Текст книги "Fire Fall"

Автор книги: Bethany Frenette

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I flicked a glance at Leon, but he’d returned his attention to his phone. “Word gets around fast.”

She shrugged. “There hasn’t been much Harrower activity lately.”

“I guess Tink and I won the jackpot. Lucky us.” I shuddered, recalling the demons slinking up out of the darkness and the way the Beneath had dragged them back into it. Rising from the couch, I nodded toward the door. “You’d better get in there before Esther sends the nurses out on a search party.”

“I’ll see you later. Let me know if you want help training, okay?” She gave me a quick hug and then disappeared down the hall toward Esther’s room.

I stood still, watching the space where she’d gone, listening to her footfalls fade.

Aside from coloring, Iris and Elspeth hadn’t much resembled each other. Looking at them, it wasn’t immediately apparent that they were sisters. But every now and then I saw the similarities between them. A certain look or gesture; the way Elspeth smiled, or how she turned her head. I had heard it now in her voice, just for an instant. An echo that sounded in my ears. Faint, almost unheard. Stirring memory.

Audrey.

I thought of the empty street last night, and the hush that had followed the battle with the Harrowers, that unearthly stillness broken only by the sound of my name. I thought of a red star burning.

Leon’s hand on my shoulder made me jump.

He smiled apologetically when I turned toward him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Sorry, just lost in thought,” I said.

“Ready to get out of here?”

“Definitely.”

Mom was using her car to run errands, and Leon didn’t like teleporting into highly populated areas, so we’d taken his motorcycle to St. Paul. Outside, the air was as sticky as it had been the previous night, and the sun scattered bright, blinding flashes all across the parked cars. I had to shield my eyes as I walked, and when we reached the motorcycle, I found Leon looking at me with concern.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I could use some sunglasses.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, eager to escape the topic. “And Esther’s going to be fine, too. As fine as she ever is, anyway. But get this—she wants Mom to take over leading the Kin.”

His voice was pure disbelief. “Lucy?”

“Yeah, that was my reaction.” Hoping that would bring an end to his questions, I walked around the side of the motorcycle and started putting on my helmet.

But Leon wasn’t dissuaded. He stepped close to me and adjusted my helmet, tucking my hair away from my face. “Are you going to tell me what’s upsetting you?”

“The humidity?”

“You’ve been acting strange since last night.”

I bit my lip. As much as I’d wanted to avoid it, it seemed the reckoning was here. I squeezed my eyes shut and said it. “I hesitated.”

His voice was quiet. “What are you talking about?”

I opened my eyes again, but I didn’t look at his face. Not at first. I kept my focus lowered, studying the thin material of his collar, the knot of his tie. Today his shirt was crisp and unwrinkled. All buttons intact.

“Audrey.”

I swallowed. Slowly, deliberately, I raised my gaze to his. “Last night. The Harrower. Tink and I could have killed it. But I hesitated.”

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. He stared at me, wordless, as the seconds lengthened. Silence stretched between us, while all around the noise of the city was loud in my ears. The sun blazed down. I felt sweat begin to bead on my forehead. Then finally Leon said: “You can’t hesitate.”

“I know that.”

His hand reached over and gripped mine. “This is important.”

“But doesn’t it bother you?” I asked. I shuddered again, remembering the feel of the Harrower’s throat at my fingertips. The hot beat of its pulse beneath its chilled flesh. The sound of its body thrashing. It would have been easy to end it, just a tightening of my hand, or a quick snap. It should have been easy.

It just hadn’t been.

“Of course it bothers me,” Leon said. “But it’s them or us. They want us dead. You can’t forget that.” His gaze was steady on mine. “You can’t hesitate. I need to know that you won’t.”

Or he’d go back to his tactic of teleporting me to safety, I supposed. “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

And hoped that I meant it.

I told Mom about my conversation with Esther later that evening, when I found her at the kitchen table before she left for the night. She was flipping through a magazine and sipping iced tea, her blond hair up in its customary bun and her Morning Star hoodie draped across the back of her chair. A hint of breeze tugged at the screen, cooling the air, but it still hadn’t rained. I grabbed a Popsicle from the freezer and took a seat beside Mom. After a minute or so of drumming my fingers against the table while I tried to think of how best to broach the subject, I finally just blurted it out.

Mom closed her magazine and stared at me blankly. Then she started to laugh. Really hard.

I groaned. “Mom—”

She held one hand up before her. “No, wait. Just give me a moment to enjoy this.”

