“I’m glad you’re here,” the woman said. “These things happen from time to time, but I’ve never seen a girl get so . . . well, so violent. Yenil is in with the principal and the school counselor.”
Shula moved Madeline’s chair toward the swinging gate that led behind the counter, and the woman moved it aside for them. She gestured toward the back of the office, and Shula navigated between the desks and tables and chairs, coming uncomfortably close to the little boy who sat crying, the bag of ice pressed against his nose.
The principal was a middle-aged man with silver hair, wearing a loose suit. He sat behind a wide desk. To his left was the counselor, a kindly looking woman in professional clothes who was looking with concern at Yenil. The little Scim girl sat with her arms crossed, her pigtails askew, a scowl on her face, and—Shula nearly crumpled to the floor with gratitude—not in her war skin.
The principal’s eyes flickered to Madeline’s wheelchair, then to Shula, with that split-second judgment Shula knew so well. His glance was too quick, and he looked away too fast, a sure sign of someone who felt guilty about his own conclusions. The crippled girl and the foreigner, here to take care of the violent schoolgirl. Shula bit the inside of her lip to keep from saying anything.
“Mrs. Oliver?” the counselor asked, holding out her hand.
“Ms.” Madeline shook the counselor’s hand.
The counselor paused. “Of course. Ms. Oliver. I’m the school counselor, Mrs. Montgomery. This is Principal Clifton. And you are?” She looked at Shula.
“That’s Ms. Bishara,” Madeline said, sitting up straighter in her chair.
“A pleasure, Ms. Bishara. And how are you related to Yenil?”
Madeline cut her off. “What happened?”
Principal Clifton gave her a long, cold stare before answering. Shula knew his type too. Not used to having his authority ignored. Not by children or parents and certainly not by a teenage girl. “We were just asking Yenil that ourselves. She doesn’t seem interested in telling us.”
Yenil glared at the principal. Madeline held her hand out to the girl, but Yenil looked away. Too angry. Too scared. Shula could not imagine how she was keeping from putting her war skin on.
Mrs. Montgomery spoke to Yenil in a soft voice. “It’s okay to tell us, Yenil. We’re just trying to understand why you hurt those boys.”
Yenil’s dark eyes turned toward Mrs. Montgomery, but she didn’t say anything.
“Boys? More than one?” Shula looked back into the office. “The boy with the bloody nose is one.”
Mrs. Montgomery nodded. “She knocked a second boy down and punched a third in the stomach. Those two are back in class. I’m afraid Yenil did her best to hurt them.”
Yenil dropped her chin and stared at Mrs. Montgomery again. “I did not try my best. I could have hurt them worse.”
“We’ll take her . . . home now,” Madeline said.
Principal Clifton drummed his fingers on his desk. “Not until we’ve gotten answers from your child.”
Shula stiffened. Was he threatening to keep Yenil from them? “Can he do this?” she asked, turning to Madeline for answers.
Madeline shook her head. “Not unless . . . he wants to hear . . . from my father’s lawyer.” She held her phone up. “He’s on speed dial.”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Montgomery said. “There’s no need to get contentious. We only want to hear Yenil’s side of the story.”
Yenil hunched over in her chair. Shula moved beside her, draping her arm over the Scim girl. She whispered in her ear, “It is okay to tell them.”
The little girl glared at Shula, tears in her eyes. “They said mean words,” Yenil said.
“Like what?” Madeline asked.
“That I am ugly,” Yenil said through clenched teeth.
Shula gasped and pulled the girl close. Madeline put her hand on Yenil’s forearm. “You’re beautiful . . . Yenil . . . They shouldn’t . . . have said it.”
“That’s no excuse to punch them in the face,” the principal said.
Yenil’s face contorted in fury, and she whipped her face toward Shula, an accusation in her eyes: You said it was okay to tell them.
Madeline glared at the principal, then spoke to the counselor. “You allow . . . this sort of . . . bullying?”
Mrs. Montgomery shifted uncomfortably. “Of course not, Ms. Oliver, but these are children, and schoolyard taunts are common. If Yenil had come to us—”
“Not talking . . . about kids. Talking about . . . Principal Clifton.”
