The Warrior Heir
Page 29

“Go away, Lobeck,” Jack said wearily. “Forget about it, will you?”
“I'll forget about it when I've had a shot of my own,” Lobeck lunged forward, swinging at Jack; but the combination of the beer and Jack's quick sidestep sent his fist sailing past Jack's right ear. Like a large truck, it took a while for Lobeck to get turned around again. “Stand still and fight!” he bellowed.
“I don't want to fight you, Garrett,” Jack replied. He shot a sideways glance at Leonard and Harkness, to see if they were going to join in. They were blocking his path, but just watching for now. He jerked his head at Ellen. “Ellen. Go. Please.”
Ellen clenched her fists. “Don't be idiots. Jack's your teammate. What's the matter with you?” She looked ready to throw a punch herself.
You're not helping, Jack thought. If there was going to be a fight, he didn't particularly want Ellen there to see it.
“Oh, so now his girlfriend is going to protect him.” Leonard laughed, a harsh, wheezing sound. Sensing blood in the water, they were beginning to circle, like sharks in a feeding frenzy. It wasn't looking good.
Lobeck charged him again. Jack managed to avoid the blow a second time, but then someone grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms. It must have been Harkness. “Hit him once, and then let's go.” The voice came over his shoulder, along with a noxious whiff of beer.
Lobeck was on his way, a murderous look on his face, and Jack had a feeling he wouldn't miss this time. He remembered a confusion charm, something from his lessons with Nick. He spoke the words quickly, under his breath, and Lobeck's mad-dog expression turned to one of bewilderment. He looked from Jack to Harkness and back again. “Now, what was I doing?” he asked, completely clueless. He started stumbling aimlessly down the sidewalk.
“Hey!” Harkness called after him. “Are you gonna hit him or what?”
Lobeck swiveled back around. “What?” His bleary eyes took in the scene. “Oh, yeah.” He headed back in Jack's direction.
Great. Jack wrenched free of Harkness and turned in time to see Ellen slam both feet into Harkness's right kneecap. Soccer training paid off, apparently.
Harkness yelped and fell back, clutching at his leg; but by then Lobeck was incoming. His right fist smashed into Jack's cheek and right eye with stunning force, and then his left, and right again plowed into Jack's middle. Jack saw stars and felt blood flow, warm and wet, into his nose. It was as if the bones in his face had been driven into his eyes. He stumbled forward a step, desperately sucking in air to replace what had been driven out of him. And then rage and instinct took over.
He swept his arm forward, fingers extended, and a concussion of air pounded into Lobeck's midsection, sending him flying to land, hard, on the blacktop.
Anger still flared in Jack, and power, white and hot. He snatched up a large tree branch, holding it across his body like a quarterstaff, and advanced on Lobeck, who lay on his back, momentarily stunned. As awareness returned, disbelief crowded onto his face, and then fright. He pushed up on his elbows, scuffling with his feet, trying to scramble backward out of danger. He came up against the low stone wall that ran along the perimeter of the parking lot. Not a tall barrier, but tall enough to trap him. Jack stood over Lobeck, feet braced apart. A shimmering flame ran along his weapon as he raised it above his head, turning it vertical for the killing blow.
“Jack! No!” Ellen's voice cut into his blood rage. He shook his head fiercely, focused on the task at hand. Lobeck's eyes were wide and his mouth was moving, pleading or praying, he couldn't tell.
“Jack! Oh, God! Jack!” Ellen gripped his elbow and wrenched his arm back with amazing strength.
Self-awareness flooded in. Dismayed, he flung the burning branch away from him. It flew end over end in a high arc, clear across the parking lot, a flaming pinwheel that extinguished itself in the lake. He drew in a painful breath and turned back to the others.
Harkness sat on the blacktop, doubled over, holding his leg, swearing softly. Leonard gaped, openmouthed at Jack and Lobeck. He showed no eagerness to mix in. Ellen stood as if rooted to the ground, hands raised, face pale and horrified. Lobeck propped up on his elbows, looking like the end of a very bad day. For a long moment, nobody moved.
Jack's eye was already swelling, so he could scarcely force it open, and blood poured from his nose and welled up inside his mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, and it came away bloody. “Let's go,” he muttered to Ellen, using the other hand to take her by the arm. She gasped and recoiled from his touch, and he quickly released her. “I'm … I'm okay now. Promise. Let's get out of here.”
None of the three boys made any move to stop them.
