The Vault of Destinies (James Potter #3) (87 page)

To James' surprise and delight, the team had responded with a hearty cheer. All around, the Bigfoots players had removed the potion pouches from around their necks and piled them on the shelf next to their skrims.

Now, standing in the sunset light and looking across the rings toward the Werewolves' platform, James felt a pang of doubt. The powdered curses might have been sneaky and a bit devilish, but all of a sudden James agreed with Norrick: they were going to need everything in their arsenal to beat the Wolves.

With their backs to the sunset, Team Werewolf appeared to be fringed with molten gold. Clayton Altaire stood in the front, grinning malevolently, his skrim standing next to him, decorated with a snarling wolf 's visage. Flanking him were Olivia Jones and Jeremiah Dunckel. All of them stared across the lofty open space of the field, smirking with seamless confidence.

"Don't let them spook you," Wood called, summoning the team into a huddle. "Team Werewolf is a good team, an excellent team, but you lot are every bit as skilled as they are and then some. Their overconfidence will be their downfall! They expect to win this match easily with hardly any effort. They think that Victory Hill is their birthright. Are they right?"

"No!" Team Bigfoot cried out in rowdy unison.

"Will you lie down and let them win just because they're the Werewolves?"

"
No
!" the team barked again, louder.

Wood shouted over the crowd, "
Will
you take the match to them and show them that their arrogance is their greatest weakness!?"

This time, the team exploded in a shout so loud that the crowd all around could hear them. "YES!"

"Who are we?" Wood demanded.

"The Bigfoots!"

Wood asked again, "WHO are we?"

"THE BIGFOOTS!" This time, the shout dissolved into a deafening cheer as the gathered crowd took up the cry, turning it into a chant: "
BIG
-FOOTS!
BIG
-FOOTS!
BIG
-FOOTS!" Fireworks popped from the grandstands all around and banners waved frantically against the purple sky.

"Line up!" Wood shouted, smiling grimly. "Practice laps! Team captain?"

"Viper formation," Jazmine barked, dropping her skrim and jumping onto it. "
Go Foots
!"

The rest of the team returned the cry and followed Jazmine out into the rings, slipping easily into formation. James was among the last to take off. For one instant, he felt a pang of mortal worry.
This isn't going to work
, he thought, panic washing over him like a tidal wave.
We can't do this! They'll slaughter us!
For a split second, he was convinced that he had forgotten everything—all the game magic they had practiced, all the formations and maneuvers, everything the other House teams had taught them, even how to fly a skrim. He stared down at the odd broom as it floated next to him, one of his feet planted on its middle, holding it steady. He felt frozen in place.

A hand clapped him gently on the shoulder. When James looked up, it was Professor Wood.

"Don't worry about it, James," Wood suggested, nodding encouragingly. "Just have fun, eh? This is what you were made for."

James looked at the professor, hoping he was right. He nodded, gulped, and then swung his other foot onto the beam of his skrim. A moment later, the platform was gone, replaced by open space.

James remembered everything.

Less than a minute later, Professor Sanuye blew his official's whistle. From that point on, there was no looking back.

The match was a blur of wild motion, punctuated only by the whoosh of the rings, the buffet of passing players, and the occasional thump and cry as Bullies collided with Clippers. Spells sizzled through the air all around and James thought he had never experienced such intense, instantaneous ferocity. It was as if the Wolves were pulling out all the stops from the very moment the whistle blew, meaning to crush Team Bigfoot's spirit even before it had a chance to take root. As James passed through the center ring in pursuit of a Werewolf Clipper, he was walloped from overhead by what felt like a passing freight train. He spun off his skrim, grabbed onto it as he fell away, and then swung back up on the other side—a maneuver he had practiced so many times in the Gauntlet that it was nearly second nature. As he re-oriented himself, he glanced aside. Pentz, the boy who had tried to knock him off his skrim the very first time he, James, had attempted to fly one, was rocketing away, grinning back over his shoulder.

