Michael adjusted his glove, and the ball thwacked leather. An immediate cheer arose from the fans of both teams for the boy who danced and whooped. Holding his glove aloft, his grinning face swung toward Jake.
"I caught it. Did you see?"
"I saw. Good catch, Son." Smiling, he patted the boy on the back.
"I caught it." Michael jumped down and collapsed to a seated position upon the bench. Grinning like mad, he gazed at his prize. "I caught it."
The afternoon sun cast long, angular shadows across the bleachers of the high school ballpark. Tugging the lid of his cap down to shade his eyes, Jake rested his hands on the tops of his thighs and leaned forward. The weathered plank creaked as his weight shifted. His intent gaze coolly surveyed the baseball diamond.
The game was in the top half of the ninth inning. The home team's players, the Red Devils, were on the field and the visitors, the Bulldogs, were at bat. The scoreboard read Home 3 and Guest 2. A runner sat on first base with one out.
Jake's teenage sons were on the Red Devils. Gage played second base while his fraternal twin, Jonas Dean whom everyone called JD, manned the shortstop position. On the bench beside him, his adopted son, Michael Allen Fraiser, milled his legs with the furious, pent-up energy of any six-year-old. So far, the child had shown admirable restraint in occupying a seated position through the entire game.
"Can I try?" Michael begged as the visiting team's batter emerged from the dugout.
He feigned skepticism and cast the boy a sideways glance. "Do you think you're ready?"
"I'm ready!"
The Bulldog's batter made his selection and warmed up with a half dozen heavy swings before he walked out to home plate.
"Go ahead." Jake dipped his chin.
Michael exploded off the bench and landed with his arms flung into the air. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and launched into sports-sing. "Hey! Batter, batter! Swing!"
Around them, heads turned and people grinned to hear the child's voice soar in the music of baseball—the all-important heckle. Jake patted the boy on the back, delivering wordless approval on a job well done.
Pitching for the Devils, Andre Hedford worked through a warm up on the mound. Even though he was sixteen and a junior, the lanky teenager was the tallest member of the team. Once the batter stepped into the batter's box, the pitcher lobbed a fastball dead center across the plate.
The batter swung and missed, and the umpire barked, "Strike!"
The guest team's fans groaned in protest.
Dancing in triumph, Michael added his voice to the shouts of celebration from the Devils' loyal supporters. While the pitcher prepped, the boy heckled again. "Pitch to 'em underhand!"
When the next pitch flew high and wide, the batter passed. The umpire called it, "Ball!"
Jake shot to his feet. "Flip over the plate and read the directions!"
"What? Are you blind? Get some glasses!" the boy piped up. He tilted his head, looking to Jake. Those wide eyes sought approval and reassurance.
"Good one, Son." He patted the boy's shoulder, earning a smile in return. Being the focus of such intense hero-worship humbled him. His own sons by blood were almost adults. At seventeen, the twins were the youngest of the Barrett brood. Both young men were independent and self-sufficient, whereas Michael was at the age where he still sought adult guidance and approval.
As father and son, he and Michael were in a tentative, transitional phase. The boy's mother had been murdered in December of the prior year by a monster who fed on guilt. Jake had slain the beast, but Michael still suffered from nightmares. He saw a counselor but couldn't discuss the true source of his trauma with a woman who didn't believe in the supernatural.
The decision to adopt was easier than Jake would've ever expected. Michael had no living relatives, and the modern foster care system wasn't equipped to handle the boy's needs, so the child would be raised by hunters who believed that things that went bump in the night were real. Many of the teenagers on the field had a parent or other relative who was a member of the Phoenix-based hunter organization which had its headquarters on Red Butte. The private high school provided additional security, year-round schooling, and special accommodations to facilitate the unique dangers and demands of the lifestyle.
Jake's knowing gaze swept the stands, noting the underlying signs of duress in the spectators. Many were suffering despite the trappings of an idyllic afternoon. On the aisle row, Marie Sanders, a middle-aged woman with puffy eyes and a red nose, clutched a fistful of tissues while she put on a brave show for her son, the Red Devils' center fielder. Her husband and the father of her children, Neil, was one of the fifteen men missing in action in Tucson. She didn't know it yet but she was a widow—Neil wouldn't be coming home.
