The Curse of Arkady (29 page)

The wolfjackal clawed at him from the outside, toe-nails clicking and raking down the side. It thudded against the metal again, heavily, the bin shaking from side to side on its iron wheels, and then, suddenly, he could hear the growling overhead. Something hot dripped down on him. He looked up through the gap in the lid and saw part of the wolfjackal's snarling face, dripping saliva down on him.

He had two choices. One, to use his crystal, but after the failure of the beacon he was afraid to depend on it . . . or two . . .

Jason grabbed his soccer shoes, heavy and studded, out of his gear bag. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he began to beat them against the side of the trash bin. The racket nearly deafened him, but he kept yelling and pummeled his soccer shoes till his shoulders ached. He couldn't tell what the wolfjackal was doing because the whole container rumbled and quaked all around him, rocking as if it had a life of its own.

Suddenly, yellow-white light flared in, blinding him, as someone threw the lid open, shining a flashlight in. He blinked as he stuffed his shoes back into his duffel and stood.

The janitor, flashlight in hand, peered down curiously. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

A second visage leaned in for a look. Statler Finch's nose wrinkled from the stench. “Curious behavior, Jason. I thought you hated being trash canned and yet I just saw you dive headlong into one. We'll be talking about this on Friday, I think. Oh, yes. We'll have a nice long talk about the difference between being bullied . . . and pretending to be bullied for attention.”

T
HE look of disappointment on Joanna's face was almost more than he could bear. He was used to seeing worry and concern there, for she attempted to be nothing less than a perfect parent. But this betrayal of his had stung his stepmother to the core.

“Oh, Jason,” she murmured. “How could you? I thought we had everything settled with Mr. Finch.”

“We did.” He stared at McIntire, whose tanned, line-etched face actually seemed to be easier to look at. His stepfather had been in his offices, working on plans for the big development which had once been the McHenry estate, although the old mansion seemed to have survived demolition, and had appeared when Joanna let out a cry of dismay and called for Jason. The Dozer's wishes for a back road were even now being carved through the foothills, and his clothes were dusty with the digging of it. He looked steadily at Jason, though, and said to his wife, “Things aren't always as they seem. What's going on, Jason?”

She interrupted. “I'll tell you what's going on. Mr. Finch seems to think Jason is some kind of . . . some kind of lying psychopath! All this for attention.” She put her hand to her mouth, her hand trembling, as if she might break into sobs. “I know it's hard for you, Jason, no mother and no father, but I do try. I do. And I thought talking to Mr. Finch might give you an outlet outside the family. But it appears I've failed! He says you're shamelessly manipulating all of us.”

McIntire put a great arm about his wife's shoulders. “Now stop that,” he said mildly. “Jason hasn't done anything wrong, that I've seen. Finch is in a new program at the school, and he strikes me as the overeager sort. The kind who might make a reputation anyway he can. I have no intention of letting him run roughshod over any of us.”

She sniffled. “But . . . what happened?”

Jason exhaled at finding an unexpected ally. That put him in a spot, though, which he wasn't quite sure how to get out of. He shifted uneasily. “I can tell you it wasn't what it looked like.” He bit his tongue before he could add
trust me.
There was no such emotion on Joanna's immaculately made-up face. And no tears yet, either, although they seemed just around the corner.

She sighed. “All right, then. But no Internet tonight. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“All right then, hurry on upstairs, dinner's a little late tonight. You may have time for homework before I call you.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jason turned and pitched out of the living room before anyone whatsoever could think of anything else. He took another shower and set his clothes aside to be washed after dinner, unable to bear even the faintest reminder of the garbage bin. Then he sat down, shoved the computer screen aside so he wouldn't even have to look at its darkened face, and did his science lab.

Alicia wasn't in for dinner, having gone to a friend's house after dance practice, so he was spared her knowing and accusing glances at the table. He announced he'd gotten his science lab done already and only had a page of math problems to do after dinner. Joanna's red mouth thinned to the barest of lines, and she repeated firmly, “No Internet.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sometimes there was just no moving a mountain, and he knew when to not even try. He stifled a yawn and dug into the lime jello and carrot salad that also served as a kind of dessert for the evening. He cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher before heading back upstairs.

