Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Damian fought savagely to free himself. “You’re pond scum, Davis! You’re the fungus that feeds on pond scum. When I get ahold of you, you’re going to wish you’d never been born!”

  “What did you do to him, man?” one of his friends asked me.

  I shrugged, as clueless as they were.

  The hall was beginning to fill with bystanders. One or two began calling for a fight. “Come on, Mendoza, let him go. Let’s see some action!” But the two boys—I recognized them as Damian’s basketball teammates—held his arms securely. “We’re going to be late to PE, amigo. It’s not worth getting expelled over five bucks.”

  The Titan continued to scream threats and obscenities as they dragged him away. Soon after, the hallway emptied as my classmates drifted away with the air of being cheated out of the season’s best rock concert. I slumped onto the bench.

  It wasn’t as though I was afraid of Damian. He was nothing compared to the enemies I’d defeated last spring. I could easily have sent him into eternity with one stroke of the flaming sword I carried hidden on my person at all times, but there were strict rules about who I could use it against. If my opponent wouldn’t turn to green goo with one slice of the blade, chances were pretty good they weren’t on the go-ahead list.

  But Damian’s behavior had been so odd. I wanted to discuss it with Elena.

  The bell rang, and the secretary popped her head out the door. “Why are you still sitting there, young man? Get to class. Don’t you know tardies are a serious offense?”

  With a heavy sigh, I retrieved my bag from the corner in which it landed and headed for my first hour under the woman’s disapproving eye. My discussion with Elena would have to wait.

  Elena Camila Velasquez Cartagena was a lean, hard-fighting cowgirl from Montana with roots in the Dominican. We’d been thrown together soon after my arrival and pitted against a four hundred-year-old pirate set on world domination. That had been an eye-opening venture into the supernatural world of angels and their adversaries, none of whom you’d want to invite home to a backyard barbeque. I filled an entire journal with our adventures and the bizarre life lessons they had taught me. Our success had depended a great deal on Elena’s tenacity, but it did little to tame the lash of her tongue, which was one of the chief reasons we hadn’t hung out together much after our mission.

  At lunchtime, I spotted Elena sitting at a table in a circle of her friends. The seat beside her was empty, and she glanced up at the cafeteria doorway every few seconds. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t watching for me, but I sat down next to her anyway. Actually, I caught the toe of my sneaker and sprawled across the table, knocking over a carton of chocolate milk and sending three girls squealing to their feet.

  One girl with a large, purplish stain seeping across the front of her blouse gave me a shove. “Why don’t you learn to use your feet, freak?”

  That was the second reason Elena and I didn’t hang out. Her friends didn’t have much use for my ineptitude.

  “Sorry,” I cringed.

  “Do you practice these moves, Davis, or is the gift natural?” Elena snapped as she helped blot up the chocolate lake.

  “Elena, I have to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait? We’re talking strategy for tonight’s game.” Basketball was currently all the rage at Zander, with the end of the regular season fast approaching and both men’s and women’s teams doing well.

  “No, it can’t wait, Elena. I really have to talk to you.”

  She glanced up at the urgency in my voice. “Okay. Let’s go to that empty table over there.”

  “Why do you put up with this little dork?” asked another of the girls.

  Elena tossed down her handful of soggy napkins. “Sorry, this won’t take long,” she told her teammates.

  We looked quite the pair as we moved to an empty table: Elena, with her long limbs, short, curly hair, and skin the color of toasted pecans, and me, blond as Goldilocks and sporting the physique of a preadolescent girl. I had hoped by ninth grade I might enjoy a burst of testosterone. Though my voice had become horribly uncontrollable, Elena still towered over me by a good six inches.

  As we walked the few paces, I saw Elena glance again at the door. “Have you talked to him yet today?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Prince Charming, of course,” I answered with a flutter of eyelashes.

  “You really are a dork, Davis.”

  I grinned, and we settled across the table from each other. “This better be good,” she threatened.

  I fingered the bruise that had blossomed on my cheek and switched to English. “Your boyfriend tried to kill me this morning.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m not joking. He tried to charge me admission at the front door and busted my face when I wouldn’t pay up. If Mendoza and Castillo hadn’t pulled him off me, you’d be coming to visit me in the hospital this evening.”

  “What’d you do to him?”

  I chuckled. “Are you kidding? I don’t poke sticks at sleeping grizzlies. He just started spewing junk at me when I walked in the door.”

  I saw the confusion in her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like Damian.”

  I leaned in. “That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you. It’s like he was bewitched or something. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Last night. We ditched Luis, and Damian drove us to that new pizza place, Giovetti’s, because we both have games next week on Valentine’s Day.”

  Luis was the chauffeur, which brings up the third reason we didn’t hang out: Elena was way out of my league. Her father owned a sugar cane plantation, and his investment portfolio was thicker than my mattress.

  “Did he seem normal to you?”

  A dreamy smile touched her lips. “Yeah,” she sighed.

  I forced myself not to make retching noises.

  At that moment Mendoza and Castillo, the two guys who had saved my butt that morning, took the seats on either side of Elena. “We were hoping we’d find you two,” Castillo said.

