The Curse of Arkady (11 page)

As earnest as he was bumbling, as cheerful as he was determined, Henry had spent the summer in the cabin across from Jason and Trent. There had never been any doubt that Henry was Talented, it was his control that had always been . . . well . . . inept. Sometimes too much Magick, and at the end, not enough. The scary thing was, it could have happened to any of them, any that the traitorous Jon Albrite had chosen to attack with his training from the Dark Hand.

The street curved gracefully into the treed grove of the park, with its neatly groomed open grass areas beyond, the mecca of weekend soccer games and frisbee tournaments, picnics and other leisurely pursuits. A circuit of jogging and bicycle paths wrapped around the huge park, and the groves of elm, eucalyptus, and evergreens wove throughout. He and Sam liked to practice at the far end, where the field was lined by shrubbery and a little isolated from the rest of the park, and from the main fields.

There was no sign of Sam as Jason scanned the area. He slowed, and did some stretches. He wiggled out of his sweatshirt and tied it around his waist. It was Sam's turn to bring the practice ball, so he concentrated on keeping warmed up, jogging around the boundary of the area. A lone crow flew against the dark gray sky of the morning, circling overhead, coasting on unseen air currents. He took it for a good omen.

He swerved too close to a shrub, and it whipped against his hand and arm as he passed. The sting of it echoed through the small, crescent-shaped scar on the back of his left hand. It pinged as if the scar were fresh, sore and bruised, even though it had healed to a thin white line. It throbbed as he slowed to a walk and examined it. It was not tremendously imposing, as scars went. It did not reflect the great, ivory teeth that had left it, ripping at his skin. Nor the hurt of being impaled on the open jaw, with the heat of the growl rolling down his wrist, and the vicious glow of triumphant eyes in the dark. It did not show the pain underlying its supposedly healed surface, as if a thorn were pushed under his skin. Sometimes he wondered if he had a sliver of a tooth caught there.

Jason prodded his hand gingerly. Pain lanced through him as if he'd stuck himself with a needle, and he danced from one foot to the other, trying to hold back a yell. It throbbed hotly while he tried to catch his breath. It was hardly ever this painful!

Suddenly, he looked up, and around the section of park he was in. Thickly wooded, very quiet on an early Saturday morning, and far from the street.

And he seemed to be alone in it.

Jason reached for his crystal and began to trot toward the curve of the park where at least the street might be seen. Something rattled in the brush behind him. Without turning, he cupped his gemstone and began to form the spell he needed for a shield. His mind stumbled. Rushed! He couldn't remember! He'd done this every day, and now his mind was empty.

The trees and shrubbery crackled as something pushed through, running after him. He picked up speed, glancing back over his shoulder. It exploded through a hedge, crashing onto the grass and racing after him. It growled low and harshly, ivory fangs slashing at the air, huge silvery body poised to catch him. Wolfjackal!

Impossible! In the real world, here, now, and after him! He could hardly breathe at that thought. Wolfjackals came from the netherlands, borne on Magicker mana . . . how could they be so strong here, so far away from the Gates and Havens?

Jason had no doubt they would be as deadly here as they'd been at Camp Ravenwyng. He bolted.

A second unseen thing thrashed through the undergrowth as well. Jason cut back, as if defending himself on a soccer field, and the beast closing on him slipped on the still morning wet grass and went rolling. It gnashed its great jaws and leaped back onto all fours, glowering. Sun glinted in its green eyes, and it narrowed its gaze as though far more used to darkness. The wolfjackal slunk low, stalking, because Jason had halted, backing up to a great tree trunk. He could not expect to outrun it anyway. Either of them, wherever the second one was. They would both have to face him if they wanted him now, the massive old California oak tree guarding his back.

He cupped his crystal and tried for a shield again, a cover of light, and the crystal flared. He pushed all his thoughts and hope into it. He could feel an answering warmth from the rock he held as it answered, and for a moment, an immense shield enveloped both Jason and the tree! It shimmered brightly in the thin morning light and then popped like a bubble. His ears felt the pressure as it shattered and he staggered against the rough bark of the oak as it blew. His knees went wobbly.

