GHOST CROWN: THE TRACKS TRILOGY - Book Two

by J. Gabriel Gates

  “No,” the man said pleasantly. “You should stay.”

  With incredible speed, he reached into his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a short stick. There was a metallic click and something silver and shiny sprang from it. It was a knife, with what had to be an eight-inch blade.

  Before the man could strike, Zhai made his move, dashing to the left where a large tree trunk could screen him from his adversary. But when he got there, the man was on the other side waiting for him. How could he move that fast, Zhai wondered? It seemed impossible.

  The man spun the dagger in his hand and leaped forward, clearly intending to bash Zhai in the head with its pommel. Zhai blocked his strike, slipped to the side and struck him in the face with one quick, hard backfist. The man stepped back and turned to Zhai, a look of surprise on his face. He reached up, completely composed, and dabbed a spot of blood from the corner of his mouth with one finger.

  “Ah, you’ve been trained,” he said. With a click, the knife blade retracted and the man slipped the weapon back into his coat. Then he bowed to Zhai. Automatically, Zhai returned the gesture, then watched as his smiling adversary assumed a fight-ready position he’d never seen before.

  Zhai felt his insides light up with the amazing, energized calm that always filled him before a fight.

  “Well, go ahead, boy,” the man said evenly. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Without hesitation, Zhai shot forward, intending to use a move called a Bong Sau to jam up his enemy’s lead arm, but the man moved out of his way as fluidly as water, and Zhai took three quick strikes to the side of the head before he was able to block the counterattack. The man stepped back, laughing, and Zhai took the opportunity to strike again. This time, he led with a punch. As soon as the man tried to block the first punch, Zhai threw a second into what should have been an opening in his opponent’s guard. Instead, the man grabbed his arm and, using the momentum from Zhai’s strike, pulled him forward and gave him a solid elbow to the face. Zhai stumbled away, reeling. He had to grab a branch for support to keep from falling over.

  “You have talent,” his challenger said, sounding a little amused as he adjusted the derby on his head. “A few more years, and you might be pretty good.”

  Zhai’s ears were ringing from the blows he’d received, but he shook it off and assumed the ready position again.

  “Really? More?” his adversary taunted. “Very well, then—come on.”

  Zhai didn’t move.

  “Oh, you’ve decided you can’t attack me,” the man observed. “Do you think you can withstand my attack?”

  Zhai didn’t respond; he remained still, motionless . . . ready.

  The man smiled. He moved toward Zhai with incredible grace and speed, almost seeming to glide across the forest floor, and then he struck, throwing six punches in quick succession. Zhai had been tempted to look at his enemy’s face, to see if the mocking smile was still there, but he kept his eyes, instead, on his enemy’s elbows—just as master Chin had taught. By staying focused, he managed to block all six strikes.

  “Not bad,” the man said.

  And Zhai struck back. He threw ten of the fastest punches he’d ever put together. The last one actually made it through the man’s guard, skimmed off his cheekbone and caught the brim of his hat, knocking it off his head. He turned away from Zhai with blurring speed and caught the hat on his foot before it hit the ground.

  “Oops,” he said, and kicked it back up.

  The second or two the hat floated in the air seemed to last an eternity. Sure he had the advantage, Zhai struck with all his strength, aiming for the back of his enemy’s neck. At the same time, his opponent spun around toward him, intercepting Zhai’s punch and somehow pinning both his arms against his body with one hand. He shoved Zhai back against a tree with both of Zhai’s arms twisted painfully against his chest, and snapped one fist up, holding it half an inch away from Zhai’s nose. As he stood frozen there, the hat landed neatly on his head.

  Un-be-freaking-lievable, Zhai thought. This guy is my idol

  “Give your father a message,” the man said, his thick accent steeped with dark humor. “Tell him he will get his reward only after we find what we seek. Tell him there is no place in heaven or on earth where he can escape the Order. Now, you belong to us—as he does.”

