by Келли Криг
“Victory party?” her dad echoed.
All at once, Gwen’s genius dawned on her.
“Ohh,” Isobel chimed in, sounding appropriately glum. “I forgot to respond. I haven’t been online much because I’ve been really busy trying to finish that English project, y’know?
Anyway, Gwen, I don’t think I can go.”
“What?” Gwen deflated, her face crumbling in an instant. For added emphasis, she let her arm slip from Dad’s shoulders, where it flopped against her side. “Why not? Didn’t you get the project done?”
Isobel shrugged. “I got it done. I mean, thanks to Dad. I just . . .” She sent a pitiful glance to her father. Yes, she thought, catching a glimmer of indecision in his eyes. They just had to play it up a little more. “I just don’t know if I can.”
“Oohhhh,” Gwen said, looking between Isobel and her dad, feigning sudden understanding.
“How can you have a victory party if your team’s losing?” her dad asked.
“Wait, we’re losing?” Gwen craned her neck in search of the scoreboard.
“Where’s this party going to be?”
Isobel sprang on her chance. “Omigosh, Dad, for real, can I go?”
“Yeah, Dad, for real, can she go?”
“I just asked where it was going to be—”
“My house,” Gwen said, “all-girls’ sleepover, no guys allowed.”
“Are your parents going to be there?”
“Oh, they’re there right now, setting up the karaoke machine.” Gwen mimed holding a microphone and swayed against Isobel’s father. “Fame! I’m gonna live forever—take it away, Mr. Lanley.”
Isobel’s dad set a hand on Gwen’s offered fist, gently pushing it down from his face. “Who else is going?”
Gwen pointed at the figure waiting on the bench. “She is.”
“Nikki is going?” he asked, looking at Isobel, surprised. “I thought you two were on the fritz.”
“Oh,” Isobel said. She saw Nikki rise from the bench and start over toward them, probably at hearing her name. Thinking fast, Isobel blurted, “We made up.”
“Nikki!” shouted Gwen. “You’re coming, right?”
“What?” she called back, eyeing Gwen’s getup.
“To the party,” Isobel said, nodding, trying to communicate meaning through her eyes. Despite her recent show of perceptiveness, Isobel couldn’t see Nikki picking up the clue phone to get the message. “You know,” Isobel went on, “the party Gwen’s having tonight.”
“You’re having a party?” Nikki asked, studying Gwen. “Hey, isn’t that Stevie’s sweatshirt?”
Uh-oh.
“Dad might let me go now,” said Isobel, nodding again. Lots of nodding.
Nikki’s eyes remained on Isobel’s, searching, things still not fully clicking. “Well . . . okay,” she said finally.
“Someone taking you there tonight?” he asked, checking the time on his cell phone.
Isobel felt a leap of joy in her chest. He was going to let her go.
“She can ride with me,” said Gwen. Good old Gwen. Good old brilliant, inventive, industrious Gwen.
“And Nikki can bring me home in the morning,” Isobel added.
He sighed, and she knew that his resolve had already crumbled. She launched up into a fit of jumping and squealing, forgetting for half a second that she wasn’t really going to a girls’
sleepover, that right now she was tricking him, lying to her dad after everything. Again. A stab of guilt grounded her.
“In that case,” he said, “I’m going to go ahead and get out of here. It doesn’t look like the score is going to change any time soon. Maybe I can catch the end of the U of K game on TV.
Think there’ll be any candy left on the porch?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Isobel said, trying to resurrect her smile. He held his arms open for a hug, and Isobel reached over the top of the gate and stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, pulling him tight and kissing his cheek.
“Be good and keep your phone on,” he said, shoving his own phone back into his pocket. “And don’t forget to check on Brad.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
He turned away and Isobel watched him as he went, blending into the crowd.
She felt her heart sink as she lowered her heels to the ground. She wished she could call him back, that she could tell him the truth. That he would believe her.
