by Sara Hanover
I saw Michelle head to the ball, cutting it off from the other team, and girls flanking each other in slight confusion. It took me a second to realize they were setting me up. I moved, and almost ran into Fourteen head on. Her eyes narrowed at me.
I did a bump and roll off her, nobody watching us because the ball was downfield, in the midst of plenty of action. I knew it would come shooting back to me.
She probably suspected.
I tried to shake her and almost succeeded. Her ragged breathing and my own filled my ears, the din of the other players and the families and friends in the stands a quiet roar in the background. I’d like to say it was one of those moments like you see in the movies, where everything slows down, and the only thing you know are the heartbeats, slow and steady with all the time in the world before the next beat, and you can accomplish miracles.
Nope.
I tried to shake her and couldn’t, not quite, and I could sense that the ball was coming my way any moment now. I needed to be where I could receive it, legally, and drive it on from there. I needed to be free.
Running as though my life depended on it, I headed to position, Fourteen on my heels. I could hear her make a noise of effort and, in the corner of my eye, I saw her pass me. She’d block or intercept the pass no matter what it cost, and we were running out of time. The team could survive on a tie—but who wanted to, if we could pull off a win?
My opponent, my nemesis, slashed her stick around in front of me, hitting the ground with a solid THAWK intended to do one thing only: intimidate. Her eyes gleamed defiantly as she did.
The stone blazed in my hand, but I shoved my thoughts back into unknowable land. And then Fourteen did it again, slamming the head of her stick in front of my next step, readying to either stop or trip me.
I swear I did nothing. Not. A. Thing.
Her stick broke. Not just broke, it split in two, lengthwise. Crumpled in her hands.
I sped around in front of her, the gate open, anticipating the ref’s whistle—but it didn’t sound. The ball came hurtling at me, I caught it, and drove it back, thundering after it. When I caught up with it, I slammed it toward the net.
The goalie dove for it, head down, body parallel with the ground, gloves and arms straining for it—and missed, as the ball sailed into the net’s corner.
I could feel the burn of success all the way, from my toes to the top of my head.
But we weren’t done yet. There was time to line up, drop the ball again, and drive toward the net, either side. We did so after a brief congratulations while Fourteen trotted to her team’s equipment manager and got a gleaming, new hockey stick. Its enameled paint shone in the reflected sunlight. She worked it around a bit in her hands, getting used to its carry and weight and grip. Hockey sticks are all created equal and yet not. I had two, but one was definitely my favorite. She’d already sacrificed her best equipment trying to block me. I had her at a disadvantage now.
My rib cage burned a bit, in the fatigue that a long tough game can hit you with. I’d given most of what I had to give, but I wasn’t about to quit—and neither were any of the girls lined up next to me. Michelle gave a huff of defiance.
The ref tossed the ball into the face-off. We all heard the clack-clack-clack of battle to knock it free, one way or the other. When it came slinging by me, I took off after it, my hulking shadow right there with me. We bumped hips and shoulders, muttered at each other, but stayed together as if we had been harnessed. Midfield, the ball came flying, and I missed the pickup. Only by microns, but a miss is a miss and she didn’t. She might be a defender, but Abby stood at a place on the field where she could go for a goal of her own . . . and she did.
I flew after to try and stop her. She burst through Kristy and Beth as if they were transparent and then tripped Lisanne off to the side as she dribbled the ball toward destiny. Lisanne went rolling on the ground, but the refs knew dramatics when they saw it and no whistle sounded.
Fourteen lined up her shot and Jheri threw me a look of desperation. The timer on the clock showed us down to mere seconds. There would be no chance after this. I caught up with her and put my stick out, bumping hers just as she pulled back for the swing. The ball flew forward as if winged. My wrists stung from the contact. Fourteen rocked back on her heels to keep from falling backward. Jheri flung herself by sheer instinct to where the ball should be headed.
She was wrong. Our invincible goalie, she of the keen eyes and even greater heart, missed the block.
But no one could have blamed her. It was one of those things.
I’d deflected it first.
The ball shot through the air and hit the goal post, bouncing harmlessly off into the grass and skittering behind the net as the game buzzer went off.
All the good feelings exploded, and we almost poured a vat of cold drink over the coach, but she’s pretty fast for her age and we mostly got ourselves. You’d have thought we made it into the finals, but the season wasn’t quite old enough. Coach did tell us the win vaulted us into first with the team we’d just beaten right at our heels. After the rest of my team peeled off, headed to the locker room, I spotted my mom, Brian, and Aunt April waiting in the home stands. I trotted over.
“Great game,” Aunt April said, her back straight as ever, parallel to the concrete blocks that build the stands. Her hair held a lavender cast from the last afternoon rays. Visitor stands were spindly lumber-built structures, but ours stood sturdily against the elements.
“Thank you! Ready for tomorrow?”
“Naturally.” She looked down her nose at me. “I may come over a bit early. There’s something hidden away in the house I should find.”
Oh? Like my father? I smiled instead of saying anything, though. If she didn’t know about my father, she might have a heart attack when she found out. I made a note to stick by her side when she arrived. I waved my stick at them. “Gotta go before they close the locker room!”
