Masters of the Veil (2 page)

Sam looked over at the Hornets. They’d huddled together in a ring of ecstatic bodies, jumping up and down in unison.

“That’s supposed to be us,” Sam said.

“Well, thanks to you, it isn’t.”

The beating in Sam’s head got stronger.

The rest of Sam’s team headed toward the locker room like they were going to a wake, their heads hung low. On the sidelines, cheerleaders crammed pom-poms away and wiped glitter paint off their faces.

At the midfield sideline, Channel Four began packing up its gear. Sam rushed over to them just as they were about to put away the large camera.

“Excuse me!”

A cameraman with a goatee looked up, and then frowned in annoyance.

“You have to check the tape on that.”

The man turned his back to Sam. “I expected more from you, kid.”

“I swear, something crazy happened. You have to look at the tape. Everyone just

stopped moving, right before the play.”

The man started wrapping up cords. “That’s what normally happens on the line.”

Sam felt something break within him. Spit sprayed from his mouth as he yelled, “Don’t you think I know what happens on the line of scrimmage?”

The man turned back around. “You really think something happened?”

Finally, he was getting through. “Yes! Please, just watch the last play.”

The man picked up the camera and opened the side panel, revealing a small screen. He flipped a few switches and rewound the scene to show the last down.

“You see?” Sam asked. “Everyone just stopped moving.”

The man looked at Sam with a small amount of compassion. “C’mere.”

Sam moved in so he could see the little screen.

“Now watch closely,” the cameraman said, “so there can be no doubt.”

Sam watched as they all lined up, ready for the last down. Right as Sam got in his crouch, a tiny flash of static warped the scene. Then everything continued—at normal speed, with not even a hiccup in the time stamp. The digitized version of Sam looked around, stunned, for a moment while the game went on around him.

From the viewer’s perspective, Sam had choked.

Sam didn’t understand. “But, the static. It must have—”

The cameraman threw his hands outward. “Kid, you lost. Stop deluding yourself.”

“I swear!” Sam yelled. “Something—”

“Hey!”

Sam turned as the Hornets’ cornerback jogged up to him.

“What do you want?” Sam asked.

“You played a heck of a game, man.” He reached out a hand. “Best I’ve been up against by far. It was a great game.”

Sam stared at his hand in disgust. “No, it wasn’t.”

The cornerback retracted his hand.

Sam started to feel light. “The game’s not over. Something happened.”

The cornerback looked up at the scoreboard. “Looks pretty over to me.”

“Sam here thinks that you guys cheated somehow,” the cameraman said.

Sam felt the anger inside of him taking over. “That’s not what I said.”

“You calling us cheaters?”

Sam felt like he was going to explode again. “No, it’s just that—”

“Whatever, man.” The cornerback turned away.

The crazy energy was back. “Hold on.” Sam went to grab the cornerback’s shoulder.

And then the cornerback was on the ground, yelling in pain.

The stands hushed as thousands of eyes turned in their direction.

The insane energy stopped again, along with the pounding in his head. Only the screams of the cornerback, writhing on the ground in agony, broke the silence.

The Skyline coach ran up. “What the heck happened?”

Sam honestly didn’t know. All he’d done was try to grab the kid’s shoulder. “I… I just…”

“He hit him.” The cameraman’s face had gone pale.

“What? No, I—”

“You hit my player?”

Sam stared wide-eyed down at his opponent. “No, I swear, I just grabbed his shoulder and—”

“He hit him, hard,” the cameraman said, “really hard.”

“I didn’t hit him!”

From down near his feet came more screams of pain. The cornerback whimpered and curled in a fetal ball on the grass. Blood seeped through the back of his jersey.

“Back off!” The coach scowled at Sam. “Someone call the medics!”

Sam’s hands clenched into fists as he turned to the cameraman. “Why would you lie? I didn’t hit him.”

The cameraman held up defensive hands. “Don’t hit me, too.”

The muttering took on a dangerous edge.

“Loser!”

“Leave him alone!”

“How could you?”

Why do they hate me? I didn’t do anything wrong!

The Skyline coach bent over his shrieking player. Blood darkened his once-yellow jersey. Sam stumbled backward and kept his hand tight against his forehead as the pounding started up again. In seconds everything had been ruined—his career, his reputation, his life.

Did I really choke? Did I really hit him? No, something weird happened. I wouldn’t have…

Everyone—the fans, the players, the cheerleaders—now looked at him like he was some kind of freak. Their animosity swept over him like a tidal wave. Both teams’ coaches started toward him. He had to get away. He needed space to think.

