The Curse of Arkady (17 page)

A thin smile touched the counselor's lips.

That sounded like a deal, and one which he really did not want to make. He looked from McIntire to Joanna and back to McIntire. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. The last thing he wanted was Statler poking around in his brain! He'd have to make the counselor think he'd cured him, and quickly.

If he couldn't, he was cursed. Absolutely cursed, and he was beginning to think it was no coincidence.

T
RENT scratched his temple for a moment.
You enter the room,
he typed,
and find . . . what? What do we find? Whose perception is highest? This would be a very bad room to get killed in.

There was a tiny lag while both Henry and Jason received and pondered his thoughts. The dungeon game room stayed on pause, tiny avatars showing the positions of their characters at the threshold of the area. Various intriguing items appeared to be awaiting them, just like chessmen on a chessboard. They could be idle but a moment or two, then they would draw monsters and the room, sought as sanctuary, would no longer be safe. Trent had his own ideas as to how they should proceed, but this was a committee decision, and so he waited to throw his suggestions out until the others spoke up.

He sat back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head, and stared for a moment at his
Lord of the Rings
wall calendar. The realization of how close it was to Halloween struck him. The days had been flying by, so busy was he in school and in trying to figure out the Magicker lore to see if there was any way, any way at all, he could catch up. If it wasn't in the blood, maybe it was in a book. Something, somewhere. So far, he hadn't found one. But then, he was the only one who hadn't been hit with the Curse yet either. Maybe there were some advantages to not being a novice magician.

The thought of not having any Talent at all ran through him like a deep wound, though. Seeing the others with their crystals doing wondrous things and hoping to learn more . . . well, it hurt. Keeping up the bluff that he was doing what they were, only they were too busy doing their own thing to catch him, or his crystal was drained, or he was joined to Jason and Jason was handling it . . . well, it was an ugly pack of lies and likely to get much, much uglier. And, sooner or later, one of the elders was bound to notice it, too. He didn't know how they hadn't, so far. Henry's misfortunes had been his good luck, he supposed. Even when a Magicker, Henry's Talent had been wild and unpredictable.

Trent grinned as he remembered how they'd been taught to fill their crystals with light, so they could act as lanterns, and Henry's had gone up in a spout of flame. For a few days after, he'd handled his focus with a big oven mitt covering his burned hand! With Henry pulling stunts like that . . . his perpetually exploding down sleeping bag and out-of-control crystal . . . who'd notice Trent?

Only Jason knew his secret and that he'd revealed only when they'd had to face down a storm of uncontrolled magical power called mana, and the fiercesome beasts of the Dark Hand as well as the dark Magickers themselves. And Jason never demanded a thing of him. Not that he tell the truth or resign or anything else. To Jason, Trent was as much a Magicker as anyone else.

If only.

 

Message windows began to pop up. Jason wanted to investigate the perimeter of the room cautiously. But Henry said, and Trent read it a second time to make sure . . . he wanted to use the natural thieving ability of his halfling character to scan the room and detect any traps, mechanical or magical, awaiting them. Interesting. Very interesting that in the D & D campaign they'd begun, Henry relied more and more on magical type abilities, almost as if his subconscious mind was nagging at his conscious mind to remember. Jason claimed he could see more and more signs of it; Trent had been more naturally skeptical. This game, though. Henry had been quick to choose a character with natural abilities and an affinity to magic, if perhaps a bit chaotic . . . well, maybe Jason was right.

Jason quickly sided with the other two after Trent presented the option to him, and they proceeded but not before Henry's clever character tripped an immense trap by releasing a djinn from a clay jar . . . but it all turned to the good as the djinn granted each of them a wish to be used in the future. All too soon their gaming time came to a halt and they had to stop, saving their progress in this labyrinth of adventure. Henry left after a quick, excited note, saying he had to help take care of his little sister before bedtime, but Jason lingered to talk with Trent a bit.