And then she went right on laughing for another thirty seconds, pushing her chair out and actually slapping the table with her hand.

“Okay,” she said, after her mirth had finally ceased. She wiped at her eyes. “Let’s try this again. Did I hear you correctly? Is it possible I’m hallucinating? Or did Esther hit her head when she fell?”

“She seemed pretty lucid,” I said.

“And here I thought she’d never develop a sense of humor.”

“I think she’s serious. She sounded sincere.”

Mom pressed the back of her hand to my forehead.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for fever.”

I swatted her away. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea. I am just relaying the message.”

“And entertaining me vastly,” Mom said. She took another drink of her iced tea, then leaned back in her chair. Her expression turned thoughtful. “Esther must be feeling pretty desperate if I’m her best candidate.”

“Who would you choose?” I asked. I’d been introduced to a majority of the Kin living in the Twin Cities—Esther had seen to that—but I wasn’t very familiar with most of them. They were a blur of faces with names attached, here and there a defining characteristic. I knew Mr. Alvarez’s uncle Bernard ran H&H Security, the company that employed most of the Guardians, and Dora Hutchens, one of Esther’s close friends, kept Kin records and histories. And I’d met the Kin elders and several of the Guardians frequently. Otherwise, my grasp of who did what was hazy at best.

“I wouldn’t choose anyone,” Mom said. “The entire system is outdated. If the Kin need someone to follow, let it happen naturally, instead of clinging to tradition.”

“Esther is sort of obsessed with lineage,” I admitted. I bit into my Popsicle, thinking back over the conversation in the hospital. “I’m curious about something, though. She mentioned my uncle Elliott.”

Mom looked surprised. “He’s coming home?”

“No—she said he wouldn’t. I was wondering if you knew why.”

She peered down at her glass, turning it in her hands a moment before answering. “Elliott was the baby of the family. He worshiped Adrian. He followed him everywhere from the day he learned how to walk. He’s never forgiven Esther for going along with the sealing. He left for San Diego the day he turned eighteen, and as far as I know, he’s only returned once since then.”

She didn’t have to tell me the occasion. I could guess: the funeral of Elspeth and Iris’s parents three years ago.

One son dead, I thought. One’s emotions and identity sealed away within the quiet of his sleeping heart. The third son estranged. No wonder Esther held so tightly to the rest of her family.

Mom echoed my musings. “One way or another, Esther lost all of her sons,” she said. “I do feel sorry for her. And I respect what she’s done for the Kin. But I’m not signing on as a replacement.”

I was about to respond that I’d told Esther as much, when something caught my attention. On Mom’s neck, near her collarbone, was a splotch of reddish color. Like a bruise, or—

Or my forty-year-old mother had a hickey.

Considering how quickly she healed, that was actually sort of impressive—or would’ve been, if it hadn’t been so disturbing. And while Mom had seemed really happy since she’d given in and officially started dating Mickey, there were certain things I just did not need to see.

“Seriously, Mom?” I said, pointing at her throat.

“What?”

“Right there! Rhymes with your boyfriend’s name.”

She blinked at me a second. Then, instead of showing any hint of embarrassment, she only shrugged. “It’s probably too late for him to start going by Michael.”

“Not the point,” I said. “He’s, like…marking his territory.”

Her lips tilted into a smile. “So? I marked mine.”

“Okay. Way, way more than I needed to know. Ever.” I didn’t know how I was going to be able to look Mickey in the face the next time I saw him.

After giving me an exaggerated eye roll, Mom pulled on her Morning Star hoodie and zipped it up to her throat. “Better? Are your delicate sensibilities appeased?”

I didn’t answer. I got up, tossed my Popsicle stick into the garbage, and stalked out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked, amused.

“To invent a time machine and erase this conversation from existence,” I called back.

I stepped out the front door and headed to Gideon’s.

Outside, the sun had already set, but the sky was still light as I made my way down streets that smelled of barbecue and bug spray. This was a stretch of the city I knew well, a route so familiar it was almost automatic.

I walked slowly, enjoying the sound of my sandals slapping the sidewalk. Gideon’s house was at the end of a long block, an old building of gray brick surrounded by Granny Belmonte’s various attempts at gardening. I found Gideon in the backyard, where he and his youngest sister were playing catch with a softball that appeared to have seen better decades. Or rather, he was playing catch. She was playing some sort of game that involved lobbing the softball at him with all the manic delight of a seven-year-old who thought it was hilarious to watch her brother dive for cover. Luckily, she had terrible aim.

