Reckonings (5 page)

I
DON'T FEEL ANY
different,
Tim thought.
Well, other than very conspicuous.

He glanced down at the clothing the Body Artist had given him to wear home. Environmentally correct fake-leather pants, a black T-shirt held together with safety pins, and pointy ankle boots.

“Someone should tell her that punk is seriously over,” Tim said. Although he certainly didn't want to volunteer for the position of bursting her fashion bubble.

He wished he had thought to snag a pair of sunglasses. He blinked against the bright sunlight. He'd been out all night again. “Oh, great,” he muttered. He was going to catch it from his dad for sure. He let out a sigh and shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it now.

She turned out to be pretty cool
, Tim decided,
thinking about the Body Artist as he made his way to the Soho tube station. There was nothing fake about her—despite her theatrical makeup and costume-like clothing. She called things as she saw them, whether she thought you'd agree with her or not, or would like what you were hearing. Tim respected that. It was a far cry better than the grown-ups who treated people his age like babies, or pretended everything was so nicey-nice all the time. Rough honesty was her style, and Tim thought maybe he'd try to make it his style, too.

But how honest are you really being
? he asked himself.
You eavesdropped on Molly, which was bad enough. Then you went and had the Body Artist alter you to prevent harming Molly any other way because you don't trust yourself. So in a way, you're now kind of a fake you.

He tugged the neck of his borrowed shirt away from his body and tried to see the tattoos the Body Artist had inked onto his chest. There they were: a vicious-looking scorpion emblazoned above an oversized butterfly. All in vivid—and painful—color.

“There's so much power in you,” the Body Artist had warned. “I have to use a two-pronged approach. These days it's all about specialization anyway.”

She hadn't been kidding
.
Getting tattooed seri
ously hurt
. Tim wasn't sure if the pain was so intense because the tattoos were magical talismans or if all tattooing was a white-knuckle, teeth-gritting, howl-at-the-moon kind of experience. It had taken a while, but by the time he'd left the Body Artist's place, his body felt like his own again, and his nerve endings no longer felt like they were on fire.

At least I can come clean about it all when I see Molly
, he told himself.
I'll feel a lot better after we talk this whole thing through
. He paid his fare with the coins the Body Artist had given him, and dashed onto a train.

The rocking movement of the train nearly put him to sleep. It had been a long, rough night. He'd expended a lot of energy being a cat. Then he'd been up all night dealing with the problem of his evil future. He looked forward to taking a long nap once he got home. That was one thing he could do while he was grounded.

Tim emerged above ground again and trudged toward his flat. He stopped himself. “No,” he declared.
I'll see Molly first thing. Before I'm trapped in my house again, I'll tell her that she has nothing to worry about—I can't do magic anymore.

He touched the tattoos on his chest, frowning.
At least, I don't
think
I can.
He stopped walking.
Maybe I should do a little test, just to be sure.

He ducked into an alley. “Okay, what magic should I do?” He scanned the deserted alley. Without his glasses, it was a bit blurry. “Something simple.” He bit his lip, deciding. His gaze landed on some dented garbage cans. “That'll do.”

He stood in front of the garbage cans. He held his hands out toward them. He focused on the lids, intending to do nothing fancier than switching them.
Concentrate
, he told himself, letting his mind clear, as he always did before making magic, preparing to fill it back up again with images, intention, and will.

The familiar energy began to make his arms tingle, but then a searing pain shot through his chest. Tim collapsed to the ground, breaking his magical link to the garbage cans. The moment the magic was released, the pain stopped.

Tim lay on the filthy pavement, panting. His chest felt as if it had been burned from the inside out, while a million hot needles stung his skin.

“I guess these tattoos mean business,” he moaned. They'd keep him from using magic for sure. He didn't want to experience that kind of pain again.

He slowly rolled over onto his knees and stood up. Last night's rain had left big puddles, so now his fake-leather jeans had big wet patches on the knees. He wiped his muddy, damp palms on the
T-shirt, hoping the Body Artist wasn't expecting him to return the borrowed clothing.

Oh, man. That was just level one magic
, Tim realized.
The pain is probably even worse if I do something requiring more power.

He made his way back to the street, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. He was relieved that he could honestly tell Molly that she had nothing to fear from his magic. Yet he felt sad, too. As if he'd lost something—something important.

