How to Stop a Witch (7 page)

“Yes, sir.”

The magicians joined hands, and Greg instantly felt a charge in the air. Within seconds the space before him split and revealed a hidden dimension beyond. Thousands, maybe millions of stars floated by while Lucky stared intently into the gap. An eternity passed, until Greg was so tense he nearly screamed.

Then Lucky did scream. “Now!”

Instantly the world shifted beneath Greg’s feet. The gloomy chamber full of dark hooded figures disappeared. In its place, Greg faced a world far less cheery.

The building ahead
was buried in graffiti, or perhaps should have been. Boards had been nailed over the lower windows, but shards of glass from those above littered the ground by Greg’s feet, along with bricks and bits of crumbled mortar fallen from the dilapidated wall. Behind, the buildings resembled little more than enormous piles of rubble. At first Greg thought he was in a war zone, but something told him a war zone would have been safer.

A shuffling to his left caused him to spin and raise his walking stick. The familiar feel of wood in his hands restored his confidence, even if the rat that scurried away looked big enough to take it from him.

Then he spotted someone standing atop the rubble. Nathan might look different as a boy, but Greg had an idea this was someone else. For one thing, he was the wrong color. In fact, Greg felt blue was the wrong color for any boy.

“Hello?” Greg called.

The blue-skinned boy stared without speaking. In one hand he carried a fist-sized rock. He tossed it to his other hand and back again. Greg shifted his grip on his walking stick.

Behind came the clink of metal on rock. Greg spun to find a second boy leaning against the closest building. This one was olive-skinned, but not like anyone Greg had ever seen before. The boy’s complexion was actually a bright olive green. He carried a two-foot-long pipe in one hand, and Greg had an idea he and the other boy had not come here to play baseball.

From around the corner stepped a third, larger boy, his skin a bright red. At least Greg could pretend this one was badly sunburned. The boy carried a short length of chain, which he swung in a lazy circle.

“Uh, hi guys,” Greg said. “How’s it going?”

From behind buildings and scattered piles of rubble emerged several more boys, each more threatening than the last. They sported skins of every color of the rainbow, and even the few who had complexions of a more familiar hue looked no less odd due to the extreme contrast. A few laughed, but not in a friendly way. They ambled toward Greg, separating as they approached.

Greg blew out a breath. He raised his walking stick, adopting the
sensen
stance Nathan had ingrained in him, and waited to see what they would do.

Suddenly one boy lunged forward, swinging a length of pipe. He obviously thought to surprise Greg, and he did, but only because Greg had imagined him doing something far worse.

The thrust came as if in slow motion, and Greg easily diverted it away with his stick. The boy stumbled and nearly fell, but Greg made no advance against him. Instead he planted his walking stick on the ground before his feet.

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” the boy said, and launched a second attack. Greg slapped away that thrust just as easily as the first, but a second boy took advantage of the distraction to come at Greg with a chain. Greg’s eyes widened. He’d never tried deflecting a swinging chain before. But then, he
had
once managed to deflect an enraged troll, not to mention a couple of angry spirelings. The thought might have calmed him, if the memories themselves hadn’t been so terrifying. Even so, he caught the chain on the point of his stick and yanked it away before it completely unfurled.

The boy with the pipe launched another attack. Greg barely managed to dodge the blow. He flailed his stick around for protection, accidentally striking the boy across the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Greg said.

The boy looked even more terrified than Greg felt. He hesitated, his pipe dangling loosely at his side. But then he grinned, and Greg caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Greg ducked and spun and extended his stick, feeling the solid impact of wood on bone. A third boy had joined the fight and paid dearly for it. He screamed and fell to the ground, holding his side.

“Really sorry,” Greg added.

“Get out of the way,” growled a large purple-skinned boy. He shoved one of the others aside and lumbered forward, tossing up a large rock and catching it again. “Let’s see how far he can reach with that thing.”

Greg was just about to try reasoning with him when the boy lurched forward and unleashed the stone. Greg gasped, but months of practicing his chikan skills on the trail took over. His head jerked back, and he batted down the toss with his stick.