“Okay, for real,” Nikki said as soon as he was out of earshot. “What was that all about?”
After Isobel’s dad left, Gwen went off to change and meet up with Mikey in the parking lot. In the meantime, the squad took their position on the field, ready to once again perform the Nationals routine. Isobel, on the sidelines, waited for the music to start before telling Nikki she would be right back and sliding from the bench. She heard the familiar beats blast through the stadium speakers, and she couldn’t help mentally tracing through her moves.
She could hear the crowd’s cheering escalate (probably for the back tuck the squad did in a fanning wave), and slipped behind the brick siding of the home-side stands. She trailed her hand along the Hawk emblem painted over brick, moving more quickly now that she was out of direct sight, and hurried toward the entrance to the football locker room.
Coach Logan’s voice grated loudly from within. Could he still be yelling at the team?
Isobel drew up to the entrance and placed one hand on the archway, huddling up close to listen. She certainly didn’t have to strain to hear.
“Now I don’t know what you ballerinas are doing out there, but that scoreboard better change in this next quarter, or so help me, I’ll scout JV for replacements! And Borgon, I hope I don’t need to tell you again that when you catch the damn ball, you’re supposed to hold on to it! You got that? Is that clear? Now all of you, get your butts out there and turn this thing around!”
A unanimous scuffling noise came from within, players rushing off their benches. Isobel had to step back as a burst of team members emerged, escaping through the archway like steam from a pressure cooker. They shouldered and bumped their way through the door and past one another. Silent and moody, not a one of them seemed to notice her. She stood to one side, her back against the cold concrete wall. She hoped to remain invisible as she searched each back for the number twenty-one.
Brad’s number was not among them, though. He must still be inside the locker room. Isobel waited, and after a moment, Coach Logan came out. He turned and looked right at her, his ruddy face contorting into what she took as a dirty look. Isobel, resisting the urge to glower back, concentrated instead on the space between her sneakers while he stormed off toward the field.
Isobel left the wall. She slipped quietly into the narrow doorway and down the three steps that led into the locker room. The air here turned humid, saturated with the smell of sweat, grass, and dirt. When she took in a breath, the air felt thick in her lungs, as though it held no oxygen. It was like entering a sauna.
Brad sat alone on a bench in the middle, his helmet in his hands, head hung, his hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. Wet, his hair was the color of old pennies.
Isobel stepped toward him, surprised when he didn’t look up.
“Brad,” she said, announcing herself, her voice even.
His stare remained fixed on his helmet. He turned it slowly in his hands until he was looking into the inside.
“Brad,” she repeated, and moved in farther, something about the cooling sheen of sweat over his skin making the blister on his upper lip redden. Or was it that he seemed suddenly so pale?
She stopped to stand in front of him, her eyes falling to peer into his helmet, at the black foam padding lining the inside. She lowered herself to crouch in front of him and placed her hands on his wrists. She looked up, into his face. “Brad, are you okay?”
His eyes lifted to hers, and Isobel felt a surge of terror. Dilated pupils, wide and black, eclipse
d almost entirely the bright blue of his irises, so they appeared as no more than thin halos, slim rings of color around two holes of unreflective blackness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and shook away from her as he stood. Knocked off balance, Isobel stumbled to her feet. He spun from her, moving for the door.
“Brad, wait!”
“Tell them to leave me alone!” he shouted, and ran up the stairs.
Shocked, Isobel watched him retreat through the archway. She ran to catch up, climbing the three steps, only to find her path blocked. Mark. He glared at her, helmet in hand, his face stern and set, a smear of black paint streaked beneath each eye.
Isobel bounced on her toes and strained to see over the padded shelf of his shoulder. She saw Brad nearing the field, watched him brace one hand to his forehead. The air around him seemed to shift and shimmer. Isobel blinked to clear her vision, but that only served to sharpen the dark, snakelike tendrils of oily smoke that now emerged from nothing. Like clouds of violet ink in water, dark figures took form, pouring into shape through the air around him. All at once, several sets of black boots strode forth. Four white-faced figures fell into stride behind him, two on either side, their sharp red smiles gleaming.