The principal’s face turned bright red. “If you think for one—”
The counselor threw her hands up, as if she could get between Madeline and the principal’s words and somehow keep them from getting to each other. “Mr. Clifton, please! Calm yourself! We are the adults here, let us set a good example.” The counselor settled back in her chair. “We all need to take a deep breath.”
A shadow flitted across Madeline’s face. Mrs. Montgomery looked at her and winced. Shula said, “Another day this conversation would be better. We will go home now.”
“We need the rest of the story,” Principal Clifton said, “before you go.”
“You can’t . . . keep us . . . here,” Madeline said.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Montgomery said in a soothing voice. “It would be so helpful to know, though, from Yenil’s point of view.”
Shula squeezed Yenil’s shoulder. Maybe if the girl could be convinced to tell her story, to tell it quickly, they could be on their way.
Yenil’s jaw set. She crossed her arms tighter and dipped her chin to her chest.
“What other things did the boys say?” Shula asked. “I know you, Yenil. This is not enough to make you angry.”
Yenil burst into tears, shaking her head.
“It’s . . . okay . . . Yenil.”
“They said my parents are dead!” Yenil shouted. “Then they kept touching me! Pulling my hair! I told them to stop!”
Madeline’s face went red. “They . . . touched you?”
“One boy pushed me. The others pulled my hair.”
“You should have told a teacher,” the principal said.
“No, Yenil,” Madeline said, her voice fierce. “You should . . . have punched them . . . in the nose.”
“Ms. Oliver!” the counselor said.
Yenil jumped from her chair and stomped her feet. “I told the teachers before, but they don’t stop the boys! They told me I should just stay away from those boys. One time they made them sit down part of recess. The teachers don’t stop them though. They don’t do anything.”
“It’s no wonder she’s violent at school if she’s being encouraged to be violent at home,” Principal Clifton said.
“You’re letting . . . boys . . . assault my little girl . . . and doing nothing,” Madeline said. “This is . . . on you.”
The principal’s lips quirked upward. “But she’s not your little girl, is she?”
“What does this mean?” Shula asked. “Madeline is Yenil’s guard.”
“Guardian,” Madeline said.
Mrs. Montgomery clucked her tongue. “I’m sure that’s true, dear. But I looked at your letter of guardianship and, well . . . it’s irregular. We don’t usually ask too many questions, but this one, on closer inspection, looks like it may have been forged.”
“What is this . . . forged?” Shula asked.
“Fake,” Madeline said.
Shula’s face flushed hot. She didn’t know anything about the paperwork. Madeline had done all that. Her mother had offered to help, but Madeline had waved her off. To get the right papers for an orphaned girl who had been adopted from a fantasyland and brought to the United States would have been challenging. No doubt Madeline had done what she needed to do.
“Checking on it is just a formality,” Mrs. Montgomery said. “A letter signed by a judge saying Ms. Oliver is Yenil’s guardian is sufficient, it really is. But the letter we have . . . it appears to be just a note f
rom Yenil’s parents saying they have put Yenil in Ms. Oliver’s care for the year, that’s all. We want to make sure Yenil has someone responsible for her. Legally.” She emphasized the last word.
“You are threatening us,” Shula said. “Why?”
“No threat,” Principal Clifton said, holding up his palms. “We’ll give you a week to put your hands on the documentation. We just want to make sure that everything is . . . well, legal.”
“Or?” Madeline asked. “You will . . . suspend her? What?”
“If you don’t have legal custody,” the principal said, “we’ll call Child Protective Services. They can figure out what would be best for Yenil.”
Shula’s hands tightened on the back of Yenil’s chair. The girl crouched in front of the principal’s desk, breathing heavily. Shula wasn’t sure what they were saying. She thought she understood the basic idea, she got the words, but it sounded like something more was being implied. “You will take her from us?”
“She’s ours,” Madeline said, her words overlapping Shula’s.
“But she’s not yours, is she, Ms. Oliver?” The principal steepled his fingers together. “As for whether she would stay with you, that’s not my decision. Child Protective Services would decide whether to take her away.”