  In that instant, the fist hovering in front of Zhai’s face blasted forward, plunging Zhai into unconsciousness.

  

  As he watched Maggie and her friends pull out of Spinnacle’s parking lot, Rick called Zhai’s cell again. Again, there was no answer. He swore under his breath.

  “Why don’t you ride up to the Haven with me,” Bran said, leaning against his brand-new black Camero. “Zhai can bring your car back to your place when he’s done with it.”

  Rick considered, and then shook his head. He’d had to sit it out at football practice today (even jogging killed his arm), and he felt like he had so much pent up energy that if he didn’t do something with it, he’d explode. And the frustration of being stuck without a car wasn’t helping him feel any more relaxed.

  “I’m gonna walk downtown or something,” he said, and without waiting for Bran to respond, he headed off across the parking lot. He’d gone through times like this for as long as he could remember—dark moods that nothing but a fight or some violent collisions on the football field could curb. Now, with this stupid injury messing up his whole life, he had more anger than ever and nowhere to put it.

  As he wandered through the few partly residential, partly commercial blocks between Spinnacle and downtown, he fantasized about turning a corner and finding one of those Flats rats wandering around alone—that fat-ass they called Beet, maybe, or that little queer Emory. He imagined the look they would get in their eyes as they realized what was about to happen to them, and then he imagined chasing them downtown and into a blind alleyway. He imagined the feel of their faces on his fist, the sound and smell of blood splattering on brick, the whimper as they went still and silent, helpless against his fury.

  He was so caught up in the ecstasy of his daydream that he was startled when a voice called to him.

  “Looks like quite a boo-boo you have there.”

  Rick turned to find a young man standing on the broad porch of a house, leaning casually against a wooden column. He was big and muscular, maybe a couple of years older than Rick, with long, dark brown hair, weird blue eyes and a smartass grin on his face. And he was one of those pretty boys girls like Maggie and her stupid friends would drool over. Rick disliked him instantly. He also disliked the disquieting fact that when he’d passed the house just a second before, there’d been no one standing there. It was like the guy appeared out of nowhere. In fact, Rick thought as he looked up at the huge, battered three-story Victorian structure, he’d never noticed the house before, either. And he’d been down this street plenty of times.

  “What are you looking at?” he challenged.

  “Your arm,” the guy said, nodding toward Rick’s cast. “What happened to it?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Gracefully, the guy hopped down from the porch and walked across the lawn and right up to Rick, who was surprised to find him every bit as broad shouldered, and even a little taller than he was. His face only inches away from Rick’s, the guy stared at him for a moment.

  “I could fix it for you,” he whispered.

  Rick took a step back. “Yeah, right. Are you a doctor?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Rick said. “I’ve already seen two doctors—that’s why it’s in a cast, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I noticed.” The young man smiled at him. “But you can get rid of that cast in time to play in the game on Friday.” His voice was magnetic, and Rick wanted to believe him.

  “That’
s impossible,” he said, still resisting. “The doctor said I have to be patient and sit out the season.”

  “But you don’t, Rick. What would you do for me, if I could heal your arm today?”

  Rick looked into those sharp blue eyes, and somehow he knew this guy was telling the truth. He felt the world go dim around him. He didn’t even wonder how the guy knew his name. For a second, it felt like everything around them disappeared and it was only the two of them and no one else—no one else in the world.

  “I’d do anything,” Rick said. “I swear.”

  

  The instant Zhai regained consciousness, he lashed out. Instead of striking his mysterious Chinese attacker, however, his hand slammed into some sort of pan. It fell to the ground with a clatter. Someone gasped. Zhai was on his feet now, spinning left then right, looking for the enemy. Instead, he found a long row of windows, a weird and eclectic collection of pictures, stuffed animals and cooking implements, and a beautiful, petite red-haired girl, staring at him with wide-eyed concern.

  Kate.

  “It’s all right,” she was saying, her adorable Irish lilt so soothing. “There, now. It’s all right. You’re goin’ to be fine.”