The walk to Ellen's house was miserable. His face was on fire and every breath hurt. He'd failed at his most important task: keeping his magical powers under cover and under control. Ellen was probably scared to death, and no wonder. He had come within a heartbeat of killing a drunken Garrett Lobeck in a street fight. What was he turning into?
Perhaps his use of power had already exposed him. His luck couldn't hold out forever. It was a beautiful night under a full moon, the party at Lakeside just letting out. Anyone could have been walking along the lakeshore and seen what had happened. He looked about warily. Nothing moved on the quiet street but him and Ellen. Their long shadows extended out ahead of them, collected under the streetlights, and then stretched out again.
There were at least four witnesses. The human mind had a remarkable ability both to discount what it sees and make reality conform to expectation. And Lobeck and his friends had been well wasted on beer. But this was the second time he'd lost control with Lobeck. Hard to imagine he'd get away with it again.
Ellen was another story. She was perfectly sober and nobody's fool.
She didn't ask him any questions. In fact, she said nothing at all on the way down Walnut Street. Just walked ahead fiercely, head down, hands in her pockets.
“Ellen, listen, I—”
“Shut up, Jack.”
So Jack occupied himself by thinking about what he was going to tell his mother.
By the time they arrived on Ellen's front porch, Jack had pretty much decided against attempting a kiss good night under the circumstances, with Ellen feeling the way she did, and with his face in the condition it was in. He'd been planning on it before the fight broke out.
Ellen glanced uneasily over her shoulder into the dark interior of the apartment. She seemed painfully eager for him to leave. Jack figured this wasn't a good time for an introduction.
“Good night, Ellen,” he said, the words muffled in his damaged mouth. “I'm sorry about what happened. I had a great time up till then.”
To his surprise, Ellen leaned in and brushed her lips over his undamaged cheek. “Good night, Jack,” she said. “I'm sorry, too.” Then she disappeared into the building.
When he arrived back on Jefferson Street, he had little hope his mother would have gone to bed. She'd been at the game, and he expected she would wait up for him for a little celebration and a rehash of the match. He was right. The Downey house was ablaze with lights. A big sign posted on the front door said, “Welcome home, hero!” He didn't feel much like a hero just at that moment. He reached for the knob, but the door opened before he could touch it. And the person in the doorway was Linda Downey.
“Jack!” she said, sounding delighted, and then “Jack!” again, horrified, when she caught a clear look at his face under the porch light. Then Becka was there, and the welcome home party turned into a first-aid and interrogation session.
“So you mean to tell me you were fighting?You know I've always told you to walk away from a fight.” Becka had always had strong ties to the peace movement. Jack wondered what she would say if she could see what he had been doing in the meadow.
“Believe me, I tried to walk away. I don't usually pick fights with people twice my size.”
“Oh, I don't know, Jack,” Aunt Linda said. “You look like you might be able to hold your own against almost anybody.” She had been staring fixedly at him, and at first he had assumed it was because of his swollen eye.
“That's not helping, Linda,” Becka snapped.
“There were three of them,” Jack explained to his aunt.
“Was it someone from Harrison?” Becka asked, referring to the other soccer team. “Or Harrison fans?”
“It was Garrett Lobeck and his friends. They're on my team.”
“Then why would they want to beat you up?” Becka looked mystified. “Especially after that play you made?”
“It's hard to explain,” Jack muttered. “It's kind of complicated.”
Becka rose to her feet. “Well, I'm calling Bill Lobeck right now. I'm tired of those sons of his terrorizing this town.” She reached for the phone.
“I wouldn't do that, Mom,” Jack said hastily. “I mean, I'm not sure how Garrett's doing right now.” Both women swiveled to look at him. “I kind of knocked him down. Then we left.”
“Who is we?” Linda asked.
“Remember Ellen Stephenson, Mom? I was walking her home.”
Becka was ready to call somebody. “Maybe we should call Ellen's parents, just to make sure she's all right,” she suggested. “She must have been pretty frightened.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say she was frightened, exactly,” Jack said. Except of me, he thought. He almost smiled at the memory of Ellen going after Harkness, but it made his face hurt. “Listen. I don't think he'll bother me again. I'd really like to forget about the whole thing. I'm sure Garrett feels the same way.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Aunt Linda said quickly. “Besides, we're having a party.” She pointed to a large platter of shrimp on the table and bottles of wine and sparkling grape juice in ice buckets. A huge cake on the sideboard was inscribed with “We Are the Champions!” and a soccer ball.