The purple boy’s jaw dropped. “What the—?”

“Get him!” someone shouted, and Greg nearly panicked when attackers rushed him from all sides.

He didn’t focus on any particular one, but instead began to dance through the chikan moves Nathan had taught him, adjusting the routine ever so slightly to slap away each strike that came his way, never hesitating long enough to see the results of his efforts. The attacks seemed to rain in on him forever, but not one of the boys managed to reach him with their makeshift weapons. Finally, when Greg felt he was about to collapse, a voice rang out above the crowd.

“Stop!”

Greg continued pushing his walking stick through his practiced movements for several seconds before he realized the attacks had ceased. He spun the stick a final time and planted one end in the ground at his feet.

His attackers pulled back to allow another boy to pass. This one stood smaller than any Greg had faced, but he walked with an air of confidence that worried Greg even more. His skin was dark but human looking, and he seemed vaguely familiar.

“Nathan?”

The boy stopped several feet away and eyed Greg, clearly confused but in no way intimidated. “Nate. Only my father calls me Nathan.”

Greg exhaled shakily. Who’d have thought Nathan would have been just as confident as a boy as he was as an adult? Was it possible Nathan knew magic before he ever left for Myrth? Greg shuddered at the thought. Then he had an idea.

“How
is
your father? I heard he was sick.”

The length of turned wood Nathan carried might have once been a baseball bat, or it could have just as easily been a table leg, or a banister spindle. Whatever it was, Greg had an idea it would cause major damage to anything that got in its way. Nathan held it up much the way he’d raised his staff on hundreds of occasions as an adult. Greg gulped, remembering the man’s impossibly fluid skill.

“What do you know of my father?”

Greg didn’t know anything about Nathan’s father, except that the man had passed away just before Nathan came to Myrth. Still, he knew he better say something.

“Just that he depends on you and probably wouldn’t want you fighting.”

Nathan smiled. “Well, he can rest easy, because I won’t be fighting long.” And with that he lunged forward so quickly, Greg barely had time to duck.

Nathan’s bat cut the air just above Greg’s head. Before Greg could even congratulate himself on his quick reflexes, a second blow came out of nowhere.

He parried the swing and stabbed out with his stick, catching Nathan by surprise. Still, Nathan was a natural athlete even then. He dodged aside with nearly the same fluidity he would achieve in later years and launched a third attack, which Greg deflected just as skillfully.

“Come on, Nate,” yelled one of the others. “Quit fooling around. Finish him off.”

Nathan focused on Greg, searching for a weakness. Ironically, Greg followed the very advice his opponent would one day teach him. He took the moment to clear his mind, and his body naturally moved to sensen position.

Nathan, if anyone, should have realized the significance of the stance. But instead of taking the moment to prepare himself, he struck. Greg read the blow and knocked it aside. At the same time his foot stabbed out and caught Nathan’s ankle. His mentor stumbled and fell, but then rolled back to his feet and struck out with his bat before he was even halfway up. Once again Greg met the blow and pushed it aside.

Nathan’s confidence was shaken. His next attack was sloppy, more desperate. Greg easily stepped out of the way and reached in with his own stick, leveraging the wood from Nathan’s grip. The bat flew to one side, and a few of the other boys nearly knocked each other over scrambling to get out of the way. From all around him, Greg heard gasps. He waited to see what Nathan would do. It wasn’t what he expected.

Nathan’s face broke into a wide grin. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Greg.”

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“I had a good teacher.”

Nathan looked nearly as surprised as he did when the weapon flew from his hands. “What teacher? Nobody knows how to fight like that but me and my dad.” He studied Greg’s face for a moment. “How come we’ve never seen you around before?”

Because I just came here from another planet,
Greg thought. “I’m not from around here,” he said instead, “and everybody there knows how to fight.”

Nathan stepped forward and reached out a hand, causing Greg to flinch. His grin widened. “Relax,” he said, laughing. He put an arm around Greg’s shoulder and pulled him around to face some of his friends. They each stepped up in turn to shake Greg’s hand, and while they seemed much less threatening now than they had a moment ago, Greg still felt far from comfortable having them all within arm’s reach.