While he did his math, his mind worked on the real puzzle. How was it Statler had seen him but hadn't seen the wolfjackal? How could that be?

Or had he seen it and not believed it? Or had he decided it was merely an overly bold coyote.

Neither option made Jason feel very comfortable. He tucked his math papers inside his workbook and stowed everything back in his backpack, ready for the next day.

And even if he were all right, that did not mean the others were. He broke his word and went on the Net long enough to send e-mail to everyone, warning them anew, especially Henry. He took his time over Henry's letter, mulling about what to say without frightening him half to death and yet urging him to be very careful.

He flipped off the computer when a floorboard creaked behind him, and he spun about in his chair guiltily. He'd been caught!

 

Gavan Rainwater sat down on the edge of Jason's bed, his cloak puddled about him like great, dark wings, his chin resting on the head of his wolfhead cane. He smiled as Jason gulped once or twice. “Sorry. I should have knocked, but I hate creating a fuss.”

Jason pulled up his trapdoor for privacy. “I bet you do. What's wrong?”

“It's time,” Gavan said simply. “Come with me?”

Of all nights to be called away from home. Jason looked at his trapdoor. It was not to be helped, he supposed. What to do?

He wrote a quick note reading “Do Not Disturb (sleeping)” and lowered it out of his room on a string, and then pulled his door up and shut tight. Just in case, he fixed his bed and Gavan stood, watching him with his mouth twitched to one side.

“The old pillow under the blanket trick?”

“I'm in a little bit of trouble,” Jason told him.

“Ah. Covering your tracks, then. Let me help.” Gavan gestured and the room steeped in darkness, and he could hear the very very faint sound of someone in deep sleep. Gavan dropped his voice to a whisper. “There,” he said. He extended a hand to Jason. “Shall we be off?”

And they were, in what Aunt Freyah often referred to as two twitches of a lamb's tail.

 

Ting put the finishing touches on her English essay and printed it out. She heard the sound of the walker in the hallway, and her bedroom door eased open. “Ting,” her grandmother said. “Your mother is out getting groceries, and you have a visitor. I believe you have something to do tonight.”

Puzzled, Ting followed her out to the kitchen, where FireAnn sat with a cup of Chinese tea in her hand. “There you are, lass! I'm to bring you to a meeting.”

Her grandmother hugged Ting. “We had time for a little chat,” her grandmother explained, smiling widely.

She looked from the flamboyantly red-haired Magicker and cook of Camp Ravenwyng to her grandmother. “You . . . talked?”

“Indeed we did,” answered FireAnn with her lively Irish accent. “Why didn't you tell me your grandmother was one of the Hidden Ones? Things could have gone a lot smoother!”

“Hidden Ones?” Ting repeated, feeling totally lost.

FireAnn bounced to her feet and took her hand. “I'll explain later. It's a good thing,” she said. She hugged Ting's grandmother as if she had known her all her life, and then rubbed her crystal and
whoooosh!
Away they went.

 

It's a wonder, Bailey thought, they all didn't bump into each other on whatever plane it was they traveled through. She and Trent popped out of nowhere into the Council meeting room at Ravenwyng just ahead of Jason and Ting, like corks popping out of champagne bottles. Even so, it looked like the Council had been in session for a while before they got there.

Her excitement at seeing Ting so unexpectedly bubbled over in spite of everything. “Ting!” she cried out and grabbed her friend and did an excited swing. They grinned at each other. “You missed the best farewell party!”

“Without me?”

“We thought of you a lot!” Bailey teased. She hugged her friend tightly. “How is your grandmother?”

That sombered Ting's expression. She flipped her dark hair back over her shoulder. “She has a lot of healing to do, but she surprises me every day.” She looked at FireAnn who gave a slight nod, before adding, “She
knows
, Bailey.”

“Knows? Knows what?” Then Bailey's mouth snapped shut for a moment as thoughts tumbled. “You don't mean—”

“I do. FireAnn calls her one of the Hidden Ones.”

“Wow. What's that mean?”