Those deaths weighed on him—an onus. Jake hadn't announced the deaths yet. He'd only just found out a couple hours before himself. Maybe it made him an asshole, but he perceived no benefit to ruining the last ball game of the season. The spouses and families of those lost would know soon enough.
"I can't see!"
Michael's complaint forced Jake's attention back to the game. He looked down, noting how most of the audience was on their feet, obscuring the boy's view of the field.
"Hey! Sit down!" Michael bounced left and right, up and down, but his short leaps failed to propel him high enough to obtain an unobstructed view.
Leaning over, Jake hooked his hands beneath the child's armpits and boosted Michael onto his broad shoulders. The youngster barely weighed anything.
"Better?"
"Yeah, thanks."
The Devils' pitcher heaved another fastball, and the batter swung with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop but managed to connect. The bat cracked. The ball soared, flying sharply to the left of the shortstop. The batter dropped the bat and ran for first while the Bulldog player on first sprinted toward second base.
Cheering his sons on, Jake roared at the top of his lungs, and the crowd thundered along with him. Michael's high, enthusiastic voice filled his ear, encouraging JD and Gage to victory. A wave of visceral excitement swept through the fans, building toward a crescendo. They screamed for blood, a call to conflict that harkened to an earlier era. Not quite the same as combat, but the instincts to fight remained integral to human nature.
Following the ball's trajectory, JD fielded it across his body in a skillful catch, while Gage covered second base. The shortstop pitched the ball straight to his brother's glove in a seamless maneuver so smoothly coordinated the twins could have been two hands of the same body.
Continuing the play, Gage tagged the second base before the runner reached it. He performed a neat 180-degree pivot and launched the ball to the first baseman. A sudden hush fell over the stands, silence as reverent as a church service. The ball whacked the first baseman's glove at the exact moment the batter's foot struck the bag in a classic bang-bang play.
Tense anticipation reigned. For all the good-natured heckling and competitive catcalling, the fans were respectful at their core. Jake likened them to honorable warriors, both the players and parents of both teams. Among all modern sports, he loved the game for its nobility of spirit and strategic complexity.
"He's out," the umpire announced, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.
The home team had won.
A cheer erupted from the Devils' loyal fans as they celebrated their team's triumph. The outstanding double play was the jewel in the crown and the closeout to a spectacular winning season. Home and visitor fans alike delivered a standing ovation while the two teams lined up and shook hands.
"That was the best game ever." Michael's arms waved with so much enthusiasm, he whacked Jake on the back of the head. The second his feet touched ground, the child sprang into motion before his father let go.
"You're right. It was a great game." He released his hold on the boy, who shot forward. With a rueful shake of his head, he watched the child's swift passage down the stairs. Michael's small size allowed h
im to weave around obstacles and squeeze past the legs of slower moving adults.
"That boy is a tornado in a trailer park." The other man's deep voice came from two rows back and up. Henry Hedford, aptly nicknamed Skinner, stood and made his way toward the staircase bisecting the bleachers. The burly African-American man had a shaved head and many intricate tattoos visible upon every square inch of exposed skin. Despite being on the high side of fifty, he was as hard as nails and meaner than a wolverine.
"He's a handful, all right." Jake stepped onto the stairs.
Skinner shook his head. "Don't know what you were thinking. Taking on a boy that age without a wife..."
"It was the right thing to do," he replied in a flinty tone. Privately, he wondered the same sometimes, questioning whether he'd bitten off more than he could chew. His beloved wife, Sarah, had passed away over two years ago. Cancer had robbed him of her company, and he bitterly resented their unplanned separation. His professional calling as a hunter was dangerous but required long hours and frequent travel. He refused, however, to voice his doubts aloud. The adoption was a done deal. For better or worse, Michael was Jake's responsibility.