The beast shivered as it watched him, more jackal than wolf and yet oddly similar to a wolf with its black-and-silver coat. It might even be handsome if it were not so obviously a hunter, a tearer of flesh. His left hand ached, and sharp, jabbing pains stabbed across it as if sent by lightning. The wolfjackal's tongue lolled, bright pink, from its toothy jaws and it crawled forward, eyes gleaming in bright anticipation. Jason gulped. Even if he could sound the alarm through his crystal, there was no time for an answer!

The wolfjackal turned its head slightly, with a welcoming growl, as the other readied to join it.

The brush rattled again, and the second of Jason's pursuers stepped out on two feet. He locked eyes with Jason and smiled slowly. Tall, with dark russet hair, and a band of freckles across his nose that be-lied his solemn look, he wore black pants, and a long black duster coat over a white T-shirt, dressing like someone out of the
Matrix
movie series. Pitch-black sunglasses hid the color of his eyes. He dropped a hand to the wolfjackal's ruff, and rubbed the ferocious creature gently. The wolfjackal growled and leaned against the man's knee.

“Running seems out of the question.”

“Giving in definitely is.” Jason looked at the other. “Who are you?”

The man's smile thinned. “Now that,” he answered, “would be telling, wouldn't it? But I know who you are. Come along with me and save us both the trouble.” He extended his free hand, the cuff of his sleeve falling back, revealing a bronze wrist--cuff shaped like a hand gripping his arm. Jason looked at it, then quickly looked away. This was more than a simpler follower of the renegade wizard Brennard. This was a member of the Dark Hand itself, and he knew he should be afraid. They were assassins, not apprentices.

He might be if he had time to stop and think. His gaze swept the park behind the man and animal. The sounds of cars sweeping now and then along the outer border of the area could be heard but no vehicles could be seen. Sam should be along any minute now, but he'd be on foot and alone, too . . . no match for the rogue Magicker facing Jason. Still, any distraction might help.

The Dark Hand noticed his gaze and followed it before turning back quickly to Jason. “No help to be had?” he said. “What a pity.” He took a step forward and the wolfjackal bounded to its feet, following. “As they say . . . we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Jason tightened his jaw.

The other noticed, and nodded. “The hard way, then.” He snapped his fingers and the wolfjackal strained forward, snarling louder. “I thought perhaps an intelligent lad like you might realize there are two sides to every story.”

“Probably more than that, even,” Jason responded.

“Yes. All I wish to do is extend an invitation.”

“Delivered by wolfjackal?”

The man paused, then laughed faintly, coldly. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but Jason doubted if the laugh crinkled or warmed them in any way. “Got your attention, as they say.” He kept his hand buried in the loose skin of the creature's ruff, holding him back but without much control if the beast decided to lunge at Jason. “Come visit with me. Give me some of your time and that intense attention you hold for Magicking, and find out the rest of the story.”

He heard a car slow down beyond the edge of the park, and a car door slam. Jogger being dropped off? Sam? Anyone? “Do I have to believe what you tell me?”

That took the man aback for a moment. Then he showed his teeth, much like the beast growling and snarling at his side. “Regardless of what you think, young Jason, none of us can force you to believe anything. But there are differences, important differences. Differences urgent enough to war over. I don't expect you to make a choice in a day, but you can't make any choice at all without listening. Without
knowing.
Come with me and exercise some of that independence you think is so important.” He held his hand out again.

Instinctively, Jason moved away, or tried to, but the oak held him fast. Whatever would his stepmother Joanna think about his refusing a polite invitation? She was always getting them, to one charity event or another, and she would sit at the table and read them aloud to the Dozer. “The honor of your presence is requested at this year's Gala Sunbright Dance and Auction for the ailing children at Hospital Sunflower. . . .” At which point, William McIntire would looked up, with a twinkle in his eyes, and say, “Presents? Are they asking for presents again? I thought we just gave them a bagful!” To which Jason's stepmother would respond by putting down the invitation, and giving her husband an exceedingly fond look.