“Hey,” he said when he caught sight of me, deftly catching the ball in his mitt and keeping it out of Isobel’s grasp. She made a face at the interruption, but after a moment vaulted onto his back, wrapping her arms about his neck and dangling there like a human cape.

“Hey. Getting ready to demolish the opposition?” I asked, motioning at his mitt. Gideon was in a summer baseball league, and his first official game of the season was on Wednesday. Tink and I had plans to go and cheer him on—or, as she put it, ogle the players and scream ourselves dizzy.

Gideon grinned. “My coach here”—he swung Isobel around so that her legs kicked into the air and then thumped back against him—“thought I needed practice.”

Isobel’s contribution to the conversation was: “He said if I hit him you-know-where, he’d make me eat grasshoppers.”

“Seems fair,” I said. “Can I join you? I’m fleeing my mother. Don’t ask.”

As I spoke, I studied him, noting details. There was a grass stain on his shorts, and his thin sky-blue T-shirt was from a Canadian music festival he and his family had gone to last year. The bridge of his nose showed a faint hint of sunburn. Long hours spent outside had lightened his hair, which was in need of trimming. Though I’d had a few months to get used to the idea, it was still difficult for me to comprehend that he wasn’t just Gideon, my best friend, someone I’d known half my life. He was also Verrick, the Harrower my mother had fought seventeen years ago. Verrick, who had started a Harrowing in his search for the Remnant—and killed Guardians all through the Cities.

When I looked at him, I didn’t see Verrick. I didn’t see the Harrower I knew was hidden within. I saw only Gideon, a brown-haired, brown-eyed boy talking and smiling, moving about his yard like he didn’t have a seven-year-old using him as a jungle gym. Every now and then, I caught the flicker of light that surrounded him, that trace of the Astral Circle’s shine that lingered under his skin—but I didn’t see the malice or rage or hate that Verrick had carried, and I didn’t sense it.

Still, I watched for it.

I found myself watching him all the time now. Waiting. For what, I wasn’t certain. Some sign that Verrick was breaking through, creeping around the edges. I told myself not to. I tried to shut off my senses and to block out my Knowing, but the awareness was always there, lurking just below the surface of my thoughts, as much as I willed it not to be. Susannah’s words echoed in my ears. The beast within them sleeps, she’d told me. She had meant other Harrowers, not Gideon—but I knew it was in him, as well. And now that I knew, I couldn’t unknow it.

Gideon sensed that something was wrong. There was a disconnect between us, a gap we couldn’t close. But neither of us wanted to speak it. If he still had nightmares, he didn’t mention them to me. He hadn’t asked me for any more readings, and I’d left my Nav cards where I’d shut them away in my closet months ago. Instead we went on pretending, keeping up the careful fiction that nothing had altered. Ever since the day I’d lied and told him he was Kin. It was a promise, a pact sealed between us.

Now, he continued smiling as he detached Isobel and set her on the ground. “Go get Dad’s glove from the shed,” he told her, then pulled off his own mitt and tossed it to me.

I caught it easily, feeling the soft, worn leather, still warm from his hands. I smiled back. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

We stayed there in the dwindling light, passing the ball back and forth between us until the fall of dark.

That night I dreamed of Iris.

It wasn’t the usual dream. This time, there was no Susannah. No flash of red hair melting into black, no sly curving smile. There was no swirl of snow, and no taunting words that hissed through the air. Her back was to me, one hand lifted before her. She turned, slowly, pressing a finger to her lips. Her face was shadowed. I couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t tell if they were the milk-white of a Harrower, or the dusty St. Croix gold.

Audrey, she said.

We were standing on a street again. At first, I thought it was Minneapolis. Downtown. The area was familiar. I saw the rise of the skyline around us, yellow lights against a dark backdrop of sky. But then the lights began to fade. The world grew dim and gray. Shapes twisted before me: streetlights bending, cars that were mangled and gone to rust. Decay crept up everywhere. The pavement underfoot was warped and scarred. Our shadows fell before us, the warm, rich color of blood.

We were Beneath. We had been here before.

Audrey, Iris said, her long hair whipping out. Listen.

But there was no sound inside the dream. I knew her words; I didn’t hear them. The void swallowed up all other noise: my footfalls, the beat of my heart.

Iris stepped toward me and reached for my hand. I recoiled, flinching backward. I turned to flee.