  Elena grabbed his arm. “Where is Damian? Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine,” he assured her. “The principal sent him home for the rest of the day.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Mendoza shrugged. “He just freaked out. One minute he was fine, the next he was trying to kill this guy,” he said, jerking a thumb in my direction. “We hauled him into PE and shoved him under the shower to cool off. He sort of went slack. When we let him out, he started asking us all these questions.”

  Castillo picked up the story. “He didn’t know where he was or how he got there. He had no memory of the encounter with Davis. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything since leaving the pizza joint last night. He didn’t even remember dropping you off afterward. He asked us to make sure you were okay and to offer Davis his apologies.”

  “What could make him act that way?” Elena asked, worry crinkling the corners of her eyes.

  Castillo shrugged. “The school nurse thinks it’s stress-related. You know, exams last month and now the playoffs coming up.”

  “No way,” Elena replied. “Damian breezed through exams. And he loves playing basketball.”

  “We don’t think so, either,” Mendoza answered. “No one has a cooler head under pressure.”

  “Whatever’s going on, it’s not stress,” Castillo agreed.

  “Thanks, you guys. I appreciate your coming to tell us,” Elena said.

  They nodded and left for the lunch line.

  Elena turned to me, her face a stony mask. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Really?” I lifted one eyebrow. “I don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “You think this has something to do with the supernatural. Well, you can get that idea out of your head right now, because it doesn’t.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t?” I asked.

  “How do you know it does?”

  “I never said it does. You s
aid I thought it does.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “Oh, come on, Davis. I can read it in your eyes. The fact that this is so out of character for Damian, the fact that he’s my boyfriend, the fact that he went after you. You think he’s been tampered with to get to us, don’t you?”

  I pursed my lips. “I hadn’t thought it through that far, but you do make a convincing case.”

  “They’re coincidences,” she said, emphasizing the word. “There’s a perfectly logical answer for this somewhere.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. At any rate, there doesn’t seem to be anything to worry about now. I’m sure Damian’s parents will sort this out and get him whatever help he needs. I just wanted you to know.”

  That conversation marks the last moment I was ever fooled into thinking that I led a normal life. Had I foreseen what would soon fill the pages of my new journal, I probably would have locked myself in a bank vault and stayed there till Wasitters sprouted wings.

  Lesson #2

  Regard Double Assassination Attempts as a Red Flag

  Elena rejoined her friends, and I hurried to my fourth hour drama class—the only one I really enjoyed. When I was a little kid I’d often pretend to be someone I wasn’t, because whoever I was pretending to be was always so much cooler than who I really was. Now the Zander Academy Players, of which I was a part, were preparing for a grand spring production—a presentation of the Wizard of Oz.

  I entered the auditorium, crossed to the rear of the stage where a number of huge, rollaway sets were stored, and broke open my sack lunch. I leaned back against a six-foot replica of Snoopy’s red doghouse. To my right rose a range of plaster mountains, and on my left, a plywood windmill stoically awaited Don Quixote’s next charge. I chewed my sandwich and let some of the day’s tension ease off my shoulders. This room was my sanctuary.

  Zander was an elite school on the outskirts of Santo Domingo that attracted the city’s wealthier citizens. It also attracted several expatriate families like mine who had come to the Dominican as the result of job transfers. Students from Scotland, Germany, Argentina, Japan, and the United States—somehow we had all found our way into the drama club. Every fourth hour we filled the backstage room like props taken from different productions. It was one place a misfit could fit in.

  I popped a whole chocolate chip cookie into my mouth and lobbed the crumpled bag into a trash can at the edge of the stage. I glanced at my watch. Five more minutes and my classmates would be joining me to finalize our set designs. To kill time, I sat down at the clunky piano and picked out the theme from Gilligan’s Island.

  A figure materialized sitting cross-legged on the top of the piano. It was a man wearing penny loafers, rolled up jeans, and a tight T-shirt. His hair was slicked back in a ducktail.

  Some people might have freaked out at the sudden apparition, but I was accustomed to my guardian angel’s abrupt appearances and his strange sense of fashion. “Hi, Mike,” I said, glancing up. “You’re a semester too late. Tryouts for Grease were last September.”

  “Very funny,” he answered with an injured air. “It figures that you wouldn’t recognize the man who birthed rock and roll.”

  I stopped playing and stared at him blankly.

  “Elvis Presley!” he huffed and jumped to the floor with a series of twitchy, knee-jerk movements. I thought he’d been stung by a bee. It took me a moment to figure out those were actually dance moves.

  A frown creased my forehead. “I thought Elvis wore sideburns and those sparkly white jumpsuits.”

  Mike shook his head like I was a hopeless case. “Of course he did—in the 70s. This was his debut look.”

  “Oh, right.” Mike’s odd fascination with dead musicians used to really bother me, but he’d gone underground since last spring. Now he only made himself visible to me or Elena during the school day. I wasn’t complaining. My reputation was in enough trouble without being seen with an Elvis impersonator. In all that time, however, he hadn’t gotten any more adept at his real job—guarding me.