Somehow, Jason didn't think this invitation was to anything nearly as fun or noble as a charity dance and auction.

“Come with me now, or regret it later.” The Dark Hand looked at him, almost mournfully, in his somber dark duster and black clothing, and pale skin.

“Jaaaaaaaason!” came a faraway call.

He straightened. “It'll have to be later, then. I'm busy.” He pushed himself away from the tree at a dead run, leaped over the startled wolfjackal, and took off across the green field as if the devil itself were after him. A muffled curse and snapping growl echoed after him, but he did not look back. He ran toward the faint sound of Sam's call, shouting, “Over here, Sam!”

He sprinted as if the coach's shrill whistle drove him, as if the wind itself were under his heels, as if a gold medal awaited him beyond the curve of the grass and eucalyptus trees. He thought he felt hot breath across the backs of his legs and the sound of the panting wolfjackal hounding him. The only invitation the beast had in mind was one for dinner!

Sam came trotting through the shrubs at the path's end, a wide grin across his face, and there was a snap behind him. It was as though a door opened and closed, taking the wolfjackal and the Dark Hand with it. He could feel their sudden absence. Slowing, he looked over his shoulder . . . and saw nothing.

Sam hiked up his duffel bag and paused on the jogging trail. “Hey, I'm sorry I'm late—” He looked at Jason. “What is it?”

Jason grinned. “Nothing,” he said. “Just that I'm really glad to see you. Really, really glad to see you.”

Sam laughed. “No kidding? Well, wait till after we do line sprints, and then tell me how glad you are!” He tugged on the referee's whistle around his neck. “Just like the coach!” He blew a sharp blast, and added, “Adrian! Give me ten!”

Jason dropped to the grass but instead of doing push-ups, toppled over to catch his breath.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam demanded, mock angry.

Jason grinned. “I'm thinking of all the different things I can tell you to do with that whistle!”

A
N hour or so later, with the sun hotly dappling the grass and towels around their necks, Sam and Jason readied to head home. Muscles stretched and lungs full of morning air, they paced each other returning to the main areas of the boulevard park. He caught the sound of something moving through the underbrush followed them. Branches rustled heavily and gravel skittered.

“Did you hear something?”

Sam leaped over a patch of dried leaves and crashed into another, crunching and scattering them. “Hear what?”

“I don't know. Something.” Jason looked back over his shoulder. He swerved along the pathway. He didn't know what Sam would do if a wolfjackal sprang on them. For that matter, he didn't know what
he
would do this time, given that his crystal had failed to shield him. How could he explain a frothing, growling, powerful beast that was neither wolf nor jackal but both, a creature not from their own dimension? But more than having to explain a wolfjackal to his buddy, he wanted to be able to tell him what
he
was. What he did. What he could do, with Magick. Who he was, a Magicker.

He could not. The Oath of Binding kept his jaws glued shut, but could not block his curiosity. How would Sam react? Would he treat Jason as he always had? And what if Sam had Talent of his own? Could Jason tell that? He'd been warned that the Binding would stop him in his tracks, that it could not be bypassed, but—was it true, or would it work that way only because he believed it would?

Could he risk their friendship and maybe even their lives by trying to show Sam the truth?

He heard no more noise but those of the thoughts wheeling around in his head. And while he thought, Sam jogged alongside him, talking about the soccer team and the schools they would be facing and making plans for defense and offense and extra training, his face intent on what he was saying, not even noticing Jason only half listened. Distracted, both of them ran onto the bicycle path without looking. There was a moment when he realized something zoomed head on at them and then they both wheeled about and dove into the bushes. A screech and clatter followed.

Jason sat up, to look at a cyclist righting himself and his bicycle. The scrawny figure seemed vaguely familiar, Jason thought, as he rose and helped Sam to his feet. The cyclist reached up to pull his helmet off, saying, “Everyone okay?”

He looked at Statler Finch. Sam picked up their gear bags, shaking dust and old leaves off them. He dusted himself off. “We're fine . . . I think.”