James shook his head, fuming, and darted back into the rings, rejoining the flow of the match.

It was difficult to keep track of the match as it was underway. James tried to be aware of what the rest of his team was doing, but the viciousness and speed of the Werewolves' tactics made it a challenge simply to stay on his skrim. James was sure that he had never flown so fast for so long, and yet he was barely keeping up. At one point during the first quarter, he saw Jazmine and Gobbins performing one of the two-man offensive spells that the Pixies had taught them with some apparent success. Later, he followed Wentworth in Clipper formation and saw the smaller boy activate one of the Igors' ingenious gizmos from the rear of his skrim. A small box popped open and a Boggart deployed from it, immediately taking the shape of a ghastly flying clown. Clayton Altaire, who had been gaining on Wentworth in Bully position, nearly fell off his skrim as the clown loomed over him. James flashed past and used the
Riddikulus
spell his father had taught him to turn the clown into a cloud of ping pong balls, which fell away into the darkness below.

In general, the team seemed to be putting everything they knew to good use, and yet as the match neared halftime, James noticed with dismay that Team Werewolf was leading by a score of fifty-two to forty-four.

And then, fifteen seconds before the end of the second quarter, James heard a sickening thud and a shout of pain. The crowd roared deafeningly, either in anger or encouragement, and James glanced around, seeking the source of the cry. His heart rammed up into his throat as he saw Norrick falling into the darkness of the field, his arms and legs thrashing at the empty air. Far over him, his skrim spun lazily, weaving a looping trail out over one of the grandstands. Professor Sanuye's wand was out in a flash.

"
Wingardium Leviosa
!" he shouted, his voice thin with distance.

Norrick bobbed upwards, missing the grassy field below by less than ten feet. He hovered over his shadow, his right arm dangling limply.

The crowd, which had fallen silent for a few seconds, erupted with mingled cheers and jeers. From the announcer's booth, Cheshire Chatterly's voice rang out.

"Bigfoot number six, Willem Norrick, appears to be injured after a
devastating
sideswipe by Werewolf number nine, Parker Pentz," she cried, obviously angry. "Match Official Sanuye is escorting Norrick to the Bigfoot platform. Unless we hear otherwise, it would appear that Mr. Norrick will be out for the rest of this match, leaving Team Bigfoot one player short!"

James shouted to Norrick as Sanuye levitated him to the platform, "Norrick! How bad is it?"

"Bad enough!" Norrick called back through gritted teeth. "But I'll keep playing! That punk can't get rid of me that easily!"

James glanced back at the 'punk' in question. Pentz flew in a lazy arc around the Werewolf platform, grinning crookedly.

"Do we have any reserve players?" Gobbins asked, floating up to join James near the center ring.

"Rrrarpgh!" Mukthatch answered dolefully from his place by the goal ring.

"We only had Kleinschmidt," James said. "And he came down with the yipsplits from eating too many of Yeats' dragon fingers."

"He'd have been no help anyway," Gobbins observed mournfully. "Kid flies a skrim like a fish flies a kite."

"So what'll we do?" James asked.

Gobbins shrugged. "We play one man short unless we can find a replacement. Can you think of anyone else who can suit up in Norrick's place?"

James shook his head dourly.

From the Bigfoot platform, Professor Sanuye turned away from Norrick and blew his whistle.

"Penalty, Team Werewolf," he called out, using his wand to amplify his voice. "Malicious sideswiping. Three minutes in the dock."

James glanced back to the Werewolf platform in time to see Pentz dropping easily onto it. The Werewolf coach, a college-level student with a blocky head and a crew cut, collected Pentz's skrim and grinned tightly.

"They planned it," Gobbins commented wonderingly. "Pentz did it on purpose! See how easy they're taking the penalty?"

James sighed angrily. "Well, at least our numbers will be even for the next three minutes."