The field and opposite stands had emptied when I ducked my head to pass through. The day had sunk deep into early evening shadows and no lights were due to come on. Our game had run long, but this particular field was never lit unless programmed to do so early. I looked into the long and dark shapes and felt a moment—just a tiny moment—of uncertainty before I began moving past the stands. If Joanna showed up again out of her nowhere zone, I had my gear on and my stick in hand and the stone always present.
So it’s safe to say I expected the person who sprang out in front of me, except that I didn’t. Abby Jablonski leered into my face.
“Good game,” she mocked. She hadn’t been in the ending lineup when we all congratulated each other, so I figured she’d trudged on ahead to the gym and lockers. Silly me. She’d stood, waiting.
“Actually, it was. You almost had us.”
“I had you.”
“You did,” I agreed. “For a while there. I think you guys gave me too much credit, though, and it backfired on you.”
I couldn’t see much of Fourteen but her face, higher than mine, with the corner of her upper lip curled in scorn. A blue cast lit her eyes. I blinked. I thought they were brown . . .
“Won’t happen again,” she told me.
“We’ll probably meet in finals.” I moved to step around her.
“Not if you’re on the injured list.” And she strode forward to block me, her hands moving into sight, fingers gripping a big cement slab. “A broken bone can be a big inconvenience.”
Not to mention a world of hurt. I could scream, but no one remained to hear. I danced backward and she followed, transferring her burden to one hand and pulling her stick out of her gear bag on the ground with the other. That blueness kept blazing from her dark eyes and I wondered what possessed her. What fueled her into unthinking anger. I knew the hit was coming—I knew it, damnit—and still couldn’t avoid it. My feet tangled on the stick as I scrambled to get o
ut of her way and I went down, sprawling, and the slab began to descend on my ankles. Both of them.
I threw one leg up to stall her movement and kick her away, feeling the stone begin to pulse along with my panicked heartbeat. I grabbed at my glove, peeling it off frantically. Anger flooded me, forcing out the fear in harsh, stabbing breaths. I wanted to annihilate her. Do what I couldn’t do on the playing fields, with all those eyes on me, witnessing. I wanted to teach her a lesson. Who she could bully and who she couldn’t! Abby must have been saying something. Her lips moved and her face snarled, but I couldn’t hear her through the roar in my ears.
I could feel the earth shift around me in answer to my will. Stone spoke. Wood and iron replied. I turned my face away and, when I realized what I saw, flipped over as she heaved her weapon toward me. I yelled at her.
“Run!”
Abby had a split-second to realize what I meant, and she twisted away. I levered myself to one knee and took off from there as though I were in a sprinting block on the track. We both barely got out from under the stands as the structure heaved up and then collapsed resoundingly where we had just been fighting. Tons of debris covered the spot.
Abby paled. That eerie blue color in her eyes faded out. She jerked her chin at me, yanked her bag out of the ruins, muttered, “Freak,” and then jogged off as her team bus honked impatiently for her from the other side of the gym buildings.
I stared at the grandstand. Half of it gone, just like that. My vision blurred faintly, and the feeling nagged at me that I could—I should—restore it if I could only see clearly enough how to do it. There had to be a way . . . My pink glove peered from under the edge of the rubble, and I went to get it from the disaster. Had I meant it, or had it been fear or anger?
Like the F-150 tires exploding.
Like the hockey stick splitting in two. Like I had become dangerous.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RUNNING IN THE FAMILY
WE CELEBRATED THE win, my team boisterous and pretty well ignoring my sudden silence, before they closed the restaurant and kicked us out. I went home because I had no place else I wanted to be. My mom met me at the front door when I got home, her face haloed by the golden porch light, her hand on Scout’s collar so that he couldn’t bound out and go for a run while I parked in the driveway. I grinned at her.
“Told you not to wait up!”
“And I suggested no drinking.”
“Mom. I can take care of myself.” I’d only had two beers because most of the girls on the team are over twenty-one and I got treated, but I’d known when to stop and pizza had soaked up most of the drink before I’d even thought to head home. No way was I going to risk my new car on a stupid buzz.
Scout stood on three paws, one excitedly held up so he could paw at me when I got close enough. I did and he did, so I dropped to one knee.
She let go of his collar while the dog glommed me. “Quite a game.”
“No kidding. We might both make it to finals. Gotta say, I’m not looking forward to meeting that Fourteen on the field again.”
“Probably just the mom in me, but I’d say you had her number.”
“Finally. Took me long enough to figure an angle. Hope you didn’t save dinner.”
“Nope. I know a pizza night when I see one. Enjoy the metabolism while you can.”
I stood up and brushed past her in the doorway, Scout on my heels. “Let me put my gear bag up and I’ll take the dog out.”
The tell-tales turned to greet me in the hallway as I passed them. Scout put his nose toward the niche and gave a gusty sneeze.
“Was that nice?”
He shook his head, ears flapping, giving me the distinct impression he didn’t care if it was nice or not. Apparently, he and the interactive blooms had issues.
