The Magickers (40 page)

That didn't explain Trent's attitude, though. Not good enough. Jason sighed.

Bailey looked up. “You don't have to agree. I just don't think anyone wants to think about it. Maybe you're just a little braver than we are.”

“Maybe.” He didn't like the sound of it, knew it wasn't true.

“Give it a day or two. It's tough thinking about all this, all at once, you know? It's a big kettle of fish to catch.”

He nodded. Bailey flashed him one of her big grins before getting up to leave. The little tufted tail hanging from her shirt pocket gave a wiggle like a good-bye wave. Jonnard was deep in conversation with Danno when he left as well. It was as though Henry had never existed.

The day dragged, in dusty shimmering heat waves off the campgrounds. Trent abandoned the craft project he and Jason had been working on, a pair of neat boxes with marquetry designs on the lids, leaving Jason to piece the inlay together. Instead, Trent started work on a silk flag design of some kind, sketching onto the fabric, and then brushing paint onto it quickly. Jason caught a brief glimpse of what looked to be a spread-eagled raven carrying a lightning bolt in its claws before Trent hid it away.

He stayed behind in Herb Class, volunteering to weed FireAnn's bountiful herb and vegetable garden while the others sprinted off to swimming. Trent stood on one foot and the other.

“I think . . .” Trent said slowly, “I'll go to the computer lab.”

“Fine.”

“There's work I can do there. The ley line map is almost finished. Some files should be backed up.”

“We could get this done early and then go to the lab.” Trent scratched his chin. “I'd rather go alone, you know?”

“No. No, I don't know.” Jason pulled out a weed and threw it across the garden. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.”

“You won't even hardly talk to me anymore.”

“I've got stuff on my mind.”

“I can listen. Sometimes it helps to have someone listen.”

Trent did not look at him. “Not this kind of stuff. Okay?”

“I can help.”

His friend said harshly, “No, you can't, Jason. Just keep your nose out of this, all right? If I wanted your help, I'd ask for it!”

“I just wanted you to know I care.”

“Jason, you can't solve everything, okay? There are lots of things you just can't help, and sometimes trying just gets in the way of everything.”

“But—”

“No,” said Trent firmly. “I don't want to hear it!” He stalked out of the garden, shoulders stiff.

Jason stabbed and dug at the weeds heatedly for long minutes. Bits of dandelion and errant grass and scrub brush came up in chunks. Dirt packed the nails of his hands and colored his knuckles as he used the hand tools to dig and turn the earth. By the time he finished, the garden had never been so well weeded. The earth looked wet and crumbly and rich, and his stepmom would have been proud of it . . . for the gardening. His hands, well, she would have handed him a scrub brush and told him to clean up!

He dusted himself off, swatting at the clods of dirt. The sun had begun to slant low in the sky, and dark purple shadows angled through the camp. Clouds rolled in, pushed by the wind, and the sky became dark. He'd missed Sousa's hike, but his legs nagged at him. He wanted to get out and run a bit, angry energy still boiling in him and aching for a workout. He put FireAnn's gardening tools in the old wooden bucket she kept for them, and left the fenced-in garden.

He stretched first, calf muscles loosening slowly after the hours squatting over weeds. Then he stretched his arms and torso before heading toward the hiking trails.

At one time, this camp had had horses, and the trails had been cut by hours of hooves moving over them as campers rode. Now, the dirt was pounded by sneakers and hiking boots. A quick jog would feel good, he thought, as he broke into a slow run.

He ran until the clouds mounding up over the mountain peaks looked black and angry as though they had inhaled his cast-off energy. He ran until he had to stop, bent over, and breathe deeply. He ran until he knew that his ankle was finally, completely healed, and only as slightly sore as the rest of his body from the exercise. But he couldn't quite outrun his thoughts.

Jason ran his hands through his hair, smelling the sweaty heat rolling off his body, then turned and looked back at the camp. Four more deep breaths, and he would head back. He looked skyward, wondering if it might rain before he got back.

