The Curse of Arkady (16 page)

“Right.” Jason settled into the seat as the truck bumped softly over the country lane roadworks. McIntire guided the truck off a side road, and Jason realized they were leaving by a different route. They descended the cliffs and reached town in less than half the time by not following the shore but cutting straight through the bluffs.

His stepfather let out a soft sigh as they drove into town. “That's the way to cut the road,” he said, as he turned down their block.

“It's much faster and shorter.”

“That it is, and even though it's through the foothills, in the long run, the environmental impact on the land and the neighbors will be better. We can put in two lanes either way, do a bit of terraforming, and it'll actually be better for the watershed and wildfire danger.” Then McIntire smiled at him. “Always business.”

For once, Jason felt like he understood his stepfather completely. He had business at home, Magicker business.

 

“Jason?” Dr. Patel's soft voice sounded more in his forehead than his ears, as he gripped his crystal. “May I come in?”

He sent through a “yes,” and in a moment, her petite, sari-wrapped form stepped out of nothingness and into his attic bedroom. She smiled as she removed a damp bath towel from a corner of his bed and sat down. “Trouble, you said?”

He plopped down in his desk chair facing her. His hair was still wet from his shower, and his clothes smelled fresh from the dryer. The red dot on her forehead looked like a small jewel. “Big trouble. I was chased by wolfjackals this morning.”

“What? Here in your town? Tell me everything.” She folded her hands in her lap, frowning, and prepared to listen. He spilled out everything he could remember, and with a gentle question or two, thought of even more, including the McHenry house and the fact his crystal had failed in either providing a shield or awakening the beacon.

“That is not good,” she said quietly when he'd finished. “Our only hope in keeping you safe is that the beacon works. It did in trials. I cannot understand it, but Gavan and Tomaz need to be informed immediately. I'll handle that. I am pleased to see your wits kept you safe.” She paused, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Jason, may I see your hand again?”

“Well, um . . . sure.” He put his left hand out and she took it in both of hers, leaning over it and peering closely at the scar along the back of it.

“I have long wondered,” Dr. Patel said, “if there was a tooth splinter or something lodged beneath that marked you. It remains sore, though it appears healed, and you've told me it twinges from time to time.” She looked up, into his worried expression. “Does it pull on you?”

“Pull?”

“Do you sometimes feel as if you want to do something you shouldn't do? Or . . .”

“Come over to the dark side?” he started to crack, and then stopped. Suddenly, it wasn't all that funny. He'd wondered, too, if the wolfjackal had really marked him. It said it had, but he'd decided that the beast had only been trying to psych him out.

“Yes,” she answered.

He shook his head vigorously.

“Good. Well, then, I'll leave you to . . .” Her gaze swept his bedroom, and she smiled. “Clean your bedroom and work on homework?”

He blushed. The doctor nodded, still smiling. “I'll meet with Gavan and Tomaz as soon as possible. This is serious business for us.” She gave him a quick hug before standing, putting a hand to her pendant, and then disappearing with a slight waver and whoosh, leaving behind only a faint aroma of sandalwood, her favorite perfume.

Jason rubbed his hand. Her probing fingers had set off a dull throb, as though the scar were freshly bruised. Again. He sighed. He hadn't told her about the Magicker at the McHenry house or any of that, and wondered if that had been a good or bad thing. But he didn't want to seem a coward or anything, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Had he seen the Magicker? He wasn't sure. And if he was wrong, it could bring even more trouble, which he certainly didn't need.

H
E checked his watch. Dinner was a good hour off, even if his stomach was rumbling in protest. He grabbed some emergency rations from his desk drawer (granola bar) and sat down, munching happily, careful to eat nowhere near his keyboard. Even as he watched the screen, mail came up and he dusted his hands off quickly so he could see who it might be.

It came from HobbitHenry, and for a second, he had no idea who that could possibly be. Then he cried, “Henry Squibb!” and pounced on the mail to open it. And, yes, it was from Henry, dear owl-faced Henry with his unruly hair and innocent eyes, and he could practically hear the voice leaping out at him through the words.

Jason sat back in his chair, smiling. Henry sounded nearly like his old self, as far as Jason could tell, except that he'd no memories of his brief time as a Magicker during their summer together. The Henry who'd been led off after drinking the Draft of Forgetfulness had been a quiet, humble boy embarrassed at having caused trouble and being sent home early. It had broken Jason's heart to see him like that even though he knew it was necessary and Eleanora had assured him that it wouldn't hurt Henry in the long run.

He'd have to remember to tell Eleanora that Henry was back to his talkative, if bumbling self. Then he fired off a letter to Trent, in hopes that Trent would agree to let Henry into a D & D session. Not only did he want to stay close friends with Henry, but Jason had some small hope that Jonnard Albrite had not permanently damaged Henry by stealing his powers. Trent didn't come up as being on-line, and Jason squirmed in his desk chair with disappointment.

In the meantime, he opened up other e-mail that was waiting for him, and began to frown, reading in some alarm, and some amusement. Leave it to Bailey and Ting to set the rummage sale on its ear, but what had happened to Stefan, through Rich's account, could only be bad.

And, Rich added at the bottom of his mail,

Jason wrote back a quick, encouraging letter that the Magickers were aware of the mishaps and increased danger, and included his own stalking, and warned everyone to take care and practice their shielding. He paused as he wrote that. Even though his had failed momentarily, he had to have faith in it. Had to! His crystal was bonded to him, and as much a part of him as . . . well . . . a hand or a foot. To think of having to give it up and get another sent chills down the back of his neck.