Eleanora put her hands on their shoulders, saying quietly, “Ladies. Shall we sit and let the Council continue?”

Ting blushed faintly as the two of them found their chairs. Bailey leaned over and whispered, “I wanna know everything!” before lapsing into dutiful silence. An empty chair with a black wreath upon it sat at one end, for dear old Fizziwig, she supposed. Eleanora tucked herself demurely into her own chair, and smiled at Gavan. She fixed her gaze on Gavan, and Bailey followed suit. She'd been at enough meetings between her mom, her dad, and the divorce lawyers, to know when something important was being discussed.

Gavan cleared his throat. “Here we are, all concerned who were asked for, and all safe.”

“What about the other two . . . the skinwalker and the rather ordinary Magicker who follows him about?”

“Unable to get away without being missed.” Tomaz leaned forward on the table, the beaten silver disks of his Indian jewelry gleaming. “I will fill them in later.”

“All safe and accounted for,” Gavan repeated firmly.

“Not good enough,” snorted the one known to the children as Allenby from Gavan's wicked impersonations of him and occasional tirades. They watched him in fascination. He frustrated Gavan because of his tight-pocketed attitude, although Rainwater himself was the first to admit a good accountant could be worth his weight in gold and Magickers couldn't find a way to have money fall out of a tree. Yet.

“The fact remains that because of your actions, young Magickers are exposed and at risk. Better to have found them, one at a time, and apprenticed them, kept them close and safe, rather than to have them scattered to the four winds as they are now. The world we live in is more dangerous for all of us now, and even more so for those of Talent but without training. If found, they will be misused. Think of the days of the Inquisition, Rainwater, and you have a glimpse of what worries me.” The dark, disagreeing voice issued from a man wrapped in shadows, and his words were even darker.

“Who's that?” Ting whispered into Bailey's ear. Bailey answered, “I think that's Khalil. Very mysterious.”

Gavan stood at the table's end, his cloak swirling about him. He looked angry, and the flash in his eyes was echoed by a glint stabbing outward from the crystal held in the jaws of his wolfhead cane. “This is not the Old World,” he said finally, and then closed his mouth tightly as if there were many, many more things he would like to have said.

Jason sat back in his chair. Trent tapped him on the arm, drawing his attention, and he looked at his worried friend. He shook his head, once, and then looked back to Gavan. Jason took a deep breath, trying to relax. Perhaps Trent was right; now was the time to listen, not to protest. It wasn't easy, though.

“The children . . . the young Magickers . . . are more at risk than ever. Surely you can see that.” Khalil sat in his chair, quiet, inscrutable, his Moorish features hidden by his head-to-toe dark clothing.

“This is the same argument we had but a few weeks ago. You need us to help anchor and ward this school. But you've made no progress in finding a Gated Haven to put it in. Why do you bother us? You want action, yet you hesitate to take the first step!”

“I would be a fool not to admit that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Together, we can protect them. Educate them. I need your combined wisdoms and talents. With Fizziwig's death, we know the Hand will stop at nothing. Can we survive yet another disaster? I don't think any one of us wants to find that out.” Gavan put both hands on the table and leaned forward, his gaze sweeping all assembled: Council, young Magickers, and elders from all around the world. “Gregory and Brennard were masters of the arts. When they fought, they did so to destroy each other, not the world around them. They contained the havoc they wrought. I don't know about Brennard today, but I can't muster that kind of control. I don't ever want to be brought into that kind of fight. So we fight by guile, as we must.”

“If, by calling this meeting, you are hoping to bring pressure to bear on us and force a hasty, perhaps unwise decision, you will fail, Rainwater.” The tall, elegant woman, wrapped in dark crimson satin, sat catty-corner from the end of the table where Gavan stood and Eleanora stayed quietly, as if biding her time. The two women looked at each other, then away, as if something unspoken had passed between them. She tapped her fan, of dark watered-silk crimson that matched her gown, on the table's edge. “You will call me Isabella, children,” she said imperiously, before looking to Gavan. “You have a Gatekeeper! Open Gates. Choose them wisely, and then and only then, can we work with you. You might remember that some Gates lead only to havoc and chaos.”