  “Say,” I asked with a touch of irritation, “where were you this morning when Damian Martinez tried to send me to an early grave?”

  He froze, his hand creeping up to tug at his shirt collar as it always did when he got busted. “Er—” He gave a nervous cough. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. When was this?”

  He was saved from having to explain himself by the tapping of heels as my teacher crossed the stage.

  “Good afternoon, Taylor.” Señora Campo smiled as she caught sight of me. “Are you the first one here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She set a tote bag full of classroom materials beside the piano, unable to see Mike. “Then you can help me lug the basket for the hot air balloon onto the stage. Today a few of you can start working out how to make it fly.”

  Mike took advantage of the interruption. “I’m going to go get some work done on those new files headquarters sent to me.” I scowled at him, but he knew I couldn’t say anything without looking delusional in front of my teacher. With a grin, he vanished as silently as he had appeared.

  The balloon basket was lightweight wicker, but it was bulky. By the time Señora Campo and I navigated it out of the crowded storage area, my classmates had begun to arrive. Carissa and Monique entered first, chattering in different accents and giggling as girls will. Doug came in right behind them.

  Douglas McDonald hailed from Scotland, complete with a heavy brogue, a love of plaid, and the brawny physique of a caber toss champion. But as he came to Multicultural Day in full Highland dress—a move that labeled him a geek for all time—we found ourselves in the same social class. He was an amicable sort, so he and I had become pretty good friends.

  Doug and I had teamed up to design the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West. I waited for him to get a little closer before asking if he’d rather finish painting the set or volunteer to hang the hot air balloon basket.

  He spotted me about halfway across the stage. I expected his usual grin and a hearty “Hou are ye?” Instead, his face darkened. He lowered his head and charged, ramming it into my stomach with the force of a stampeding bull.

  I heard my breath whoosh out of my body as we hurtled backward and slammed into the castle. Fists and broken chunks of rampart rained down on me. My mouth was opening and closing, but my lungs had forgotten how to suck in oxygen. Feebly, I tried to defend myself.

  I heard a scream from somewhere far away. Moments later my assailant was being pulled off me. I slumped against the piano and gulped in great breaths of air.

  Señora Campo burst through the backstage curtain, taking in the scene at a glance. “What is going on here? Douglas, I can’t believe this of you!”

  He didn’t seem to hear, or maybe he just didn’t care. His face was distorted, and his dilated eyes were fixed on me. He was the image of an ancient Highland chieftain about to massacre an enemy village.

  “Doug?” I wheezed, my voice hitching up an octave.

  The sound sent him into another round of superhuman rage. He wrenched free and launched himself at me again. I braced myself and met him squarely, but he had forty pounds on me. His momentum hurtled us into what was left of the castle and splintered it into toothpicks. We tumbled through the curtain, a writhing, grappling mass of flesh, and took out a rack of costumes before Doug caught me against the giant doghouse and began crushing my windpipe.

  I kneed him in the groin and broke away. Jenny Mitchell, unaware of our struggle, chose that moment to enter the stage carrying the bucket of water we used to rinse out paintbrushes. Doug tackled me, we slammed into Jenny, and the bucket of water drenched all three of us.

  Instantly, Doug let go and stood with a dazed look on his face. “Taylor?” he asked. “Whit happened? Ye dinna look so guid.”

  I snorted. “I bet I don’t look so good. You just beat the living crap out of me!”

  He frowned. “Whit are ye talkin’ aboot? Ye and I, we’re amigos.
”

  If you want a language challenge, try speaking Spanish with a Scotsman.

  I rubbed my neck. “You got some way of demonstrating affection, buddy.”

  Señora Campo approached then, her face stern. “I don’t know what that is about, boys, but I’ve already called the office. I want both of you—”

  Before she could even finish her sentence, Erich Bauer, a lanky kid from California, charged into the back of the auditorium. “Davis, I’m going to kill you!” he screamed, leaping down the center aisle.

  I groaned.

  Before he could carry out his threat, three of my classmates ran interference and held him off, not without some effort. The teacher looked at me quizzically.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea why I’m on everyone’s hit list today, but he may snap out of it if we stick his head under the drinking fountain.”

  Señora Campo considered the puddle on the floor and nodded approval. Erich struggled all the way, but eventually he was overpowered. My schoolmates had never enjoyed class more.

  After a thorough ducking, Erich stood docilely in the hallway, as dazed and confused as Doug. On friendly terms once more, the three of us trooped down to the office and had a heck of a time explaining what none of us understood ourselves. We were confined to the office until the principal figured out what to do with us.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of fourth hour. Erich, Doug, and I remained in our seats watching the hallway teem with students. Just as the crowds began to thin, Elena came sprinting down the corridor and burst through the office door. “I heard what happened,” she panted.

  She pointed at Erich and Doug. “Taylor, these guys were both at Giovetti’s last night!”

  Lesson #3

  Girls. Make. No. Sense.

  “I can’t believe it!” my dad exclaimed, slapping down a copy of the New York Times. “Washington is going to kill us with these tax hikes.”

  “We don’t live in America anymore, dear,” my mother reminded him from where she labored over a saucepan of macaroni and cheese.