“Forget magic,” he told himself. “What's it done for you besides get you into a whole lot of trouble?”

He arrived at Molly's, and found the pile of his clothes and glasses just where he had left them when he'd turned into a cat the night before. He bundled up the clothes, and slipped on the glasses, then stood in front of Molly's door trying to figure out what to do.

“Maybe this wasn't such a hot idea,” he muttered. He glanced down at his borrowed—and now damp and dirty—outfit. “Especially dressed like this.”

Just as he was turning to go, the front door opened. One of Molly's older cousins, the tall one called Bridget, charged out of the house. There were always relatives coming and going at Molly's. Bridget skidded to a stop when she saw Tim.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Can you give Molly a message for me?” he asked.

Bridget grabbed his arm and yanked him into the alley. She looked down at him. “Unlikely. You're public enemy number one around here, remember?”

Tim's shoulders slumped. “I know, I know, but I swear, we didn't do anything wrong.”

Bridget's expression softened. “I believe you, but that doesn't really mean anything. I could get into trouble just speaking to you.”

“Then why are you?” Tim asked. “You could have run back into the house and ratted me out.”

“I guess I feel sorry for you,” Bridget admitted. “Besides, I don't have to protect you from Molly. She's not here.”

“Where is she?” This was good news! Maybe Tim would be able to see Molly after all! “Is she at the library? The Swan Dance School?”

Bridget shook her head. “I mean she's
really
not here. Her parents sent her off to the country to stay at her Gran's.”

“Wh-what?” Tim stammered.

“Yeah, they're even thinking of taking her out of school altogether, just to get her away from you,” Bridget confided. “They think you're a bad influence.” Her eyes traveled from his pointy
boots to his safety-pinned T-shirt. “Can't say I blame them.”

He stared at Bridget, trying to process what she was telling him. Molly was gone—possibly forever?
What was the point of getting these stupid tattoos if we can't even be together?

Tim's heart began to pound hard, and an intense burning spread across his chest. He was afraid to say anything in case speaking made the pain worse. Besides, what was there to say? So he just turned and dashed away.

“Tim? Are you okay?” Bridget called after him.

Tim clutched his T-shirt, pulling it away from his burning chest. The more upset he got the worse the stinging became. He ducked down a side street and slammed his back up against a wall, needing the bricks to hold him up. He took in great gulps of air trying to force himself to calm down.

“I'm not allowed to feel anything either?” he gasped. “Is that the deal here? No magic and no emotions?”

Pain made him sweat, stinging his eyes. He shut them tight behind his glasses. “Okay!” he shouted, smacking the wall behind him. “You win! I won't feel anything ever again! I'll stop being natural right now! Are you satisfied?”

To distract himself, he counted as he inhaled
and exhaled. His chest rose and sank with the deep breaths he was taking, and gradually the waves of pain subsided.

Exhausted, he slumped over, putting his hands on his bent knees, trying to recover. His heart slowed back to its normal pace, and he could think more clearly.

I guess it was still a good idea to get these tattoos
, he assured himself as he got up and headed to his house.
There is still all of humanity to worry about if I become evil. My magic doesn't just affect Molly.

Tim arrived back home, drained, damp, and miserable. He didn't even try sneaking back in; he just stuck his key in the lock. Before he could turn it, though, the door swung wide open, yanking the key out of Tim's hand.

“I've been waiting for you,” Mr. Hunter fumed.

He must have been waiting on the other side of the door,
Tim realized.
Was he patrolling the front hall all night?

“Where have you been?” Mr. Hunter demanded.

“I—I was out,” Tim said feebly. He knew it sounded stupid but at least it was true.

Mr. Hunter glared at Tim. “I gathered that. If you're going to stay out all night, with no consideration for me and my worries, then why don't you
just stay out for good!”

Without another word, Mr. Hunter slammed the door in Tim's face.

Tim's mouth dropped open, and he blinked a few times. “Wh-what?” he stammered at the closed door.
Did my dad just kick me out?

He stumbled away from the door, aware of the burning in his chest, and then ran as hard as he could down the street. He had no idea where he was going, he just knew he had to get there fast.