Why won’t that damn pounding stop?

He grabbed the sides of his head, squeezing like a vice, but the force within his skull wasn’t going away.

All he could think to do was run.

He pushed past the cameraman and ran toward the parking lot. He couldn’t focus with the full drum line in his ear, but at least he could run fast. Even though his brain might be exploding, the energy filled his body—supercharging it. People jumped out of his way as he flashed through the crowd, and then past them.

Thankfully, no one followed him. At that speed, no one could. Once out of the mayhem, he ripped off his pads and put his jersey back over his t-shirt. He took a deep breath as the throbbing pressure released his cranium, but all of that extra energy drained away with it. His eyelids started getting heavy and his lips went numb.

Am I going to pass out?

He spotted his car over in the corner, sandwiched between two large pick-ups. Just seeing it inspired a bit of relief. He stumbled over and knelt down by the back door. As he dropped, he felt his whole body shutting down. He reached underneath the car and grabbed the spare key duct-taped next to the muffler. His regular set—along with his street clothes—was still in the locker room.

He stripped off the gooey white bands of tape and pulled the key free. His vision went black as he forced himself upright, and he fell against the side of the car. Sam found the unlock button on his key by sense of touch, and slid halfway down against the door before he finally found a handle and maneuvered into the back seat.

Just as he hit the door lock button on the key, the world went away.

CHAPTER 2

T
he world went from black to blinding red as Bariv closed his eyes. Once the color faded, he was shown what’d happened. The scene played out behind his closed eyelids while he sat in the damp cave. The flashes made no clear picture, but the snippets revealed power—
real
power—the kind he hadn’t seen since…

Bariv traced the swirls on each of his cheeks with his fingertips as he remembered his own first “hiccup.” This new one’s first hiccup had been much more impressive… and dangerous.

If this had been a normal case, he would’ve sent May a message in the traditional fashion, but Bariv didn’t know when May would be back in her tower, and the boy needed her right now.

Someone else might’ve felt that hiccup, too.

He braced himself, and then sprinted through the wall. Shielding his eyes against the bright sun, he kept running. After a few strides, his eyes acclimated to the light.

Things on the outside were nearly the same, but the trees looked taller.

How long have I been in there?

He reached his arm skyward and wrote against the clouds.

May. The fountain, immediately.

A flick of his finger signed the emergency message.

Bariv.

His short legs didn’t carry him fast enough. May was already there when he arrived, her mouth tight. People were all around, gathering rinsers, but Bariv couldn’t worry about that now.

“Even I felt it.” May’s voice shook. “And I haven’t felt one since—”

“I know.”

“But what does it mean?”

Bariv reached up and touched the second-skin that covered her hand. Her eyes widened as the knowledge passed to her. “Will he be as powerful as they are?”

“Even more so.”

“What if—”

“We can’t think about that now. Just get to him before they do, because wherever he ends up, he’s going to be extraordinary.”

CHAPTER 3

O
fficer Gaetani had known the Lock family since Sam had been in diapers, and ever since Sam’s hands had been big enough to grip the laces there’d been a ball between his fingers. Sam’s old man had played pro ball back in the day, and that was all he wanted for the boy. He’d sent Sam to sports camps, worked the kid, starting in the peewee days, until he dropped, and even installed those lights in their backyard so they could run plays after the sun had gone down—all so Sam could make it.

Kid could’ve done it, too.

Officer Gaetani rubbed a hand across his forehead and sighed. He’d been on-duty during the game and was now glad he hadn’t been there to watch the kid’s worst nightmare firsthand.

Poor Sam, a slip-up like that’s going to cost him everything.

In the station with Curcio and Palazzolo, he stared with hollow eyes as Channel Four News replayed that last, agonizing down of the game.

“Here it comes.” Curcio’s hand hovered in front of his throat. “Aaaaaand… choke!” He gripped his jugular and made a gurgling sound.

“That’s enough.” Gaetani frowned. “Give the kid a break.”

“Look how confused he looks!” Curcio opened his eyes wide. “‘Huh? What do I do? Why is everyone moving so fast?’”

“So the kid messed up.” Gaetani sighed. “It’s one bad move.”

Palazzolo licked doughnut glaze off his fingers. “It’s the worst move. Too bad for Sam. You know this town.”