“Omigod, Brad!”
Isobel burst forward, but Mark barred her with a thick arm. She struggled against him. He held her, gathering her momentum, then using it to sling her back. Isobel half tripped, half staggered down the stairs again, catching herself against one wall.
“I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but just stay away from him.”
Isobel stared at him in stunned silence, long enough to watch him turn his back. She waited only one moment more, then rushed forward, up the stairs and out, determined to bolt past him. He must have heard the beat of her sneakers, though, or maybe he’d expected her to try something, because he swung around. Dropping his helmet, he caught her, flinging her back with the full force of both arms. Isobel hurtled backward, her arms freewheeling. She hit the concrete, landing on her rear with a decided thud. Grit bit into the palms of her hands.
She cringed and drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth as the burn set in on her skinned palms. Mark glowered down at her, his expression void of either regret or concern. He bent to retrieve his helmet and then, for the third time, he started for the field.
“Mark, wait!” she called, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into her voice. Even if they weren’t friends now, they had been once—at least to some degree.
Isobel struggled to her feet. She caught up to him, hovering a safe distance behind until they were in view of the stands, knowing her chances of getting slugged would be less within the direct sight of parents and coaches. “Listen to me. You don’t understand!”
Her eyes darted between his back and the players collecting on the field. The announcer’s voice echoed over the sound system, reviewing the score. She saw Brad make his way with the other players toward center field. Securing his helmet in place, he clutched it to his head, gripping either side as though he hoped to block out the world. He didn’t look back, and Isobel realized that he could not see the dark forms that trailed him.
“Mark,” she said, catching hold of his arm.
“Get off me!” he shouted, jerking away.
“You have to tell Coach Logan to pull Brad!” she insisted. She caught hold of him again. “You have to!”
“I said, don’t touch me!” he growled.
“Denson!”
They both looked up. Coach Logan marched toward them, a cold wind whipping his fine white hair, reddening the hard set of his already chapped face. “What’s this?” he demanded, gesturing at Isobel as though she were a pet Mark had allowed to follow him.
“Brad told her to leave him alone, but she keeps bugging him anyway,” he said.
“Where’s your coach? Why are you harassing my players?” Coach Logan growled, the hot-iron color in his face getting deeper by the second. “Aren’t you supposed to be over there somewhere?” he asked, gesturing toward where the squad stood regrouping on the sidelines.
Fine, Isobel thought. She’d bypass Mark altogether—go straight to the source.
“You have to pull Brad out of the game!” The words rushed out of her all at once, tumbling one over the other. “Something’s not right. You have to pull him,” she repeated, pointing toward the field.
Now his face turned purple. His jowls started to quiver, and just when Isobel began to wonder whether he might be having a heart attack, he screamed at her, his voice rough and raw from the back of his throat, like a saw blade through steel. “Do I tell you how to cheer!?”
Isobel had to hunker into herself to avoid the flying spit.
“Denson!” he shouted before spinning away to thunder back toward the sidelines, his entire form vibrating with rage. Without another glance, Mark followed, securing his own helmet.
Isobel watched their retreating backs. Helpless, she looked searchingly to the field, another cold wind causing her to shiver.
“Well,” a quiet voice said. It had come from behind her, soft yet scratchy, with that strange static essence. “That went well.”
Isobel turned to see him leaning against the brick side of the stands. His wraith-thin frame partially obscured the painted emblem of the hawk’s head. With his arms folded and his hands tucked beneath his elbows, his red claws stretched out on either side like lethal fans. He leveled his black stare on her from beneath the ridge of his brow. A few spikes of coarse, featherlike hair escaped to hang loose over the jagged hole in his white face.
He smiled crimson. “Hello again . . . cheerleader.”