 

Mr. Hunter stood inside the house with his back to the door, counting to ten. When he reached ten he was still furious, so he counted to ten again. He needed to get a grip on his emotions before talking to Tim. He was worried about the lad; something must have happened recently that had sent the boy into a sort of tailspin. He'd always been a bit dreamy, but Tim seemed so lost, so distracted these days.

I just pray it isn't drugs
. Mr. Hunter was fairly certain drugs were not the cause of Tim's erratic behavior. Drugs wouldn't have made Tim ask about his parentage.
Though I suppose the answer—that I am not his biological father—could have sent him down that self-destructive path
.

Mr. Hunter was convinced that Tim had always been too self-possessed, even as a child, to
turn to something like drugs.
Tim's not one to give in to peer pressure
, Mr. Hunter thought
. And the boy has always seemed far too interested in reality for drugs to appeal to him. In fact,
Mr. Hunter thought uncomfortably,
Tim's always giving me a hard time about being lost in my own dreamworld of telly and the car in the parking lot
. No, this was not a drug problem. This was something else. And Mr. Hunter wanted to help Tim through it, if only he could figure out how.

Much calmer, he felt ready to have a talk with the lad. He reopened the door, and his heart sank. The street was empty.

“Tim!” he shouted in one direction, then another. “Tim!” he called again. It was no use. The boy was gone.

I hope that I haven't driven him off for good
. Mr. Hunter knew he could never forgive himself if he had.

T
IM RAN AND RAN,
and then ran some more. He had no destination in mind, except maybe oblivion. Just run right into nothingness, to a place where he was no one, where he could start over, where Molly wasn't gone, where he didn't disappoint his dad or make people angry. Run and run and run till his brain emptied out.

His breath came hard, but he didn't stop. Where could he go? Where could he rest? There was no respite for him anywhere. Not since bloody magic wrecked his life.

He took a corner fast, and wished for his skateboard. The speed would be even greater, the breeze stronger, the sense of movement more intense. He pounded his feet on the pavement, bounced off curbs, leaped over puddles.

I should have gone out for track after all
, he thought. The exertion was beginning to get to
him, though. No sleep, no food since breakfast yesterday, plus the pain he'd endured at the hands of the Body Artist.

She had helped him; maybe he should go there. But he wasn't sure what she could do for him now.

Tim dashed into the street, when a car suddenly spun around a corner and barreled straight toward him. Without even thinking Tim flung out his hand and sent the car swerving around him.

“Prat,” Tim muttered as he headed for an alley. He glanced back. The car was still careening through the streets at a ridiculous speed, never even slowing down. “Jerk!” he shouted.

Tim doubled over in agony. The tattoos! “Arrgh!” Tim clutched his rumpled clothes to his chest and sank to the ground. Dropping the jeans and T-shirt he'd retrieved at Molly's, he crouched on all fours, trying to survive the onslaught of pain.

“Stop it!” he begged. “All right! I was angry! And I used magic! But that driver deserved it. He was a menace to society!”

The tattoos stung harder, like a million needles. “He didn't brake,” Tim said, gasping, still protesting the unfairness of it all. “He didn't even honk. I could have been—” The pain cut off his ability to speak.

Sweat streamed down his face, his back. “All right,” he choked out. “I get it. No more big emotions. No more magic. No more, please.”

The pain subsided; and exhausted, Tim crawled over to the wall and sat, leaning against the back door of a shop. He looked down his shirt and addressed his tattoos.

“You've got a strange way of trying to save me from myself,” he said. “That is what you're supposed to be doing, right? I mean, you could have killed me when I fell over like that. What if I'd banged my head on the curb? Or let that car hit me?”

He sighed and sat staring for a while, with no idea of how much time might be passing. He felt empty. Like he'd gone blank. It was a comforting feeling.

“Timothy Hunter, is that you?”

Tim glanced over at the familiar voice. Marya stood at the entrance to the alley, holding the little puppy that had once been Daniel on a leash.

Instead of being relieved to have found a friend, seeing Marya just made Tim feel worse. Partly because she and Molly were so tight, and Tim wasn't in any way prepared to talk about any of
that
. It was also because Marya was part of this whole magical life causing him so much trouble. He had saved her world, Free Country, and then
she had stayed on in London. She was human, sure, but she had not lived a normal human life. And it seriously did not help that Daniel was with her—boys turned into puppies and girls from magical realms. It was just too much to take in.