Gaetani
did
know. Stanton’s priorities were church and football, and which was the religion and which was the pastime were often muddled. This made Sam’s inaction akin to blasphemy.

“Kid’s old man isn’t gonna be too happy.” Palazzolo wiped his mouth on the back of one hand, then inspected it for any last traces of doughnut. “Let’s hope Pete doesn’t hit the bottle too hard tonight… Maybe we should send a car over to the Locks’ later, just in case?”

Curcio hit the side of the television with the flat of his hand. “What’s with that static? This old piece of junk’s got to go. Think the chief’ll spring for a new one?”

“It’s not the set. I think it’s the feed. That thing’s only a few years old.”

“Gotta love two-bit reporters with one-bit equipment.”

“It’s not like I want to watch it again, anyway.” Gaetani shook his head. “Kid’s going to have a hard enough time; he doesn’t need this whole town to get on his case.”

Curcio wiped some dust off the screen. “Maybe he should’ve played some football, then. Look at that—just a deer in the headlights.”

The door banged against the wall, and the stink of cheap cigars rolled in with Lieutenant McNally. “Be ready in two minutes, boys.”

Gaetani frowned. “Ready for what?”

“You three are going over to the Lock house to bring Sam in for questioning.”

Curcio chuckled. “I guess playing bad football actually
is
a crime in this town. I always suspected.”

“I’m not kidding around,” Lieutenant McNally growled. “Get going.”

Curcio ran his hands over his pockets. “For what?”

“News didn’t catch it, but I got a few calls saying Sam hurt a Skyline player pretty bad.”

Gaetani’s brows jumped to his hairline. “Sam? There’s no way. Kid’s brutal on the field, but he would never
deliberately
hurt anyone.”

The Lieutenant tapped his wristwatch. “Time is money, and it ain’t free.”

Huh?

Officer Gaetani gave him a more intense look, taking in details like he would with a suspect. Something was off about the Lieutenant’s eyes. Had he been drinking? Or crying? Neither seemed likely. The precinct didn’t have the greatest lighting, but they did look… reddish. Strange.

“It’s late. Shouldn’t we let the kid get some rest and bring him in tomorrow?”

The Lieutenant’s leg started to shake. “No.”

Normally, the Lieutenant was a look-’em-straight-in-the-eye kind of man, but tonight he kept his gaze away from his fellow officers.

“But Lieutenant—”

The Lieutenant lifted Gaetani out of the seat by the front of his shirt. “Question me one more time, and I’ll have you out of here.” After an eerily intense glare, the Lieutenant released him. “I believe you’re down to one minute.”

Gaetani gaped at the man.

What the HELL is wrong with the Lieutenant?

The guy had just… assaulted him for asking a question! And those eyes were definitely red—and not just a bloodshot, one-too-many-sleepless-nights red. The pupils—the parts that should be black—were off.

“What’re you waiting for?” Curcio tipped his head toward the door. “Let’s get moving.”

“Uh… sure.”

“And get back ASAP. No screwing around.” The Lieutenant slammed the door behind him.

Gaetani frowned. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but eyes were not supposed to look like that. The Lieutenant had never been a violent man. Maybe he’d had some money riding on the game?

Curcio tossed Gaetani a set of keys. “You’re driving.”

“Fine, but that means you don’t get to hassle Sam.”

Curcio gave him an innocent shrug.

“On second thought, we’ll take two cars.”

***

Lieutenant McNally leaned against the door of his office. Normally, he would’ve gone right to the second drawer and taken out a much-needed cigar, but he wasn’t in the mood. Nicotine was the least of his worries. He sat down at the desk and ran trembling fingertips over his eyes.

Even through his eyelids he could feel the heat radiating outward. A few minutes ago, a serious fever had given him the shaky-sweats, and now the back of his shirt was soaked. His skin felt like it was covered in tiny ants.

I felt fine this morning. Maybe it’s a virus? Or food poisoning?

The fever wasn’t even the worst part. An uncomfortable sensation filled his body. He couldn’t describe it, but it felt prickly… unnatural.

And now to top everything off, he’d basically assaulted a fellow member of the force. Gaetani had just been asking a question.

What the hell am I doing? Why am I so angry?
He rubbed a hand along his jaw.
Maybe I should take a sick day.

He pulled a soda out of the mini-fridge behind his desk and held the cool can against his forehead. It didn’t do much.

As soon as Gaetani gets back to the station, I gotta apologize to the guy.