36
No Return
Isobel was really starting to hate Reynolds. Of all the opportune moments for him to show his stupid shrouded face, this one would be ideal. He could be so freaking after the fact.
“Call them off,” she said, staring straight at Pinfeathers, fists clenched at her sides.
“Ask me nicely,” he said, grinning, tilting his head at her as though there was something about her that struck him as quaint.
“Do it.”
“Don’t I even get a ‘please’?”
“What do you want with him?” she piped. “Brad doesn’t have anything to do with this!”
His expression darkened, the smile fading. “Doesn’t he?”
Her gaze flew toward the field. In an instant, she realized what Pinfeathers had been doing: He’d been trying to stall her—and he’d succeeded. She cursed under her breath and broke away, running full speed toward the fence that separated her from the playing field.
Pinfeathers appeared at her side, his figure unfurling through curling wisps of violet smoke. “I have a message for you,” he said.
“And I have one for you. Go away,” she snarled, showing him the open palm of one hand. Reaching the fence, she gripped the top, preparing to jump it. Could she really stop the play by herself? Or would she just get flattened into cheerleader pizza?
“Don’t you even care who it’s from?” asked Pinfeathers. He slipped through the fence ahead of her, his body gliding past the metal chain-work easily, muddling, then reforming whole on the other side. He lifted two clawed fingers, between which he held a folded slip of white paper.
Isobel stopped, her heart catching in her throat when she thought she saw the silhouette of violet lines, showing like dark veins through pale skin. She snatched the note and in her hand it felt solid and real.
Pinfeathers smiled coyly. Then, as though her acceptance of the message somehow acted as a release, the angles of his porcelain face began to change. His form loosened, and he slipped into the same thick smoke-curls of violet she had seen the other Nocs emerge from. His body, taking on the jagged black edges of feathers, seemed to dissolve and condense at the same time, his face at last sharpening into the wicked spike of a black beak. He croaked at her hoarsely, flapped his wings, then spiraled away.
Her eyes followed him until a separate flying object
caught her attention. The ball. It soared from kickoff through the air in a wide arc. It spun toward the open receiver, his knees bent, arms held open. Isobel watched as number twenty-one caught the ball. Clutching it hard to himself, Brad bent forward in a charging run toward the opposite end of the field, his teammates covering the wide space before him, felling tackles. Brad streaked through the opened pathway, the four dark forms slinking alongside him. They grinned like piranhas, gracefully following his every move, almost dancing. Then they closed in on him tighter, steering him at fullforce into an oncoming player. The ball hit the ground. Brad followed, disappearing for a moment into a jumbled mix of blue, gold, green, white—and black.
It happened so quickly, in less time than it took to blink. Even amid the shouts from the stands, the clatter and grunts of battling players, Isobel still heard the sharp, merciless snap.
A gasp of shock rose from the stands, a unanimous moan of grief. Isobel could not stop her own hands from flying to cover her mouth. Brad lay still on the turf, his leg bent at far too unnatural an angle. Hissing at their victory, the Nocs vanished into wisps.
Somewhere, a referee’s whistle screamed.
Isobel leaped the fence in one easy motion, her hand clutching the note as though she feared it would evaporate. Someone sprang to stop her, but she sprinted around them, running the length of the field to where Brad lay surrounded by teammates and opposing players alike. She shoved her way through, dropping to her knees at his side, trying not to look at the white sliver of bone sticking out below the knee, at the blood soaking through the metallic gold of his uniform pants. Isobel yanked off his helmet. His head rolled and fell to one side. Wet coppery curls clung to his temples and forehead, and his too-handsome face was drained of color.
“Brad!” She pressed one hand to his cool cheek.
His eyes fluttered open, and Isobel felt her breath catch. Only a narrow slice of sharp electric blue showed; the rest of his irises were consumed, blanketed under discs of purest black.
Two coin-size holes locked on her. “They’re coming closer,” he muttered. The muscles of his pallid face twitched beneath her fingertips. His entire body trembled.