"Three minutes nothing!" Gobbins said, glancing back at him. "It's only thirteen seconds 'til halftime! All penalties are canceled at that point! Why do you think they waited to do this now? Come next half, they'll have a full crew and we'll be down by one! Unless Norrick can keep playing."

As if on cue, Cheshire Chatterly spoke again, her voice echoing from the announcer's box.

"
And
Willem Norrick is escorted down to the field by the medical crew, apparently suffering a dislocated shoulder at the hands of Team Werewolf. Thus, with no reserves, Team Bigfoot finds themselves one player short of a full squad. Daunting odds indeed for the perennial underdogs."

James' face was hot with anger and frustration. When Sanuye blew his whistle again, announcing the resumption of play, he felt clumsy on his skrim. Werewolf players thundered past, quickly collecting all three Clutches. By the time the halftime horn sounded, two of those Clutches had been turned into scores. Team Werewolf circled like wasps, barking gleefully and collapsing onto their platform in triumph.

"How's Norrick?" Jazmine asked dispiritedly as she landed on the Bigfoot platform.

"He'll be all right," Wood replied, sighing, "by tomorrow afternoon. For now, I'm afraid he's out of the match."

"Do we have to forfeit?" Wentworth asked, his eyes huge and angry behind his glasses.

"Not legally, no," Wood answered immediately. "But we are at a distinct disadvantage. Let's give it a vote. Do you lot want to go on with the match? Or shall we pack it in and head down to the Kite and Key to celebrate a season well spent?"

"No way," Gobbins announced loudly. "I'll take them all on myself even if the rest of you go home. Lousy cheats! I'll teach them to play dirty like that!"

"I'm in too," Jazmine said, firming her jaw.

"Wraak Rubffthuth!" Mukthatch agreed, nodding vigorously.

"We can still take them," James added, sounding much more confident than he felt. "This is our match to win!"

"Hear hear," Wood concurred as the rest of the team cheered in agreement. "Then we stay and play on. You're doing incredibly well, all of you. I have nothing else to tell you than just to keep it up. Now that we're down one player, though, we'll all have to be even more alert. Concentrate on offense, sink as many scores as you can. You'll have to get used to playing Clipper and Bully at the same time whenever necessary. We can do that because you all know all the parts, right?"

"Right!" Team Bigfoot responded with slightly less than their original fervor.

"Right," Wood agreed. "Now get something to drink and limber up. We're back in the air in three minutes."

It was nearly full dark by now with only a pink rim spreading along the western horizon. James took a moment to look around the grandstands, hoping to see some sign of his family. Sure enough, he spotted his mum in the grandstand directly behind the Bigfoot platform. She saw him looking and waved at him, her face pale and strained, as if she were desperately wishing the match were over rather than merely at halftime. Next to her was Lily, Aunt Audrey, Cousin Molly, and Viktor Krum, who sat ramrod straight, his face etched with restrained anger.

Join the club
, James thought sourly. And then:
where's everyone else?

He scanned the seats all around his mum. There was no sign of Albus. Neither in sight were Uncle Percy, Lucy, or Izzy. James was again visited by that sense of sinking dread.
I can't think about that now
, he reminded himself.
Win the Clutch match first. Then deal with everything else
.

Wood called the team over to the edge of the platform. Halftime was nearly over. James turned away from his family and Viktor Krum, returning to the matter at hand.

But where
are
they,
he thought naggingly, worriedly.
What in the world could be so important
that Lucy, Izzy, and Albus wouldn't be here to watch the match
?

Shortly enough, though, the teams launched from their platforms and merged into the figure eight course. Professor Sanuye blew his whistle once more and the match launched again into motion, wild and ferocious.

In the midst of it, James forgot about his brother, friend, and cousin completely. 

Lucy was watching the match, in fact, in a manner of speaking.
"What's the score?" Izzy asked, her voice small.

"I don't know," Lucy replied quietly. "The scoreboard's too little to make out from here."