Jake's reputation as a renowned warrior and a man who commanded powerful magic preceded him far and wide. He had a number of monikers, some ruder than others, including Hunter King and Master of the Hunt. Within their organization's formal hierarchy, Skinner acted as his second-in-command and right-hand man. The two men had served together in the Marine Corps prior to forming their own private paramilitary organization, and they'd had each other's backs in countless confrontations. Jake trusted no one more.
Here, among civilians, they weren't hunters. Here, they were simply fathers watching over their sons. Side-by-side, they followed the stream of humanity pouring from the bleachers. Friends and family members mingled with the players, delivering congratulations and chatting. Their boys gravitated toward them, and soon Andre, JD, Gage, and Michael joined them in a loose circle near home plate.
"Dad, the team is going out for pizza," JD explained, employing teenager code which meant that (A) Parents weren't welcome, and (B) He needed money. He held out his hand in expectation. The firstborn of the fraternal twins, JD was quick-witted, competent, and clever. A natural protector. Like his father, the young man was tall and broad-shouldered with brown hair and eyes. He took after his mother as well, having inherited her grace and compelling charisma.
"Boy, you need a job. When I was your age..." Grumbling entirely for show, Jake fished his billfold from his back pocket.
"Geez, Pop. When you were our age, dinosaurs roamed the earth and there were no jobs," Gage chimed in. The teenager was a couple inches taller and slightly huskier than his twin. He had light brown hair with blond highlights he'd inherited from Sarah. The youngest of the four boys, he had always been a diplomat and negotiator, and was by far the most empathetic. The peacemaker, just as his mother had been. Patient and considerate.
JD snorted. "Actually, dinosaurs hadn't evolved yet."
"Man, you think your father is old? Mine knew dirt when it was still rocks," Andre tossed out, setting off another round of old-age jokes.
While the others got a good laugh, Jake separated four bills from the others and slapped them down on his son's palm. He caught JD's gaze. "Make sure you're home by ten. You still have school tomorrow."
"Sure thing," JD agreed with a cheeky grin.
"Can I come?" Michael asked in a wistful voice. He wore his hope on his face. The boy worshipped the twins and followed them everywhere despite the considerable age difference.
They all turned to gaze down upon the child. Jake inhaled, biding his time. A look loaded with meaning passed between the twins. JD's brow furrowed, and his head jerked back and forth. Gage pinned his brother with a shaming glare even as he mouthed, "Aww, c'mon."
"Pleeeaaaase..." Michael pleaded. The boy was a pitiful vision, rounded eyes and jutting lower lip. He raised clasped hands.
"Okay." Shrugging, JD gave in fast. He shoved the money into his pocket. Without saying goodbye, the pack of boys drifted away.
"You have him home by nine," Jake called after them.
Two fingers tagged JD's temple in a quick salute.
Gage leaned over to talk to Michael. "Listen, Champ. You've got to help us impress the girls. Can you do that?"
"Sure, same as last time?"
"Let's vary our strategy..."
"Hell." Skinner settled his hands on his hips. Grinning, he rolled his head from side to side. "Don't you miss being young."
"Humph." Jake sized his friend up but held his tongue. Instead, his gaze tracked the carefree youths as they gallivanted off to join their friends. In his heart, he acknowledged a bittersweet truth. Even if youth restored his body to robust vigor, age weighed heavily on his soul. He lacked the capacity to indulge in an untroubled existence.
They stood in silence for a while, waiting by mutual consent until the baseball diamond was empty. Some conversations required privacy.
"You got plans this evening?" Skinner asked eventually. "Winnie is making lasagna."
He chuckled. "I recognize that tone."
"What tone?"
"That my-wife-put-me-up-to-it whine."
His friend scoffed. "Bull shite."
Through narrowed eyes, Jake pinned Skinner with a knowing stare.
The other man caved like a soggy house of cards, throwing up his hands. "Alright, ya got me. She's invited over her younger sister."
"Denise?"
"No, Talia."
Heaving a sigh, Jake glanced skyward. "I'm a married man, Hal. You know that."
"Yeah, I get that, but Winnie doesn't get it. All she sees is that it's been over two years since Sarah passed away. She thinks you're lonely, and she thinks that little boy needs a mother."