Jason fired right back at him eagerly.
I know. This means a lot of things change. One . . . the Hand could go after Henry again, without his even knowing it, to drain those powers again. So he's gotta be protected till the elders decide if he can or should be taught again. And two . . . any of us can be drained over and over for the use of the Hand. That can't be good.

Trent rocked back in his chair. Shades of the
Matrix!
Being used over and over to fuel the bad guys? He didn't like the sound of that at all. And it was clear that Jason had been considering all the ramifications for a few days.

He helped Jason mull over the problem of the school counselor, too. Both decided that it was best not to do anything, make it look like Jason was cooperating completely, and try to make the school officials think so, too, until Finch and the vice principal decided their idea had either 1) worked or 2) was worthless. They talked a minute or two longer about what to do, then his father knocked softly on the door, reminding him it was bedtime. Obediently, he said good night to Jason and signed off. As he was crawling under his blankets, the door swung open a crack, his father leaning in.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything is fine!” Trent punched his pillow and then pulled his comforter up. His dad half smiled. He missed the days when his father gave his famous ear-to-ear big grins, but those times were gone. They'd left when his mother died, and he wondered if they would ever come back. He knew
he
didn't feel much like it except for those rare moments when Bailey cracked him up or Jason made him feel good about having friends and hanging out again.

His dad stepped in, which he rarely did, and tucked the comforter around him tighter. “Getting on toward winter,” his father said. “And while there aren't winters here like I had back home as a kid, you still need to keep warm.” He paused, his hand on Trent's head a moment. Then, without another word, he turned and left.

The bedroom door stayed open the barest of a slant, golden light from the living room raying in from the lamps there until his father turned those out, too, as he went to his bedroom. Trent waited a moment or two, then snuggled in deeper and felt himself drop off to sleep.

 

Jason found himself back at the mansion. Only this time, as moonlight silvered across cold and crackling sand, and he approached it with all the wariness he could, Jason knew it was the McHenry house. Naming it didn't make it feel any safer or nicer than it had before. His skin crawled. Yet he could not keep himself from entering the gate and beginning the walk across the curved driveway to the massive wooden doors. He was saved, at least, from entry through the old family cemetery with its unexpected potholes as rotting caskets and catacombed grounds gave way at the slightest step!

He put his palm upon the burnished golden oak door. The wood felt warm, almost hot to his touch, yet it continued to send shivers down his back. He didn't want to go through that door, but he had to. He was drawn as if he were a piece of metal and a powerful magnet lay beyond the door, but also his own curiosity and need to know drove him along. With hands that grew colder by the minute, he finally moved to the great door latch and lifted it. The doors swung inward with a great creaking, not of rusting hinges, but of heavy weighted wood, as if a massive barrier gave way. The knowledge and sound sent chills down his back. The McHenry house didn't have a latch, it had a knob like any other door he usually used . . . and it had opened out.

He had already known he was dreaming. But not why. He never knew why he dreamed what he did . . . if he was reliving the past or anticipating a future. Jason only knew that there were these moments in his dreams he had to endure. All he could do was watch, and remember, and hope to learn something later.

He pushed the heavy doors open with a grunt. A draft of air blasted him in the face, nearly gusting him out of the threshold . . . hot, smoldering air that stung his eyes and immediately dried his nostrils and lips. He coughed and put his hand up to shade his face.

Before he could see anything or take another step, from the dull and red glowing interior of the darkened hall, a furred shape growled and leaped at him. Jason fell back and scrambled out from under the wolfjackal, his free hand instantly wrapped around his crystal.

His shield flared to surround him, and the beast tumbled away, snarling, ivory fangs clashing angrily at empty air. Jason kicked out, catching its sleek wolfish body and sending it skidding back into the McHenry house. He slammed the doors after it.

He'd enter when he was ready, and prepared, and not before.