Yenil crouched lower, her breathing going ragged. “No one can take me away,” she said in a half growl.
“Be calm,” Shula begged.
“Let’s go,” Madeline said. “Yenil, let’s go home.”
“You can’t take me!” Yenil screamed, pointing at the principal. “I am stronger!”
The principal stood. “Are you threatening me, young lady? I promise you I am the stronger one.”
Yenil’s war skin flowed onto her so quickly Shula could barely see it happen. Her skin thickened and hardened, turning an almost grey color. Her hair thinned, her muscles grew. Sturdy tusks jutted up from her teeth, pushing out her lips, and her brow protruded forward, forming a small shelf over her eyes.
“Yenil, no!”
The principal stumbled backward, and the counselor screamed.
Yenil placed both hands on the corner of the principal’s desk, grunted, and threw it to the side like it was an empty cardboard box. It hit the wall, shattering the window. Glass fell in a sparkling curtain, bouncing off the desk and onto the floor.
“I am stronger,” Yenil growled.
Madeline grabbed Yenil and yanked her into her lap on the wheelchair. “Shula,” she said. “The car.”
Before the adults could recover, Shula grabbed the wheelchair and steered them out. The two women in the reception area had jumped to their feet, moving toward the crash from the principal’s office. When Shula wheeled past the kid with the bloody nose, his eyes fell on Yenil, and he scooted backward in his chair, almost knocking it over, making panicked sounds. Shula pushed faster.
Shula helped them both into the backseat of the car. Madeline stroked the girl’s thin hair, shushing her, comforting her. Shula folded the wheelchair as quickly as she could, her hands shaking, shoved it in the trunk, and started the car. They drove away from the school in silence.
7
A CONFRONTATION
Two young lives who might have brought greater joy to the world, cut off, destroyed, in a moment of power-drunk madness.
FROM “JELDA’S REVENGE,” A SCIM LEGEND
The Elenil war party thundered behind them, magic spheres of light hovering near, lighting the fierce faces of the Elenil and the beasts on which they rode: tigers, stags, and other things Jason had not seen before, some with willowy and graceful legs, others with too-long necks and thick hides.
Jason leaned forward, holding tight to Nightfall’s waist as Moriarty bucked and swerved, his long legs stretching to the limit. “They’re gaining,” he shouted.
Nightfall didn’t look back. “Why do you keep telling me this? It doesn’t help.”
Jason nodded. “I’ve never been particularly helpful in these situations.” Up ahead, Jason could see a strange termination to the perpetual darkness of the Wasted Lands. It was still a good distance away. The land beyond that sudden cessation of darkness shone bright and fair. “Is that the end of the Wasted Lands? Maybe we should head for the light.” Not that they would make it before the Elenil caught them. But the thought of getting into sunlight again cheered Jason. And who knew? Maybe it would be easier to ditch the Elenil in the sunlight. The darkness wasn’t helping.
“There are rules in the darkness,” Nightfall said. “Treaties and agreements between the Scim and the Elenil. Once we enter the light, we are unprotected. When we get near it, I will turn to the right or left and attempt to outrun them.”
“You can’t outrun them now,” Jason pointed out. “We should take our chances in the light.”
Nightfall grunted. “Are they still gaining on us?”
Jason frowned. He was clearly being dismissed. Delightful Glitter Lady rearranged herself where he had tucked her into his jacket against his chest. She let out a plaintive whine.
“What are you, ten years old?” Jason shook his head. “Maybe I should make the decisions.”
“I’m holding the reins of the brucok,” Nightfall said. “I get the final say. Now . . . are they still gaining on us?”
They were, of course.
But two dark shadows loomed over them now. Silent, or at least unheard over the thundering of the Elenil steeds, two enormous birds with impossibly long wingspans flew in the darkness just over the Elenil’s orbs of light. “There’s something else,” Jason said, “in the shadows above them.”
Nightfall risked a look. A grin spread across his wide Scim face, terrifying in his war skin. “It’s the Black Skulls!”