  Zhai squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, trying to clear the fog and figure out how he’d gotten there. His shirt was off. There was a shallow pan lying on the floor of the railroad car beside him, and soapy water all over the floor. He felt something running down the bridge of his nose; when he touched the spot, his fingers came away bloody. He had terrible pain in both his hands, as if he’d stuck each of them in a hornet’s nest. They were both wrapped in thick, white gauze.

  He was totally confused, but as Kate approached him he relaxed a little and allowed her to help him up and lead him to her bed. It was neatly made and looked like three mattresses stacked atop each other.

  “What happened?” he asked as he sat down, his voice thick and his mind groggy.

  “I thought perhaps you could tell me. I was on my way to the market and found you lying in the middle of the tracks with your face all bruised and bleeding, so I brought you back here to look after you.”

  “How?” he asked. She was such a little thing he didn’t see how she could have carried him.

  “You made it most of the way on your own—well, leanin’ on me a bit. And then I had to drag you. You don’t remember?”

  He shook his head. “Those guys—in the derby hats. Did you see them?”

  “Two Chinese men?” she asked, and he nodded. It made his head hurt. “I saw them walking around earlier with a couple other fellows, but they’ve all gone now.”

  Zhai exhaled, trying to steady himself, to get his bearings.

  He’d been fighting with one of his father’s mysterious visitors, who had punched him in the face and knocked him out. Apparently, they’d dragged him into the middle of the tracks and left him there. That explained his headache. What he didn’t understand was what was wrong with his hands—why they were bandaged and why they ached so much. He looked down at them.

  “Do they hurt?” Kate asked.

  “Yeah.” Zhai began unwinding the bandage on his left hand, with a sudden pang of dread about what he might find there.

  “Your poor hands,” Kate said. “I hope this doesn’t make it hard for you to play your fiddle.”

  “No, I’m sure I’ll still be able to play,” Zhai said, then froze, the strip of gauze still between his fingers. For the last couple weeks, he’d come down to the train graveyard with a little gift for Kate, every time hiding among the trees and playing his violin for her. So far, he hadn’t gotten up the nerve to reveal himself. Now, he realized with horror, he’d just given himself away. The thought that she might be disappointed to learn he was her secret admirer made him want to shrink into the fetal position, but when he looked up at her, she was beaming.

  “I hope so,” she said. “I do love your music.”

  Hoping she wouldn’t see him color, Zhai again started unwinding his bandages. When he’d pulled the last bit of gauze away, he stared down at the back of his left hand, utterly bewildered. Frantically, he pulled the bandages off his right hand, too. On the back of each of his hands, someone had tattooed a Chinese symbol.

  奴

  “What do they mean?” Kate asked slowly, a note of apprehension in her voice.

  Zhai stared down at his stinging skin, his head swimming with confusion. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

  

  Rick wondered how things had ended up this way: he’d gone out looking for a fight, and wound up sitting on a dusty, antique-looking couch in some random guy’s dimly lit living room, sipping a glass of the best wine he’d ever tasted, and waiting for this stranger who wasn’t even a doctor to fix his broken arm.

  The longhaired guy had poured the wine for Rick and then disappeared up the stairs. Meanwhile, the sun had gone down, and in the dying light, the house that had seemed eerie and dead to begin with was starting to get even creepier as twilight settled in. It was weird—everything looked a little fuzzy. Now and then, out of the corner of his eye, he’d think he saw something move in the shadows, but when he looked there was nothing there. He didn’t mind that, necessarily. Being a little scared gave him a dose of the adrenaline he loved, something he craved beyond everything else. But now he was starting to get bored.

  He looked at his Movado watch, now starting to get pissed off, then he tipped the glass up, swallowed the last of his wine, and stood. It didn’t make any sense for him to be there in the first place.

  Screw this guy, Rick thought. I’m out of here. This whole idea is stupid.

