Thief of Souls (7 page)

“You've surprised me, Lourdes,” said the coach. “I never thought you'd turn out to be so . . . athletic.”

“Where there's a will, there's a way,” answered Lourdes. By now, even the defeated players began to gather around her. Such was her new gravity—it no longer attracted stray paper and lint as it had in the days when she was hideously fat. Now people were drawn to her instead. She was wildly popular, and everyone wanted to finagle their way into her circle of friends.

Well, almost everyone.

“Good for you, Lourdes,” said Cathy Burns, her insincerity painted on like lacquer. She had always been one of “the beautiful people,” and had watched the game from the sidelines with several of her debutante friends. “Hope you've enjoyed your fifteen minutes of fame,” she said, with a cutting snideness in her voice that had taken years to cultivate.

“I'm still in my first minute,” said Lourdes, not allowing the girl a moment of satisfaction. “Happy dieting.”

Cathy frowned and strode off with a flick of her hair,
adjusting a belt on jeans that were growing too tight. Cathy and her friends were the few hold-out hatemongers, whose attitude of disdain was strong enough to resist Lourdes's magnetic personality. They were social butterflies and beauty queens who longed for the good old days when tormenting Lourdes was a school pastime. Well, their reign wouldn't last for long, because those girls had already found themselves gaining a pound a week, as Lourdes slowed down their metabolisms to a crawl. Soon
they
would know the social joys of obesity. For Lourdes, revenge wouldn't be sweet; it would be fat.

In the aftermath of the volleyball game, her thoughts went back to Dillon, and the certainty that he—and maybe all of them—were in trouble once more. And yet the more she thought about it, the more she was excited by it—for she realized the opportunities it suddenly opened.

It was a chance to see Michael again.

Just thinking of him filled her with potent anticipation.

Michael had told her she was beautiful, even when her body was wrapped in dense rolls of flab. And when she had grown too large to move, he refused to leave her side, even when it would have meant his own death. But things had changed once they returned home—as if being in Hampton Bays brought back to Michael the old pain of his life there. Soon after, Michael and his father moved to the West Coast.

Perhaps Michael wanted to escape his old life, but Lourdes wasn't interested in escape. She wanted to conquer, to become the victor of Hampton Bays High, instead of the victim—to be the one that everyone looked up to; the center of attention and admiration.

Certainly, as she reveled in the victory of today's game, all eyes were on her; but it wasn't enough, because Michael wasn't there to share it with her, and she found herself longing for him
more and more. Now Dillon was calling them all together again, and Lourdes was more than happy to go, if it meant Michael would be there, too.

“I'd like to start you and the other girls on a training program,” the coach told Lourdes. “I think you'd be great additions to the team.” Although Lourdes knew he meant “replacements” rather than “additions.” It was a tempting offer, as it was one more step in that conquest she so desired. But there were other considerations now.

“I can't do it now,” she told him. “I'm going away for a while.”

“Not for long, I hope. You're not leaving Hampton Bays High, are you?”

“No,” answered Lourdes. “Just a short trip.”

“To finish her treatment,”
she heard Ralphy Sherman whisper to a friend.

She chose to let it go at that.
Let them wonder,
she thought.

T
HE NEXT DAY, SHE
had her parents buy her an airline ticket west.

“I have to visit Michael,” she told them. The mention of his name always filled her parents with an apprehensive awe. They knew that somehow that strange boy, Michael Lipranski, had played a major part in the miraculous transformation of their daughter. Her father was dead set against letting her go, yet he found himself lifting the phone and making the reservations, as if his hands were not under his own control.

Her brother and sisters were devastated by the thought of her leaving.

“You can't leave!” her brother and sisters cried, for so much of themselves revolved around Lourdes now. She had slipped deep into the center of all of their lives. Lourdes was going to
help Lita choose a college, and Gerardo buy a car, and Monica pick which boys to go out with. Although they were all older than her, they now looked up to her as if she were the eldest in the family.

“This is a good thing,” Lourdes told them. “I'll be back. You'll see.”

