The Warrior Heir
Page 26

“Aaaaaaah!” Jack flung the mirror against the wall. It did not break, but slid down behind the bookcase.
“What did you see?”
“I saw some guy attack my mother, demanding to know where I was. Then she killed herself.”
“Are you sure it was your mother?”
“Don't you think I'd know?” Jack shuddered. He retrieved the mirror from behind the bookcase and set it facedown on the table. “It's not even safe to look in the mirror anymore.”
“How was she dressed?”
Jack considered. “Like … well, in some kind of period costume.”
“So. Perhaps an ancestor then, who only resembles your mother. The mirror will try to tell you the things you need to know. But you have to interpret what you see.”
“Look. I don't need to see that, okay?”
“All right, Jack. We'll let it be for now.”
Jack tried to follow Snowbeard's advice in the days that followed, the part about focusing on the job he had to do. He didn't see that he had much choice but to press on. The worst part was the dreams. Jack began to put off going to bed until he was absolutely exhausted. Every night he struggled through battles with traders and monsters, friends and family who turned on him and sold him to the highest bidder. His friends, his teachers, relatives, neighbors, all circulated through his nightmares, playing different roles. During the day he felt jumpy and irritable, always watching his back.
His relationship with his neighbors had changed. He had begun to realize that all of Jefferson Street had a stake in him. When Mercedes waved at him from her front garden, he thought of the soft-spun vest next to his skin. When Iris brought snow peas to Becka, she smiled at him encouragingly, asked how he was doing, if he needed anything. Blaise made him a pair of gauntlets, trimmed in silver, engraved with the words strength through virtue. He felt alternately safe and smothered in the fortress of Jefferson Street.
Something peculiar was happening to Jack's body. His shirts became tight across the chest and arms, and his jeans snug in the thighs. He told his mother he had begun a weightlifting program at school. She took him out to buy new clothes twice in as many months. Sometimes he would stare at himself in the mirror after his shower, transfixed. Jack had always been lean and physically fit, but now he was confronted with a muscular stranger.
He took to wearing flannel shirts and baggy jeans to hide the metamorphosis, which worked as long as the weather was cool. It didn't help when he was out on the soccer field, or in the locker room. It would have been funny if Jack weren't so apprehensive. Here he was trying to hide what most boys his age would be happy to show off. I look like a poster boy for steroids, he thought. He considered all the potions he was taking and wondered if he could pass a urine test.
Soccer, at least, was definitely going better, now that he didn't have to worry about blowing anyone off the field. Not that it wasn't tempting sometimes. Garrett Lobeck seemed to be regaining his old arrogance where Jack was concerned. He still blamed Jack for his failure to make varsity. And Leesha's continuing interest in Jack didn't help. Wary of losing control, Jack did his best to avoid a confrontation. Naturally, Lobeck saw this as a sign of weakness.
Jack was playing better than he ever had. He was stronger, more aggressive, and quicker on his feet—more willing to take risks. It seemed the qualities that went into warrioring were just as useful in playing less deadly games. Jack's success didn't improve Lobeck's mood any.
Ironically, Jack's star seemed to be tracking upward on the Trinity High School social chart. These days, his locker was decorated before every game, and Jack had his own private cheering section. Girls Jack had known all his life found him suddenly and totally fascinating.
He was seeing a lot of Ellen, but always in a crowd. On the days he didn't meet with Hastings, he often stopped in at Corcoran's after practice. Ellen had become a regular there since she and Will began drilling the JV team.
Will and Ellen were good foils for each other. Will was endlessly patient with the least competent players, while Ellen played an aggressive, European-style, in-your-face game. Under their tutelage, team play improved dramatically. Even some of the varsity players had begun participating.
Will, Fitch, and Ellen had joined the Chaucerian Society, a medieval culture club Hastings had founded. They were planning a medieval banquet in an old theater downtown before school ended. Jack didn't participate. He was spending enough time with Leander Hastings as it was.
Jack was feeling more and more isolated by the burdens he carried and the secrets he kept, by mental and physical exhaustion and the unrelenting fear of exposure.
One afternoon, Jack and Will and Fitch lingered at Corcoran's after a win over McKinley. Ellen had been absent from school again, and Jack found himself worrying about her health. She'd seemed fine the day before.
Leesha had just left, having distributed invitations to her birthday party.