Jason woke, panting and sweating lightly in spite of the cooler night air, and he lay for a while until his heart stopped drumming so loudly and he thought he could sleep without wolfjackals prowling his dreams.

 

Bailey woke to the sound of the teakettle whistling from the kitchen. For a moment she thought of FireAnn, with her fire-red, naturally curly hair pulled back into a kerchief, her voice with a mild Irish lilt, fixing cuppas for those who wanted it while she got busy sorting herbs and recipes for the day's cooking. But it wasn't FireAnn. It was her mom, and Bailey grinned. Even better!

She threw herself out of bed, waking up Lacey who chittered sleepily from her cage before diving back into a nest of colorful bits of tissue. Bailey grabbed her robe before popping into the kitchen. Sure enough, her mom had a big china pot waiting to brew tea, and a plate of sweet rolls ready to be warmed in the microwave.

“Wow. Party?”

“Mmmmm,” her mother said, not quite looking at her as she picked up the kettle from the stove and filled the teapot. Almost instantly, the smell of jasmine and oolong tea filled the kitchen as steam issued from the neck of the china pot. It had to steep for a few minutes to really taste good, so her mom straddled the kitchen stool across from the counter. She looked at Bailey. “Hon. We need to talk.”

The good mood dropped from her. Bailey hadn't heard her mom sound like that since . . . well, since the divorce. As it hadn't been easy news then, she didn't think it would be anything easy now!

Her mom fixed her mug of tea with a squeeze of lemon and a heaping teaspoon of sugar just like Bailey liked it, before sliding it over. Bailey immediately wrapped her suddenly cold hands around it, and waited.

Her mom sat down, and tried to smile. “I talked to Ting's mother early this morning,” she said.

Bailey's throat got very tight. “What's wrong with Ting?” The words barely squeaked out.

“Nothing, hon!” Her mom reached over, and patted her hand. “But it's not good news. Her grandmother is very ill right now, and Jiao is going up to San Francisco to be with her for the next few months while she undergoes chemo and radiation therapy, and she's taking Ting with her. Ting will be going to school up there.”

“Wow. Is everything going to be all right?”

“They hope so, but the treatment can be . . . well, it's not easy. So Ting's mom thought it best she be there and that this would be an opportunity for Ting to get to know that part of her family better and to experience the culture up there. San Francisco has a very large Chinese community, you know.” Her mother sipped at her mug of tea. “It's not like you're losing her, after all. There're phone calls and the Internet.”

And crystal.
“Yeah, I know,” muttered Bailey. She picked up the spoon and clattered it around inside her mug. “I mean, she has to go, and I understand, but I'll miss her. And she's gonna miss Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's . . . we had stuff planned.”

“I know, honey.”

Bailey tossed her head. “We'll just have to make the best of it, right?”

Her mother smiled. “Right.”

“S
LACKER!” said the coach, practically frothing at the mouth. “The one thing I won't have on any of my teams is a slacker!”

“Yes, sir,” Jason mumbled.

The coach stabbed a finger through the air. “My office, after practice! Now get your buns out there and do drills with the rest of the team!”

“Yessir!” Jason bolted.

He joined the line for sprints, and then danced in place with Sam to keep warm on this chilly, gray afternoon while waiting for his turn.

“That went well,” Sam commented dryly.

Jason nodded. The two of them had figured he'd ground Jason right then and there for even being given the note that Joanna and McIntire had sent to school. Instead, he'd studied it, turned red in the face, and ordered Jason to his office after a few well chosen words on athletics building character and commitment to the team and hard work and effort. Thirty minutes of the old, “There is no I in team” lecture.

He windmilled his arms around. The last thing he wanted was for the coach to think of him as either a troublemaker or a weasel, and the sooner he could look him in the eye and convince him of that, the better he'd feel. In the meantime, he could look forward to being worked twice as hard. He took a deep breath. Whatever Coach threw at him, it would be better than sitting in Finch's office, waiting to be dissected.