His stomach rumbled again, reminding him that one small, crumbly sweet granola bar was hardly a whole dinner. Like it or not, he was going to have to raid the kitchen. Maybe Joanna would let him have an apple or something. He was starving!

Jason pushed away from his computer and dropped the trapdoor to his room in a hurry. No one answered his entry into the kitchen, although the oven was on and the timer ticking away. He grabbed a big shiny Red Delicious apple and bit down into it, savoring the sweet juices as he heard voices and trotted toward them in the living room. At the last possible second, he recognized oily tones and tried to swerve away, but Joanna's sharp ears heard him in the hallway.

“Jason! Come in, come in.” He was backing out, but her voice hooked him and reeled him in like a gaping fish, all the way into the living room where she sat. McIntire ruled the great armchair, and the school psychologist perched at one end of the couch and smiled at him.

Of all the places in all the world, Statler had to find his way into Jason's living room.

He stopped dead in his tracks to gather his wits.

“Wasn't it nice of your counselor to stop by and visit with us?” Joanna smiled brightly at him. Statler had evidently interrupted her cooking, for she still wore her apron appliqued with big yellow sunflowers and small blue butterflies.

Jason wondered who on Earth would want to claim Statler? He looked as pasty white as ever and, even though he'd cleaned up and changed into Dockers and a soft gray shirt, he still looked unwholesome somehow. “Umm . . . well, yes. He's not exactly mine, though. I mean, he's there for the whole school, you know?”

“Ah, but, Jason. As you know well, my concern at the school is the welfare of youngsters like you who need help coping with the school yard bully. The bully is an age-old problem and not likely to go away, so we've decided to work at the other end . . . with his victims.”

Joanna blinked, and her careful air of cheerfulness fell away. “Jason?” She looked at him. “Are you having trouble at school that I don't know about?”

He shifted uneasily. “Not really.”

McIntire leaned his bulk back onto the armchair cushions, and the entire piece of furniture groaned and swayed a bit as he did so. “You'd know who to come to if you did, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Actually,” Statler Finch said, and he leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees, looking into Joanna McIntire's face. “Jason's already had a bit of trouble on a regular basis, and I've been asked to intervene by the vice principal. You see, it's the school of thought among administrators now, as a result of several tragedies around the country, that it's the bullied ones who need watching, and skill coaching, or they . . .” He paused. He turned one hand over and gestured through the air. “Or they snap.”

The only snap he felt like would have done a wolfjackal justice. Jason clenched his jaws in case he felt himself slip.

“Oh, Jason,” cried Joanna in dismay, as if she had failed him in some fatal way. She buried one hand in her apron pocket and knotted it.

“It's nothing, Mom, really. It happens to everyone once in a while.” He shrugged.

“Denial,” murmured Statler, his dark eyes glistening as if in sympathy.

“I can deal with it.”

“I've failed you.”

He kept from rolling his eyes at Joanna. “I'm fine. I can handle it!”

“Self-delusion.” The counselor's eyes brimmed.

“Look. If the vice principal who is supposed to be the enforcer can't handle him, I can,” said Jason firmly, then promptly regretted it as Statler cried out, “Shifting of blame!”

He stifled a groan away from Joanna who winced with every proclamation of his mental instability from Statler, and looked desperately at McIntire. His stepfather rumbled, “I think we can work this out fairly quickly, Statler. Jason's a good lad, if quiet. How can we help and what do you suggest we do?”

A look of triumph flashed across Statler's face, one which he quickly squelched. “I think it would do him a lot of good to work with me once a week, after school, say, for an hour or two, and then monthly meetings with all of us.”

Joanna seemed to relax a bit. “Oh, I think we can arrange that!”

“Mom . . .”

McIntire frowned. “I might not always be able to make a monthly meeting. Business is booming right now, and it looks like I might have another development coming up. Unless it would be all right to just meet with one parent now and then?”

“The world is full of single parents, and they do their job wonderfully,” gushed Statler. “I'm sure we can do without your presence now and then, just as long as we have your support in the program I'm going to lay out for Jason.”

“Mom . . .” he tried again, shifting, but her attention was avidly fixed on Statler. Did mice stare at a snake before they were gobbled?

“What about my daughter? Should she be part of the family meetings?”

“She's Jason's . . . half sister?”

“Step.”

“Yes. By all means . . .” Statler's eyebrows waggled in furious thought patterns before he said happily, “Yes, we can work on a number of difficulties in Jason's life. I recommend we bring her in on the second family meeting.”

Joanna exhaled happily. “Oh, good.”

“Mom!”

Joanna looked at him, surprised. “Yes, Jason?”

“Mom, I have soccer after school, every day, until the season ends. I can't miss practices for counseling. They'll throw me off the team for missing.”

Her hand moved inside the apron pocket, clutching and unclutching whatever it was she had hidden in there. A tissue or handkerchief, no doubt. “I think,” she commented slowly, “that we need to look at the whole picture, and that is dealing with your problems now. There will always be soccer later.”

“But I'm on the first team
now.
” He stared incredulously. How could this be happening to him? “Next year is . . . well, it's next year! I worked hard for this. And you promised after last summer . . .” His voice trailed away. He couldn't complain too much about missing soccer camp last summer, and discovering he was a Magicker instead. Still . . . losing soccer now? How unfair could things get!

McIntire cleared his throat, sounding like approaching thunder. “I'll have a talk with your coach. Maybe something can be arranged. It's for your own good, son.” He stood. “I'll make sure it's arranged. Sports and learning should be balanced, and you're right, you worked hard for this. I'll do what I can to make sure you're kept on the team. But you have to promise to work with Mr. Statler here.”