“Leesha still lusts after you, Jack,” Fitch commented. “The princess wants whatever she can't have.”
“Well, she'll have to get in line if she wants to make time with our Jack,” Will drawled. “I can't count the girls who have come to me asking who he likes. And I just don't know what to tell them.” He was sprawled back in his chair, long legs extended out in front of him. “You know Ellen's crazy about you.”
Jack sat up straighter. “What do you mean? Did she say something? She hasn't said anything to me. Seems like I never even get to talk to her.”
Will rolled his eyes. “She just can't deal with the competition. But seriously, Jack, we're just wondering what's going on.” He leaned forward. “There's something really different about you. Physically, you look great. You've put on a lot of muscle. And you're playing great— better than I can ever remember.”
Jack flinched and glanced around the restaurant. It was getting late, and the place was nearly empty. No one was sitting in a position to overhear.
“But it's like you're on another planet,” Will continued. “You don't even hear us half the time. And you're constantly studying or working out.”
Fitch had his pencil out and was sketching on a napkin. “You're never online at night anymore. One minute you're wired and the next you're falling asleep in class. I'd say you were in love, but girls throw themselves at you and you hardly notice. I wish you'd send some my way,” he added. Apparently he and Alison were on the outs again, and Jack hadn't known.
"We're wondering if this has anything to do with the graveyard thing,” Will said quietly.
Jack slumped down in his seat, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. He'd underestimated his two friends and their ability to strike so near the truth. Don't trust anybody, Aunt Linda had said. But she was the one who had involved Will and Fitch in the first place. As it turned out, he didn't have to say much.
Fitch nodded at Jack's lack of response, as if he'd confirmed it. He leaned back in his chair. “Has your aunt been back?”
Jack shook his head, not speaking.
“And you're not sleeping very well, I bet,” Will said.
“I guess this isn't something you can talk to your mother about,” Fitch said slowly.
Jack looked up sharply. Fitch's face was expressionless. Jack's friends were already in danger because of the episode at the graveyard and their relationship with him. And they had inherited no special gift. They had no magical weapons at their disposal. The less they knew, the better—for his sake as well as theirs.
“Look,” he said wearily. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But it's a problem I'm going to have to work out on my own.”
“I can't understand why we can't help you out with this,” Will said stubbornly. He was always confident that his size and good will and skills of diplomacy could solve any problem.
Fitch pulled out a handful of dollars and scooped up his check. “We're not matchmakers, and I have my own love life to worry about. But seems to me you're not particularly happy. Why don't you try to have a little fun for a change?” He pushed his chair back. “Couldn't hurt.”
Chapter Nine
The Bout
The next night Hastings drove Jack home from soccer practice to pick up his sword. He had the feeling that all of Jefferson Street was watching as they pulled up in the Volvo. To his surprise, Hastings turned off the ignition and followed Jack into the house. Becka looked up from her desk in the front parlor as they came in. She was barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair twisted into a clip on top of her head. She was working on her laptop with piles of papers all over the floor. She rose and came into the front hallway. “Hi, sweetheart. I didn't think you would be home so soon.” She gave Jack a quick kiss, looking over his shoulder at his tall companion.
Jack had hoped to be in and out of the house without being noticed. “Uh, this is Mr. Hastings. He is the new assistant principal I was telling you about. He's the one who's been helping me out with soccer.”
“Well, it's so nice to finally meet you,” Becka said graciously. “It has been kind of you to spend so much time working with Jack. I've been to some of the games, and I can see how much progress he's made.” She extended her hand.
Hastings took it in both of his and held on to it a few seconds too long. “Your son has a great deal of natural talent.” He took in every detail of Becka's appearance in his intense fashion, and then swept his gaze around the room. “I've enjoyed working with him,” he added.
Jack was anxious to get Hastings out of the house as quickly as possible. “I came back to pick up some stuff for practice,” he explained, though no one seemed to be listening. He took the stairs two at a time. He could hear Hastings's voice behind him.
“I can see that your son takes after you,” he was saying.
Jack removed the sword and scabbard from its box and managed to get it into the duffle bag from his closet. He added several towels from the linen closet for padding, and zipped it closed. When he came downstairs, Becka was leaning against the door frame, laughing at something Hastings had said, twisting a tendril of hair around her finger. The wizard was smiling, but Jack couldn't help but think there was something predatory in his posture.