The next morning, with little more than Michael's street address, Lourdes said good-bye to her family, and boarded a jet. As the plane lifted off from JFK, Lourdes filled her mind not with thoughts of finding Dillon, but with images of Michael.

M
ICHAEL
L
IPRANSKI WAS NOT
obsessed by images of Lourdes. He had far too many thoughts and feelings to maintain these days, without sorting through his feelings for the girl who had shared his misery.

He stood at dawn in a flurry of snow, on a beach in southern California, which hadn't seen snow during his lifetime, until this week. As he stood at the edge of the pounding surf, Michael slipped on his iPod's earphones, and listened to the rhythms and riffs of Insurrection, one of his favorite bands. The music helped him to dig deep within himself and find the bright, warm emotions that had been chased away by his nightmares. He thought of peaceful days stretched out on the beach. He thought of cycling down Pacific Coast Highway, and feeling the warm, ocean-scented breeze on his face. Then he turned his eyes upward, and as his spirits began to lift, they punched a hole in the dense cover of clouds.

A pinpoint of blue appeared, and as the clouds peeled back, the hole widened. The last of the snow wafted down through the air, and a chill breeze blew, but it rapidly turned warm.

Michael brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes, and
looked toward the horizon. He didn't have to push back the cold that far—only about five miles, for that was as far as his mood reached. He pushed forth strong, sun-filled thoughts, and struggled to roll back the cold layer of clouds pressing in on him.

Those clouds had first rolled in on the morning of his dream about Dillon. That was three days ago—and even though Michael did his best to ignore it, each night the dream would replay itself over and over, with greater urgency, bringing a morning snowfall that he had to chase away.

Well, what am I supposed to do about Dillon?

Michael knew there was an answer, but he chose to roll that away with the clouds as well, keeping it far from his thoughts.

Soon the retreating clouds were forced back to the edge of Michael's reach, leaving a narrow rim like a smoke ring, ten miles wide, in the middle of clear skies. He could already feel his new mood begin to infuse not only the skies, but the people in the neighborhood around him. His gift was one of emotional resonance—a resonance so strong it seized the very skies around him, putting them in his control, forcing them to mimic the weather patterns of his own powerful emotions. It was a force so strong, it affected the nature of anyone he came in contact with, filling them with joy, or consternation—whatever was in Michael's heart at the time.

The sun climbed out from behind Saddleback Mountain, and Michael turned to let its rays warm his face.

“What's with you?”

Startled by the voice, Michael stumbled, nearly falling into the high-tide surf. He ripped the headphones from his ears, and turned to see the face of his friend and running partner, Drew Camden. Had Drew seen him change the weather? How would Michael explain it if he had? “How long have you been there?” Michael asked.

“Long enough to see you staring at the sky like a psycho,” said Drew casually. He didn't seem concerned or confused; he just stretched his arms and legs, preparing for their morning run.
Good,
thought Michael.
He didn't make the connection.
Michael glanced at his watch. It was already seven o'clock. He always lost track of time whenever he futzed with the sky.

“So what's the deal with this weather?” said Drew, zipping open his running jacket. “It was freezing when I left my house. How did it get so warm?”

“It's called the sun, Einstein,” said Michael.

Drew began jogging in place. “So, are we running or not?” he asked. “Let's go; it's time to get some color into that pasty face of yours.” Which was easy for Drew to say. Years of running track had left Drew well tanned, and the sun had worked his hair enough to leave it various shades of bronze. It was a look Michael would have wanted to duplicate, but his own hair never lightened, and his pale skin just burned. Drew loved to rub it in. “C'mon, get moving,” he said. “Just because you
look
embalmed doesn't mean you have to act like a corpse.”

Drew took off across the sand, toward the paved path that ran the two miles between Newport and Balboa Piers. Michael followed, filling his lungs with the fresh air, and his mind with the pleasant sights and sounds of the morning.