“Now will you tell me how you know my father?” Nathan asked.

Greg wondered how long everyone would stay friendly if he told them the truth. “Uh, I don’t really. I just know
of
him.”

Nathan stooped to pick up his bat. “Well, I’m sure he’d like to meet you. There aren’t many kids around here who know chikan, and none who can beat me.”

“None except Greg, you mean,” said one of the boys, but he shut up rather quickly when Nathan’s bat soared past his head.

“It’s almost dinnertime,” said Nathan. “You should come eat with us. My dad and me, I mean. I was serious before. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

“Sure,” said Greg. He needed to get Nathan alone so they could talk.

Nathan said good-bye to his friends and led Greg away. Behind them a couple of boys began sparring with their crude weapons, mimicking the moves they’d seen Greg use, but Greg could tell they knew nothing of chikan.

Nathan led him past two buildings, then turned and walked down a desolate alley. Greg became increasingly nervous, but he still had his stick. He felt confident he could defend himself if need be.

Ahead, a large pile of bricks had spilled out onto the sidewalk. Nathan turned there and stepped through a hole in the wall, motioning for Greg to follow. The building they entered was little more than a shell. They passed through it and into another alley. A few hundred yards further, Nathan stopped and pulled back a weathered piece of plywood used to seal up a hole in yet another building. He stepped through the opening, and Greg followed.

The plywood fell back into place, cutting off all light. Greg’s grip tightened on his stick.

“This way,” said Nathan, and Greg felt a touch on his elbow.

The area was deafeningly quiet. The two of them moved through the darkness to a stairway, up two flights, and into a hallway lit by a single window set in the far wall. Nathan knocked on one of the doors midway along the hall. Two quick taps, a slap, and another quick tap. In a few moments Greg heard the sound of a latch being drawn back.

A second latch was pulled back, then a third. After five more, the door opened. Greg’s breath caught in his throat.

The last thing he’d been expecting was for Nathaniel Caine’s face to poke out and greet him.

It wasn’t quite
Nathan’s face. The features were similar, but the eyes were more sunken, or maybe they just seemed that way because the skin was so sallow. At the moment the mouth was frowning.

“There you are. I’ve been worried sick. Out fighting again, I suppose.”

“Uh, no, Dad,” said Nate. “Just messing around. I found someone who knows chikan.”

“Hah. I knew you were fighting.”

Nate exchanged glances with Greg. “But he’s really good. His name’s Greg. Say hi, Greg.”

“Uh, hi,” Greg said awkwardly.

Nate’s father looked at him for the first time. “You sick, son? You look pale.”

“Dad.”

“Well, if he’s sick you’d want to know, right?”

“He’s not sick.” Nate motioned Greg inside and closed the door.

Mr. Caine hobbled across the room to a chair that looked like some sort of elaborate mousetrap. He started to say something but began coughing instead and couldn’t catch his breath for a long while. Finally he looked back to Greg through watery eyes.

“Well, he sure looks sick. I haven’t seen skin that fair since . . . well, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen skin that fair. Maybe in Grandpa’s old photo album. People seemed a lot lighter-skinned in those days . . . then again, that may have just been the film.” He coughed once or twice more, then spoke in a strained voice. “Say, are you sure you’re not sick, son?”

“Dad, he’s not sick. I just told you he beat me at chikan.”

“No, you said he knew chikan. You didn’t say nothing about him beating you.” He winked at Greg. “So you beat him, did you?”

“I guess,” Greg muttered.

“You should have seen him,” said Nate. “He fought Benny and Bobby Bristo, Danny, Sam, and Big Pete, all at the same time.”

Nathan’s father regarded Greg with renewed respect. “Five at once? Impressive. So, where’d you learn the art, son? Your parents, I’d wager. They obviously have Earthen roots, no?”

“Earthen roots?”

“Dad has this crazy idea that only the Spectrals originated here,” said Nate.

“You have ghosts here?”

“Not specters. Spectrals . . . you know, every color of the spectrum. Say, where are you from, anyway?”