The dream fragmented, rearranging itself. The street spun. The sky shifted, horizon sliding down and city rising up until all the buildings lay horizontal. Everything was abstract, made up of angles. I stood on solid emptiness. A flock of crows swept up around me, their wings shaking the air. And then they were not crows. They were paper cranes folded, falling, burning from beneath. Little flames that leaped.

At my side, Iris had altered as well. Her hair floated upward around her. All the black had bled out of it. What remained was bone-white, brittle, turning to smoke at the ends. Audrey. Listen. Wait, she said.

I waited.

We’re not alone.

And finally there was noise.

A high, thin sound. Far away. Beginning to swell.

Now the change in the dream became a change in me. My flesh flaked off, revealing the cold silver of scales up and down my arms. My fingers curved into claws, red and cutting.

I cried out, voiceless.

I woke with my hands clenched into fists, so tight it was painful to uncurl them. When I did, I found my nails had bitten into my skin. Little crescent moons etched upon my palms, wet with blood.

The Drought and Deluge was dark when I arrived. The sign in the window declared it closed, but I knocked lightly on the glass, peering inside. The daylight spilling in revealed part of the interior—the chairs stacked onto tables, the edge of the bar—but the far corners remained in shadow. I hesitated a moment, listening for some sound from within. I wasn’t certain my dream had been a Knowing, but by now I knew better than to chance it. And if I wanted to find out whether or not Iris might be alive—and near—there was only one person I could ask. Thankfully, getting my driver’s license meant I no longer had to rely on Leon or Gideon to take me places. It also made it considerably easier to meet with demons in secret.

I tested the door. Closed apparently didn’t mean locked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

“Shane?” I called. Silence answered. Dust motes hung in the air, turning gold in the light. The faint smell of alcohol drifted to me.

I moved forward slowly, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. My footsteps were loud in the stillness. I hadn’t been in the club since the fight with Susannah, and now I had to suppress the urge to retreat. The walls had been recently painted, I noticed—a dark blue that turned black where the sun didn’t touch it. The broken furniture had been replaced and the carpet looked new, but the very air felt heavy, full of memory. My gaze skimmed along the walls, across the tables and booths, and my thoughts slid down dark paths. For a second I could almost see the scene replay, burned like an afterimage. There. There was where my mother had been shot. There she’d lain bleeding.

There was where Drew had fallen. Drew, who had hunted Susannah from San Diego to the Cities—to fight her, to face her, to die for his charge. There he’d released his last breath.

“I’ve been thinking I ought to have sent your Kin a bill. I had to redo the entire place. Bloodstains didn’t do much for my decor.”

I turned toward his voice. “Shane?”

I found him near the back of the room, seated at the edge of a table. He was facing the mural of the Beneath he’d painted. I gazed at it as I approached him: the Minneapolis skyline, bleak gray and white shapes below a canopy of bloodred stars. Parts of it appeared to be fresh. There were broad, haphazard brushstrokes at the bottom edge of the mural, long gashes of red that seeped toward the ground. I could smell the paint, and now that I looked closer, I could see a trace of it on his hands.

When he didn’t speak, I asked again, “Shane?”

“I heard you the first time, sweetheart. I simply neglected to respond.”

“Uh…are you okay?” It seemed an odd question to ask a Harrower—by definition, they weren’t ever really okay, neutral or not. But something felt off. Not a Knowing—I’d never gotten any sense from Shane, at all—but something in the tone of his voice. A hint of disquiet. An edge.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he was sitting alone in the dark, staring at a decidedly unsettling painting.

“Perfectly.” He hopped down from the table and faced me, smiling. I wondered if I’d imagined it. He looked as he usually did, dressed in gray jeans and a dark green Drought and Deluge shirt that matched his eyes, his blond hair carefully tousled. And his smile was warm, genuine. All human, no hint of Harrower. “How may I be of assistance? I’m assuming by your presence here that you do, in fact, require help.”

He stepped toward me. His feet were bare. There was a smear of paint on his shirt, as well. A thin slash of red on his sleeve.

“Not help exactly,” I said.

“Out with it, angel.”

“You know my cousin. Iris.”

He nodded. “The girl we fetched up from the dark depths of Beneath, only to discover that she was far happier there than here.”

“I’m not sure happy is how I’d describe Iris,” I said.