Marya came over and knelt beside him, Daniel following with his tail wagging. Tim could see why Daniel liked her so much. She was very pretty, but it was also because there was something gentle about her. Maybe it was because she had spent so much time in Free Country, where kids were never supposed to worry about anyone ever hurting them. Bad magic had nearly destroyed that sanctuary—the way magic seemed to screw up everything.

“Tim,” she said again, tucking her long red hair behind her ears. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

“I'm not surprised,” he admitted. “I feel pretty bad.” The puppy stuck his nose in Tim's face and sniffed. Tim gently pushed the dog away. “Quit it, Daniel. The last thing I need is chimney-sweep dog slobber all over me.”

Marya tugged on the puppy's leash, and it bounded back to sit at her feet.
On
her feet, actually.

“Listen, Marya,” Tim said. “Nothing personal,
but can you kind of go away?”

“What?” She shook her head. “No. If you feel bad, you shouldn't be alone.”

“Actually, being alone is exactly what I need right now.” Tim held up a hand to keep her from protesting. “Really. I'm too tired, and too confused, to talk right now. Okay?”

“We don't have to talk. We can just sit. Daniel and I used to do that.” She smiled. “We do a lot more of it now.” She cuddled the dog to her. He licked her nose, making her giggle.

This is too weird for me
. Watching Marya and Daniel was freaking out Tim even more, even though both dog and girl seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.

“I mean it, Marya. Please. If you really are my friend, you'll go away. I just have to—sort things out. I won't be able to do that if you're here.”

Marya's face was still worried and uncertain. Tim had to come up with something that would make her leave him there, alone.

“I'll feel too self-conscious with you sitting here and us not talking,” Tim said. “And I'm just not up to talking.”

That's good
, he thought.
She can't argue with this excuse, especially since it's also true.

Marya bit her lip. “Well…” She stood back
up, cradling the puppy in her arms. “If you're sure…” Her voice trailed off, still unconvinced.

Tim nodded. “I'm sure. See you.”

“Okay. See you.” Marya walked back out of the alley, giving Tim a last long look, and then vanished.

Tim slumped. The exchange with Marya had taken a lot out of him, given his already high level of exhaustion. He bundled up his spare clothes and rested his head on them.
No food and no sleep and serious emotional turmoil can sure tucker you out.
Soon, he fell into a dreamless, fitful sleep.

 

A strange nightmarish creature, a creature made of odds and ends, of castoffs, and of garbage, blocked the entrance to the alley.

The Wobbly.

A creation of Tim's childhood imagination, made real by Tim's magic, the Wobbly was a creature who got rid of the unwanted, the discarded. The Wobbly had a skull-like face that resembled another scavenger, the vulture. It hovered a few feet above the ground, its talons scraping the pavement. If Tim had been awake he would have seen that the Wobbly had grown since their last encounter.

“Are you now one of the useless, Opener?” the Wobbly rasped. It made its way toward Tim.
“If so, I will find use for you. I will…
recycle
, as you once told me was the new way.”

The Wobbly loomed over the boy's prone form. “Yes, I see how it is with you, Opener. You will be good to use to feather my nest. In bits and pieces. You have thrown yourself away, and now I take you for recycling.” It reached out a skeletal claw toward the sleeping boy.

“No.” A voice stopped the Wobbly. “Not thrown away.” A thick man rummaging through a nearby garbage can stood up. He, too, was something of a scavenger. His battered khaki jacket had had many previous owners. The newspapers he wrapped around his feet as shoes had been found on the park bench near where he slept.

The man turned to face the Wobbly and scratched his full salt-and-pepper beard. “You have misunderstood his situation. The boy has simply lost himself. He has not discarded himself.”

“Ahhhhh?” The Wobbly sounded puzzled. “There is a difference?”

“Oh, yes, my friend. A big difference.”

“He is not for taking?” the Wobbly asked.

“Not by you, Mr. Birdhead.” The thick man bent down and lifted Tim in his powerful arms. The boy was so deeply asleep he merely mumbled and flopped over the man's shoulder. “The boy will
come with me.” He grabbed the clothes Tim had been using as a pillow, picked up the large garbage bag filled with his own belongings, and strode out of the alley.