Dropping my bag in the far corner of the room, I gathered up my bracers from the windowsill and changed into a pair of well-worn and comfortable sandals. The night air felt brisk and cooling, but until frost blanketed the yard or rain hailed from the sky, I would pick out my sandals. My toes like a bit of freedom now and then.
Although, frankly, if they’d been exposed today, Fourteen would have taken them out, all the way up to my ankles. I’d be lucky to have any phalanges left.
I made it down the stairs in relative quiet, but Scout tripped on the second step and bounced down with a surprised yip or two and other accumulated noise. We made it to the bottom and looked up as Brian hung over the top banister.
“Trying to sleep here.”
I laughed at him, his red-gold hair standing half on end and the professor staring grumpily from young eyes. “Sorry.”
“Yes, well, I thought you had fallen.” He sniffed and frowned at Scout. “The enthusiasm of youth. And dogs.”
“Look at you, all of six months old and ready to be aged again.”
“Hmmmm.” He started to turn away, and stopped himself. “Oh. I think I may have found what we need for Mrs. Sherman and her possession debacle.”
“Really?” And at the back of my mind, I wondered if Brian had ever even heard the word “debacle.” Seriously, the two of them in that body were polar opposites.
“I’ve a test or two to run first, wouldn’t want to traumatize her if I’ve the wrong remedy, but yes.” He did turn then and waved the back of his hand at me. “Carry on.”
“We need to talk.”
“We do?” Brian simmered that for a moment. “Out of the house, then, just as well. I could use a walkabout tomorrow. No need to distress Mary.”
“In the morning?”
“Good, good.”
I watched him back away from the railing and decided he probably had something of an idea what I wanted to talk about. He’d be a pretty poor wizard if he didn’t.
Mom had retreated, too, but not to bed. I could hear her at her laptop, typing at a good pace. I hoped it was her paper and not just email as the pup and I went out the door. My muscles had already cooked and cooled, so I moved a little stiffly the first few steps. Scout tugged at me until we settled into a pace something a little less than an all-out run and a little more than a collected jog. If I walked the pup like this twice a day, I’d either be more than ready for league playoffs or maybe the Kentucky Derby. He didn’t slow until we neared home again. Most of the downstairs lights were off, with only a flickering light upstairs from my mom’s room, meaning she was streaming something on her laptop and quite likely had fallen asleep while doing it.
If she could sleep, all the better. The sooner I found the Eye of Nimora, the sooner I could give her the help she needed beyond what I normally did. I warmed for a minute, thinking of being able to do that. Scout whined slightly and fell back against my ankle.
The fine hairs on my arm rose. The stone already glistened free in the evening air, and my bracers glowed faintly under a harvest moon illumination. Nothing that would draw attention but would definitely give me an advantage seeing in the dark. Not that I wanted there to be anything to see. Collapsing part of the grandstand was already what I hoped would be the pinnacle of my day.
Scout’s ears went up, and he all but towed me around to the mudroom door, which stood slightly ajar. I had no idea what his training was telling him. I put my hand on his head.
“Who’s there, boy, huh?”
He whined very faintly again, but didn’t seem alarmed. I pushed the mudroom door open wider, my bracers softly blooming the small area with light, and Aunt April let out a gasp as she straightened up.
All the drawers except the locked one had been pulled out of the old chest, and she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Aunt April. What are you doing?”
She sagged against the threshold. “Something I shouldn’t be, and you’ve caught me.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t, but—what are you looking for?”
She pr
essed a shaking hand to her hair, in a vain effort to straighten it up. She beckoned me and Scout inside the door and shut it quietly behind us. “I don’t want your mother to know I’m here.”
“I guessed that.”
“I haven’t gambled—much—since your father disappeared. He got me out of quite a bit of trouble, and I’ve always been afraid I was the reason he had to leave like he did.”
I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, it had been me, but I decided not to. I hadn’t even been able to tell my mother. Besides, Great-Aunt April had been a contributing factor as well. I needed to know what she knew. “Is this why you talked about coming over a little early?” I looked at my phone. “It’s a lot more than a little.”
She pursed her lips a moment as if to hold back words that wanted to spill out untidily. Finally, she said, “I gamble compulsively. More than a little. I was a fool for it, and I owed a lot of money. But there was a time when I made money, more than a woman normally could in a man’s world, and it gave me freedom. Until it didn’t.”
“Is that why you sold some of your other properties?”
Aunt April didn’t want to look me square in the eye. “They left me no choice. I had to pay down my debts, but with interest and such, I couldn’t seem to get even. Your father said he’d take care of it. My streak had gone cold, but his hadn’t. I lent him my lucky book and he went off to do what I couldn’t, on the promise that I would stop gambling. Imagine my shock when, although my debts were cleared, he left the two of you in poverty and then disappeared. I know he didn’t mean to. I must have done that to him, somehow. When luck goes cold.”
I’d heard or figured out all that before, except for— “What do you mean, lucky book?”
“It’s just a little leather book, been in the family for generations, and it’s always brought good luck. I used to tuck it away in my purse, next to my wallet, and it always seemed to bring fortune. One night I won an incredible amount at roulette—$77,000. After I paid my taxes, I bought that lovely little home on the west side, the one with the greenhouse. Years ago, when prices were lower.”