“You’ll note the word I used was happier. Referring to a spectrum of emotion, not a stopping point. When it comes down to it, that’s all any of us have, isn’t it? Relativity.” He pulled two chairs from the table and offered one to me, seating himself backward on the other. He draped his arms across the chair’s back. Tilting his head slightly, he peered at me. “But that’s not the purpose of this tête-à-tête. Shall I hazard a guess? You fear a family reunion is imminent.”

I remained standing. “Is it?”

“How should I know?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen her. If you know where she is.”

“I haven’t Seen much of anything of late, I’m afraid.”

“I meant Beneath,” I said.

“As did I.” There was that edge to his tone once more, an undercurrent I couldn’t quite read. But I didn’t get the chance to question him further. With one smooth motion, Shane rose from his chair and crossed to me, taking hold of my hands and turning them so that the bandages on my palms were visible. His skin was cold; I flinched. “What happened to your hands?”

I pulled free from his grip, shoving my fists into my pockets.

He gave me a searching look. “Bad dreams, is it? What did you see?”

“Iris. I saw Iris.”

“I wouldn’t fret overmuch. The wolf has lost its teeth. I expect she’s little threat without Patrick Tigue, and your mum was kind enough to see an end to him.” When I didn’t answer, he raised his eyebrows. “But I gather that’s not the source of your distress. What is it, then? You worry what frightful secret she might let slip? How is our demon-in-disguise these days?”

“He’s fine,” I said quickly.

Shane smiled again. “Naturally he is. You would hardly tell me otherwise, would you? That’s a perilous path you tread, angel. Have a care where you step.”

“I’m not here to talk about Gideon.”

“Verrick,” Shane said, stretching the syllables. The word was loud in the quiet around us. “Speak his name. Give voice to what he is.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t your business.”

He shrugged. “It isn’t, particularly. The choice is yours, if you wish to plummet off this cliff. I’m merely pointing out the edge.” He moved away from me, standing in front of his mural. He glanced up at it a moment before continuing. “It’s near time I quit this Circle. I should hate to overstay my welcome. And a man who doesn’t age can only linger in one locale for so long.”

That surprised me. “You’re leaving?”

“Sooner rather than later, I think. On the chance that we don’t meet again, let me give you a bit of parting advice.” He paused again. He stepped up to the wall, raising his hands and pressing his fingers against the mural, tracing the grooves of the paint. “You have a good heart, angel. Try not to lose that.”

I watched him dubiously. “What, that’s it? No cryptic warnings or dire predictions?”

“You wouldn’t like the only warning I have to give. I told you once before, and you preferred not to heed it. But since it bears repeating, I’ll say it again.” He turned toward me. His voice went soft, almost gentle. For once there was not a hint of humor in it. “Audrey, that boy is not your friend.”

I swallowed. I didn’t answer, and Shane didn’t seem to expect it. He returned his attention to the painting. But this time when he pressed his hands against it, his fingers had shifted into talons. With slow, deliberate slashes, he raked his claws down the mural, leaving wide gouges in the paint. Once, twice. Again. Again—until a series of scratches cut across the cityscape. Red and gray flaked out in long curls all around him. The sound of the scraping sent a shiver down me. He clawed across one of the buildings, then another. The stars fell to the floor to rest near his bare feet.

“Take care, angel,” he called to me.

Unnerved, I turned and left.

Wednesday morning was hot and bright, the sun already boiling by eleven a.m., when Tink and I made our way to the bleachers to watch Gideon’s baseball game. I was Tink’s ride, since she’d almost hit a turkey on her way home from the mall on Monday and was now refusing to drive. She said it was the least I could do to make up for all the times she’d played chauffeur for me—which was, at my count, twice. Not to mention the fact that I refused to lend her Leon.

“He’s my boyfriend, not a taxi,” I told her as we left the parking lot and headed toward the stands. Tink’s mother had loaded us up with water bottles and a cooler full of chicken salad sandwiches, all of which Tink was making me carry. The grass was damp from the sprinkler system, stray bits of green sticking between my toes.

Tink sighed. “If I had to be given powers, why couldn’t I have gotten something useful?”

I wouldn’t have called the enhanced strength, speed, and healing that came along with being a Guardian useless, but I didn’t argue.

We found a spot on the bleachers that Tink claimed guaranteed us the best view of the players, but unfortunately didn’t offer much in the way of shade. I’d forgotten sunscreen, and the sun was busy adding a new batch of freckles to my nose. And since my shoulders were already slightly red from an afternoon I’d spent swimming last week, I figured I’d be lucky if I didn’t turn tomato. Tink, however, wouldn’t hear of relocating.