Jason squinted. He could almost make out the details of the birds, and Nightfall was right. They were monstrous owls. A figure sat on each, wearing the black-painted skulls of horned animals. The Black Skulls were brutal Scim warriors, seemingly impervious to pain and impossible to wound, let alone kill. There were three of them, and as he had come to discover only a few short weeks ago, they were all humans . . . and the founder of the Skulls was Darius Walker, his own high school classmate. Darius wore the skull of an antelope and fought with skill magically donated by the Scim people themselves—and a passion that was 100 percent his own.
“There’s only two of them,” Jason said.
“I’m thankful for any,” Nightfall said. “Tell me what they do.”
As he said the words, the two Skulls dropped from their birds, landing on the two lead Elenil. Two lights went out as the Skulls dragged the Elenil to the ground. The other Elenil struggled to avoid trampling them, parting in a panic around their fallen comrades and the unexpected enemies from the sky.
“They jumped off their birds and took out two of the Elenil!”
“Good,” Nightfall said. “Are the other Elenil turning back to help them?”
“Yes. We should make for the sunlight now, while they’re distracted.”
The Scim boy snorted. “I’m telling you, Wu Song, that’s a terrible idea.”
The Elenil were falling behind now, the thundering sound of their war party replaced with the sound of steel on steel and shouts from the warriors.
A dark shape slipped alongside the brucok. It was Darius, the original Black Skull himself, riding on a gigantic possum, its long nose quivering and its lips pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth as long as Jason’s forearm.
“This way,” the Black Skull said, taking hold of Moriarty’s reins in one gloved hand and directing them to the right, away from the wall of sunlight. “Quickly,” he said, leading them toward a cleverly concealed ramp in the desert floor. It took them into a small hollow, barely large enough for the three of them and their animals.
Moriarty snaked his long neck around and bit Jason in the arm.
“Ow!”
“Be silent,” the Skull said, his voice deep and hoarse.
“Tell Chicken Dinner to stop biting me then!” Jason rubbe
d his bicep. The bird didn’t have teeth, but his beak still left a red mark. Jason glared at the brucok. “People eat birds, not the other way around. Don’t bite me, it’s unnatural.”
“You have to be quiet,” Nightfall whispered.
“Is this study hall?” Jason asked, whispering back. He knew he should stop talking, but sometimes he got nervous. Or sometimes a giant bird bit him.
The Skull glared at him. “Jason. Silence.”
“I never understood how that worked, telling someone to be quiet by making noise yourself. Like . . . shushing someone with a SHHHHH that’s more distracting than someone quietly whispering.”
Nightfall jabbed him in the side.
Jason sat down and took a deep breath. He hoped Baileya was okay. Usually about now she would come riding to his rescue, skewer the bad guys, and tell him, “Run, Wu Song!” It was their tradition. He hadn’t heard from her, though, which made him nervous. He knew Break Bones wouldn’t hurt her, and he hoped her brother wouldn’t either, but who knew? The Kakri were unpredictable.
They sat in silence for a long time. Jason could hear the sounds of the skirmish above, but barely. In time, those faded, replaced with the sound of the Elenil riding again, moving away but seemingly still in pursuit of something. Darius held his hand up for a minute, signaling for them to keep silent.
“Our plan worked,” he said at last. “We intended to distract them, hide you, and then draw them away.”
“Thank you,” Jason said.
The Skull knelt down in front of Nightfall. “As for you, child . . . Break Bones himself has trained you, and yet you run directly for the light? Don’t you know that there are protections in the dark? We have agreements with the Elenil, bought at a great price. They cannot kill you without cause here. In the light there are no such guarantees.”
Nightfall glared at Jason. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I will do better next time.”
The Black Skull laughed. “You did well enough, Nightfall. Especially carrying such a helpless load.” He punched Jason in the shoulder.
Their friendship had grown in strange ways. Darius and Jason both loved Madeline Oliver in their individual way, which brought them together, sort of. But it was a weird kind of bond, to miss the same person. On the other hand, they also had the bond of shared history, being from the same town, the same school. Now, being two of the three people from their school to have traveled to and lived in the Sunlit Lands . . . well, they had a lot more in common than almost anyone else in the world. Still, Jason wasn’t a hundred percent sure they would have been close friends on Earth.
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