  But Pretty Boy was leaning against the arched doorway leading to the hall. Rick hadn’t heard him enter.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asked. He was smiling, but there was no amusement in his tone. He moved gracefully into the room, almost gliding, Rick thought, like he was wearing those skate-sneaker things. Only he wasn’t—he was wearing expensive leather boots. The light of the dying day faded even more, and shadows seemed to be clustering around the stranger, as if trying to hide him from the light.

  “I’ve never seen you around before,” Rick said, growing more nervous by the minute—and that made him angrier. He wasn’t afraid of anything, but all he wanted to do at that moment was get the hell out of there. “Are you from around here?”

  “No. I did visit a few times, as a child.”

  Rick heard the click of a lighter and a small flame lent an unnatural luminescence to the shadows. The young man took a candelabrum off the mantle and lit the five candles it held and then put it on the mantle again. A giant shiver raced down Rick’s spine and he felt like he was about to break out in goose bumps. Pretty Boy reached out to shake Rick’s hand and Rick found his grip surprisingly strong. His hands were broad but soft and well groomed. Not a laborer by any means. On one hand he wore a large onyx ring.

  “Now, let me introduce myself properly,” he said. “I am Orias.”

  “Yeah? Cool,” said Rick. “How did you know my name?”

  “Ah—no mystery there,” said his host. “You’re Middleburg’s one claim to fame, I hear. I’ve read about your prowess on the sports page of the Middleburg Chronicle. Now tell me, Rick. What happened to your arm? Were you injured in a game?”

  “No,” Rick said. “A damned wall fell on me.”

  “A shame,” said Orias and his sympathy sounded genuine. “And right in the middle of football season.”

  “You said you could fix it?” He was hopeful, even though he was starting to think this guy was running some sort of scam.

  “What you said before—that you’d give anything to finish out the season. Did you mean that?”

  “Damn right, I did.”

  Orias stared at him a moment, a strange light in his eyes. “Well then. Let’s get started. Would you lie down on the s
ofa, please?”

  “Hey—wait,” Rick said. “No offense, but when I said I’d do anything, I didn’t mean—look, bro, I’m straight.”

  Orias laughed and the sound was deep, rich and full. “None taken,” he said. “So am I.”

  “I mean, not that I have anything against them, you know,” Rick said. But he did. He hated queers with a passion. Almost as much as he hated Raphael Kain and the rest of those Flats rats. But for some reason he didn’t want to admit it to this guy.

  “Neither do I,” Orias assured him with a broad smile. “Now, do you want me to fix your arm or not?” He gestured to the couch.

  Rick lay down, wincing as his arm shifted positions.

  Orias reached into his pocket and withdrew a small leather pouch. “Open your mouth,” he commanded.

  “You sure you can fix my arm?” Rick asked. He was growing more uneasy by the minute.

  “I can fix just about anything,” Orias said. “Now open your mouth.”

  This time, Rick obeyed and Orias dumped the contents of the pouch—a chalky powder—down his throat. Instantly, Rick felt like he was choking. He coughed, and a little puff of dust came out of his mouth.

  “Keep your mouth closed,” Orias ordered, suddenly sounding fierce.

  The stuff tasted horrible, like Rick imagined the guts of a piece of old roadkill would taste. He wretched and tried to spit it out, but his lips seemed to be plastered shut. The paste solidified into a thick, rubbery mass that expanded to fill his whole mouth. He felt a moment of panic, and then Orias reached over and touched his injured arm.

  Rick heard a dull cracking sound and the cast fell away. From another pocket, Orias took a small, glass vial filled with red liquid. To Rick, it looked like blood. Orias pulled the little stopper out and then he dipped his fingertip into the tiny bottle. With the blood or whatever it was, he drew something on Rick’s forehead.

  This is all way too freaking weird, Rick thought. Whatever was in his mouth was still expanding, moving down his throat, constricting his airway, and he couldn’t spit it out. He couldn’t open his lips at all; it was like they were superglued shut. He tried to sit up, planning to run away, but when he rolled over he realized there was nothing beneath him!