“You must suffer for the greater good,” she decreed.

The greater good being the opportunity to ogle boys from the optimal angle, I assumed. “I’m taken, remember?” I said.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate.”

“I appreciate Leon.”

She rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself.”

“I thought you’d sworn off boys for the summer, anyway,” I reminded her.

“Touching, not looking.”

Which was her final word on the subject. She stretched her feet out in front of her, removing her flip-flops and plucking at the blades of grass her toes had collected. Tink herself had managed to tan without burning, and the sun had bleached her blond hair even lighter. She’d foregone glitter today, but her toenails had been painted to match her bright red sundress. She appeared to have fully recovered from the fight with the Harrowers. Since she normally avoided any mention of Guardians or the Kin—and for once I was inclined to agree with that practice—I wasn’t planning to question her about it. But, to my surprise, she brought up the topic on her own.

“Warning,” she said, muttering under her breath so that I had to lean close in order to hear her. “Ryan might be giving you a call to ask about Saturday night.”

“Why? What more does he want to know? Harrowers showed up, we killed them. Isn’t that the whole purpose of patrols?”

“Leon killed them,” Tink said. She gave a quick glance around us, but though the bleachers were about half full, the only person close enough to overhear us was a harried-looking woman yelling into her phone. “And he only killed one of them. The other just sort of…died.” She shuddered. “Anyway, I guess Ryan wants to know if there’s some detail we missed. There haven’t been any Harrower attacks at the other Circles for months. Just here. Just us, actually. He thinks there must be something going on.”

“Wait, he’s worried because Harrowers aren’t attacking us? Are you sure he’s not just bored because school is out and he doesn’t have any students to torment?”

“Do not ask me to explain that man’s logic. It is far beyond my ability.”

Any further discussion of the Kin was put on hold by the start of the game.

I knew a few of the other members of Gideon’s team. Stanley, their starting pitcher, went to school with us, and the left-fielder, José, had been friends with Gideon since we were kids. Tink singled out the first baseman—neither of us knew his name—as her eye candy for the afternoon, and she spent most of her time giving him very obvious looks. I focused on cheering for Gideon, who was playing shortstop.

We sat through two innings before Gideon came up to bat, at which point Tink immediately started hooting and hollering so loudly that the woman next to us, who was somehow still on the phone, shot her several disapproving looks—which Tink of course ignored. If anything, she increased her volume.

“You weren’t kidding about that ‘scream ourselves dizzy’ thing, huh?” I said.

She paused in order to shrug and say, “I’m just being supportive.” And then she went back to shouting encouragement. I laughed.

The first two pitches went wide, and Gideon didn’t swing.

I didn’t see the third throw.

Sudden Knowing shot through me, so intense it was almost blinding—too insistent for me to shut out. I bent double, fighting nausea and gasping in air. Distantly, I heard Tink’s voice, but her words didn’t connect. My senses were in chaos. There was no coherent scene or impression to this. It wasn’t a flicker of thought or memory, and no images flashed. It was raw awareness, sharp and painful, a perception that went beyond Knowing. Panic seized me, but the panic wasn’t mine. It came from somewhere else—from someone else. And it wasn’t alone. With it came an overwhelming sense of wrath. Something vengeful and angry sparked in the air, and was gone just as fast.

The chaos receded. Sound returned, noise exploding all around me: Tink’s excited shouting; an abrupt, booming crack. It took me a second to register that it was the slam of the baseball hitting Gideon’s bat. I glanced up in time to see the ball as it spun into the sky, sailing overhead before it disappeared from view. Then there was only wide blue above, hot, beating sun.

Tink went crazy. “Holy shit!” she shrieked, and then started jumping up and down on the bleachers.

I was still trying to slow the racing of my heart. I tasted blood and realized I’d bitten my lip. With effort, I cupped my hands around my mouth and did my best to cheer, waiting for Gideon to run the bases.

But Gideon didn’t run.

While José, who’d been waiting on first base, did a quick circuit and loped home with his arms in the air, Gideon walked hurriedly away from the plate and then scrambled behind the dugout.

Tink’s shouting ceased. She stared after Gideon. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but I felt a surge of alarm. An echo of my Knowing. My throat constricted. Icy dread clawed up my spine. “I’m going to see if he’s okay.”

“Is that allowed?” Tink asked.

I didn’t answer. Ignoring the unsteadiness in my limbs, I leaped down from the bleachers and rushed across the field toward where Gideon had vanished.