He did a stretch again to keep his legs from tightening and launched into a slow trot. It seemed to be downhill going back, the sprawled-out vista of the camp and lake ahead of him, and he picked up speed easily. As the trail entered the main part of the camp and its dirt lanes, he could hear loud voices and the bleating cry of Stefan-bear.

Jason slowed, approaching the cabins through the evergreens. Stefan-bear sat on his rump, snuffling and bawling. A shredded shirt lay on his shoulders, and a pair of shoes had been kicked off to the side. It seemed that the bear side of Stefan had made a surprise visit. Gavan and Tomaz were arguing with Rich nose-to-nose, and a dozen or so campers stood around watching. What had happened, anyway?

Trent joggled his elbow as he took it all in. “Way to go, friend,” he said. “Way to not be there when you're needed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That.” Trent pointed. “But it doesn't matter now, does it?”

“I didn't do anything!”

“I guess that's the point, isn't it. You were all over me earlier with offers to help, but when you were needed, you were nowhere.”

“What happened?”

“Someone spilled the beans on Stefan, looks like. And we're getting the blame. You disappeared conveniently.” Trent wheeled around and walked away, leaving Jason sputtering for words. The evening lights came on with a sparkling golden blur, dazzling his eyes for a moment. When he stopped blinking, Gavan had Stefan-bear by the ear and Tomaz had Rich by the arm, leading both back to their cabin.

There was nothing for it now but to shower for dinner. The swimmers had finished showering, and it was foggy and steamy and empty when he went in. He scrubbed for a long time, working on his hands and looking at his scar. Would it ever fade away to nothingness? Maybe he could have it lasered off, like a tattoo or something. When he came out with clean skin, clean hair, and clean clothes, Ravenwyng seemed eerily quiet except for the noise of the mess hall, which blazed with laughter, clatters, clinks, an occasional cheer, and lots of chatter. Not really hungry, he headed for it anyway.

From the shadow, someone called his name.

He stopped in his tracks. Had he even heard anything? The skin on the back of his hand crawled. He stepped forward, aware of the trees and shadows and cloud darkened sky as deep as night.

“Jason.”

He took a shaky breath. Man or woman, he could not quite tell. But not beast. Of that he was certain. He stood still. “Wh-what?” The wind shivered through his damp hair, chilling him. He rubbed his scar as if he could ease the sudden lancing of pain through his hand. Would it never heal? Could it heal?

“Help you need, help I would.”

“Me? Why?” Jason listened, but he could hear nothing behind him. No steps or breathing. The voice was older, but he couldn't quite recognize it. He shifted as if to turn around.

“No, no. Better in the shadows to stay.” The air smelled of crushed pine needles. “You worry about those sent away. It is good you do. There is much they don't tell you. Much that can go wrong.”

“You know about Henry?”

“I know many things. Many answers. Ask yourself how, if the manna is everywhere, Henry could lose his powers? The others? Perhaps they have not told you everything, the way it is. Perhaps they are not telling themselves the truth.”

Jason took a breath. He
had
wondered. “Who are you?”

“A friend. A helper. Someone who needs aid. We can help each other, perhaps.”

“How?”

“From time to time, I might need you to answer a question. And I, of course, would answer any of yours. Lend you my knowledge, my training.” Shadows billowed, dark and quiet, around Jason.

He might be a kid, but he knew nothing was as simple as that, as his left hand throbbed with urgent pain. He thought of the wolfjackal's low declaration, “You are mine.” The shadows didn't hold that creature . . . but . . . something wasn't right. “What do you want from me?”

“A simple understanding. I can help you . . .” The voice trailed off.

A habit now, Jason put his hand into his shorts pocket and cupped the crystal. A wrongness shoved at him, from the outside, from the gloom enveloping him. “No,” he answered.

“No? A generous offer I make. And you say no?”

“Why should I trust you? You're hidden.”

The person behind him took a hissing breath.
“You're mine,”
it said. “And I will have what I want, one way or the other. Trust me, you will live to regret this.”