It was good to have a friend like Drew, who arrived like clockwork to drag him out to run. It was good to have any friends at all. The parasite that had laid waste to his soul since sixth grade had left him friendless for four years. It had twisted people around him, turning them into bubbling cauldrons of their own most base natures. Girls lost themselves in a lust for him so powerful he had to fight them off, and guys became angry and aggressive, wanting little more than to beat the crap out of him.

But now his life had filled with others who actually thought he was worth having around. Even his father liked him. Both Drew and Michael were juniors on the track team, and although Michael had no real aspirations in track, he didn't mind the camaraderie.

The beachside path was already becoming crowded now that the weather had changed. Bicycles sped past joggers and power-walkers weaving around men and women propelling their babies in jogging strollers.

This was where Michael wanted to be—not beating the bushes looking for Dillon again. He had seen enough of Dillon in the short time he knew him, and there were the constant reminders to boot: like news reports on the cleanup in Boise, and expert opinions on the mysterious “virus” that had driven people insane in an Oregon town. No, Michael had no desire to think of his soul mate Dillon Cole—or for that matter, any of his other soul mates. Life was good without the Scorpion Shards. Life was a walk on the beach.

“I'm feeling prime today,” Drew said, picking up the pace as they neared Balboa Pier, and Michael kept up with him.
This is a good day,
thought Michael. And he was determined to keep it that way.

M
ICHAEL DID A PRETTY
good job of holding up the sky that day, through the rigors of school. Afterward, at the mall, he worked his part-time job with a smile and a pleasant air that brought joy to everyone who came to the Dog Kabob.

It was around five that he began to give in to the crushing weight. The skies beyond the atrium windows were beginning to clog with clouds. Michael still felt pretty good, if somewhat tired—but his resistance was low, and he wasn't expecting a “customer.” At least not one like this man.

“It never rains in Southern California,”
the man whispered to him over the counter of the Dog Kabob. Michael nodded in understanding. This was one of his
real
customers.

Michael wasn't sure how it all got started. Perhaps it had been that suicidal housewife he had hugged in the supermarket once, completely reversing her depressive nature—or maybe word got out when he shook the hand of the guy who smacked his kids around, permanently melting his angry temperament into a cool, even disposition. Or maybe it was his father, who kept bringing Michael into his sales office, knowing that Michael could, with a single grin, woo people into feeling it was a pleasure to buy anything. In any case, a few months after moving to California, troubled people began to secretly seek Michael out, and ask for favors.

“How can I help you?” Michael asked the man at the Dog Kabob counter.

“It's not me,” the man said. He looked around to make sure no one else was nearby, then he leaned in closer. “It's my son who needs your help.”

The man looked to be fairly well off. A tailored suit, Armani tie. Michael wondered how much he'd be willing to pay for Michael's services. Sometimes his customers paid very well. Well enough for Michael and his father to buy the beach house, and the sports car, and all the other trappings that made Newport Beach what it is. His father, having glimpsed Michael's special talent, decided not to ask too many questions when the money seemed to appear in the bank account. Besides, Michael had tweaked his father's nature, turning the man into an incurable optimist, so how could he be anything but thrilled?

Usually people would show up at the Dog Kabob with melancholy tales of disappointment, depression, or despair. Some requests were heartbreaking; others were merely self-indulgent.
“Make me feel better,”
was always the bottom line, and Michael delivered. By now he was single-handedly putting the local shrinks out of business.

“Go on, I'm listening,” said Michael.

“My son's a good kid,” the man whispered. “He does well in school—a shoe-in for the Ivy League . . .”

“So what's the problem?” Michael asked, a bit impatiently.

“He's got a problem with the girls.”

Michael felt his own toes start to get cold. A wind began to buffet the windows of the food court.

“What kind of problem?”

“Well, you see—it's like this . . .” The man stammered, and gestured with his hands, fumbling to spit out what he was trying to say. “My son . . . he doesn't entirely appreciate them—girls, that is. He doesn't . . . he doesn't have the requisite feelings for them, so to speak,” whispered the man desperately. “In fact his feelings are decidedly . . . off. Do you see what I'm saying?”