Something panted. It could be him, his chest rising and falling in gasping breaths, unable to call out, but trying to. Or it could be the something behind him, or the something in the shadows flanking him, or the something in the corner by the kitchen door waiting. . . .

He made it through the back door, lunging quickly in at the last second and slamming it in the face of whatever pursued him. He heard a low whine, and a frantic scratch. Wood and paint splintered, by the sound of it. Still panting, he stood for a moment, then grabbed up his book bag with Henry Squibb neatly stitched across the back of it. Something bronzed and heavy fell out as he hoisted it and clattered over the kitchen floor, coming to rest under the lip of the cabinet. He bent over quickly to retrieve it.

Dr. Patel's cobra bracelet! He didn't know how he could have forgotten it so quickly, but he had. Its surface felt cool as he rubbed it between his fingers. Just break it, she'd said.

He couldn't go off and leave danger so close to home. It was up to him to make sure everyone was protected.

Taking a deep breath, Henry broke the bracelet.

 

His feet left the ground in a dizzying motion. His body soared upward even though his eyes appeared to be shut tight, and he had no idea where he was going or how. He moved through the air with great speed, as though a tornado had picked him up and carried him off. Everything whirled around him. He could feel his backpack straining from its strap, and his shoes tugging at his feet, laces untying and flying about like spaghetti. His ears roared so loudly that, for a few moments, he seriously wondered if it
was
a tornado.