"Well, she ain't wrong. Tell Winnie thank you, but I wasn't feeling social." The entire gist of the exchange disturbed him. While Skinner understood Jake was a god, Winnifred didn't know. Her husband had never told her and never could.
"I'll do that." Skinner dropped a curt nod.
"Good."
Conversation over. In the last two minutes, they'd engaged in more oversharing of their feelings than at any point since Sarah's death. They were hard men, and intimacy didn't suit them. With so many unspoken concerns, uneasy foreboding lingered in the air.
From the look on Skinner's face, the man had something on his mind. Jake waited until his friend got around to parsing it out. Still, he couldn't wait to get out of the sun. He was hot and thirsty, and stank like day-old roadkill.
"It's not right." Skinner fisted his hands.
Jake quirked his brow but the other man required no encouragement.
Skinner flung his arms wide. "Us sitting here—watching baseball and eating hot dogs. As if the whole damn world wasn't coming undone around us."
"Enjoy these moments of normalcy, Hank. They're precious." Soon, they too would be gone in the trouble and turmoil to come. These good memories would be what they clung to.
"Any further word from Tucson?" Skinner couched the question as a demand. He remained unable or unwilling to accept Jake's perspective. "The fires are still burning and refugees are still trickling out. If any of our people are still alive..."
"We're not going to hear from anyone else." Upon issuing the flat denial, Jake shook his head. "Consider anyone MIA in Tucson dead behind enemy lines."
"No fucking way." Skinner hollered the protest. The warrior ethos was deeply ingrained in his psyche. No one left behind. Anger energized his entire body, and he shifted to a fighter's stance.
"I activated the hunter's marks of every missing man and used my second sight to determine their fate." Jake offered the rebuttal in a flat, hard voice. His facade remained stoic. Not that he didn't care or feel. He did. His heart ached for each and every one of the people they had lost. Their deaths weighed upon his soul, and he was tired. Exhausted. And opening the door to his foresight, which he normally kept loc
ked away, had plunged him straight into the grip of awful depression.
"They're dead? All of 'em?" Face set in a rock-hard mask, Skinner stared at him. His jaws clenched, teeth grinding like stones.
"All fifteen." Jake dipped his chin, sick in his heart. Fifteen plus the previous eight hundred and eighty-five men and women they'd managed to confirm were killed in action.
"That brings our losses to nine hundred." Skinner fumed, locked in place. Then his fury erupted. Bellowing like an injured beast, he threw up his hands and stomped in circles. He shouted profanity, foul and scathing, aimed at the undead and the Necromancer, their enemy. He cursed Loki and the Fates and threw out a final disparaging challenge to Odin.
Jake gave the man his space, and refrained from taking offense. Every last hunter in his organization—except one—had offered him a vow of personal fealty. As their general, he made tactical decisions and sent them into battle, and he also bore direct responsibility for every last man and woman who died in his service. As their god, Jake sent his Valkyries to gather the souls of those who fell and escort them to Valhalla.
Long ago, a Viking king had once stated it far more eloquently: "We fight. We die. We go to Odin. This is glory."
"Nine hundred," Skinner repeated once he'd calmed. He halted, breathing hard, clearly struggling to reconcile with their staggering casualties. "Nine hundred. We took a thousand of our best-trained and equipped soldiers to Tucson, and we lost nine-tenths of them. Only a hundred of us made it out."
"I can do the math," Jake said in sharp irritation. He'd done the math. Even with a thousand men, they'd been outnumbered by vampires. Overwhelming odds. Not just ten to one. More like a hundred to one.
Neither of them mentioned the uncounted innocent lives that had also been lost that night. Some things were beyond their control, and certain paths led straight to the pit of despair. If they descended into it, they'd never get out.
Over the last six months, the undead population in cities along the U.S.'s southern border had exploded out of control. Attacks were frequent and unpredictable. The number of civilian casualties had mounted until it defied the government's ability to suppress the truth. Rumors leaked to the general population, stories of magic and monsters, and civil restlessness grew with each passing day. Rebellion percolated and brooded, another giant of a problem, which defied even Jake's prowess as a problem solver.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 2