A force like a shove hit him in the small of the back, sending him to his knees. And then his hand abruptly stopped its pinching hurt, and the trees rattled as if a furious wind raced through them, and he lost his appetite.

When he slipped into the mess hall, dinner was nearly over, but FireAnn brought the entrée tray back out and scooped up some lasagne for him personally. He picked at it, not saying much.

All he knew for certain was that his scar drew trouble. Evil. And he was a danger to just about anyone as long as he wore it. He sat miserably through dinner, and the song circle, and the bonfire, knowing that. Trent had not said another word to him, and perhaps that was even wise. He finally headed back to his cabin before it was over.

28

J
ASON opened the cabin door, wondering what he'd done to lose Trent's friendship. He didn't know where the old Trent had gone, so he hadn't the slightest idea how to find him. He only knew that he was missing. The old Trent he could have talked to. Could have found some way to shake off what seemed to be happening. Was it his fault? He didn't know. And there was no way to get Trent to listen!

He had no need to even turn on a light. After all these weeks, he knew the cabin by heart, and the mess he'd left behind and the mess Trent was likely to leave behind. He took off his shoes and dropped them in his corner before heading to bed. He'd peel down to his underwear, as he always did, just before crawling inside the covers.

A feeling swept over him. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled and his crescent scar grew chill. Had the whisperer followed him? He turned around slowly, thinking that he was not alone in the cabin. Too far from the light switch, he pulled his crystal out and focused the lantern light and held it up to see. A tall, indistinct silhouette shape froze across the room. It became clearer as his crystal gained strength.

His crystal flared with a white-blue light, picking Jonnard out of the shadows of the cabin. The tall boy made a face, a slight curve to his mouth, a bitter smile.

“What are you doing here?” Jason held his hand higher.

Jonnard held something in his hands, and he turned away slightly, letting it fall back to the tabletop. Trent's duffel of his prized possessions clattered to the surface.

“That's not yours.”

“None of this,” Jon replied smoothly, “is mine.” He let papers cascade through his hands carelessly, as though not caring at all now that he had been found out.

“What are you doing?” Jason repeated. His voice caught slightly in his throat. He had no doubt that if Jon wanted to run over him to get out of the cabin, the bigger, older boy would. He wanted to know what to think, how to understand why Jon was in his place, looking through his and Trent's things.

“Getting caught, it seems. After all these weeks, I must have gotten careless. I was beginning to think there was no reason to be cautious. Certainly Eleanora's wards were nothing to fear.”

“You're the thief.”

“Oh, no. Bailey's packrat is the only thief. I am merely a . . .” Jon paused, then smiled slightly. “A spy.”

“Spy? What for?”

“Secrets, of course. Many, many secrets. Everyone has them. Don't you ever wonder?”

Jason watched him. “Sometimes.” The uneasy feeling at the back of his neck shivered down his spine.

“I wonder all the time. Secrets can be so useful.” Jonnard looked at him, his face even paler by the crystal lantern light. “Henry's secret was that he wasn't nearly as good at the computer as he said. He fumbled at that as he fumbled at most of his Magick. Talented, but undisciplined and untrained. Trent did most of the hard work for him, was always there with help and tips. Trent's secret . . .” Jon looked down at the table where the things he'd been looking through were spread around. “I'm not quite sure yet. His dad's a single parent who writes often. They seem to have a good bond, if a frugal life.” He looked up. “What about you, Jason? Have you secrets I haven't been able to find out? Oh, I don't mean your strange family with its stepmother and stepfather, and the fact you get very little mail other than cheerful postcards from them. Off traveling, are they? Freed of your burden for the summer? No . . . I mean the real secrets. The ones you have pinned away in darkness.”

He felt something shrink inside him, knowing that the other had been through his letters, his notes, then told himself that Jonnard was just trying to psych him out. “Like you said, everyone has secrets.”

“And do you keep them?”

“I won't keep this one. I don't know what you're doing, Jon, but it's creepy. And I think Gavan needs to be told.”