Student Bodies

by Sean Cummings

  I nodded and glanced at my watch. “I need to corner Mike Olsen… I think this is where we part company for now, Mom. If you show up on his doorstep alongside me, his parents will probably think that Mike got me pregnant or something.”

  Mom snorted and her lips arched up into a thin smile. “Please, Julie, one crisis at a time! Go there now, talk to this boy and see what you can find out.”

  Mom dropped me off a block and a half away from Mike Olsen’s house. It was beginning to get dark outside, and I knew that as soon as the sun went down the temperature would plummet another ten degrees.

  Did I mention that I hate winter?

  Thin plumes of white smoke drifted high into the air from the chimneys of each house on the street while multi-colored Christmas lights twinkled in the gathering darkness. After about five minutes of crunching through the snow, I spotted Mike Olsen’s house. His family has some money. Parked on their triple car driveway was a BMW SUV, a brand new Ford pickup truck with a pair of shining new snowmobiles strapped onto a platform atop the box and Mike Olsen’s snow-covered Audi A-4.

  And there was a city police car with the engine running.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “What the hell?” I whispered.

  I reached for my phone so I could text Marcus about what I was seeing, but then I remembered that Mom had zapped it. I couldn’t stand outside on the street all night and it was clear there would be no chance to question Mike Olsen if the cops were going to be hanging at his house for any length of time. I was just about to head back home when I felt a faint tingle of magic, like a draft sneaking in through a crack in a wall. I dashed behind a snow bank and snapped my charm into my Shadowcull’s band. Instantly the tingle of magic became more pronounced, pulsing every few seconds like a faint heartbeat.

  Somewhere nearby was another practitioner and I knew that whoever it was couldn’t be a white witch; the sharp tang of evil tainted the air. I stretched out my hand to home in on where the energy was the strongest. A minivan drove by, kicking up a spray of ice and snow in its wake as I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth together in concentration. I pivoted my body on the balls of my feet and reached out with my Sight. When I opened my eyes, the police car was dripping with threads of malice that seeped through the cracks in the doors and onto the frozen street.

  “Damn it,” I hissed. “The cop is a practitioner? What the hell would they want with a dumbass like Mike Olsen?”

  I had a choice to make. I could wait outside Mike Olsen’s house until the police officer returned to her vehicle, then I could force a confrontation and all hell would break loose in a residential neighborhood. If I had wheels, I could tail the cop, but that was out of the question. Rather than engage in a magical duel with a practitioner who I hadn’t yet measured up – and one that was most definitely armed with a Glock – I decided that questioning Mike would have to wait.

  I grabbed a pen out of the inside of my coat and pulled off my glove with my teeth. The number “forty-two” was painted on the left fender of the car and I scribbled it down on my hand. There had to be a way to figure out who the police officer was. Maybe if I called the station the duty officer might let me know who was assigned to that vehicle.

  Disappointed that my interrogation was going to have to wait, I slipped my glove back onto my hand and quickly walked back up the street toward home.

  I didn’t have a clue what the hell Mike Olsen had gotten himself mixed up in, but one student was dead and there was every reason to believe that if Mike Olsen and Travis Butler were targeted, the killer would strike again.

  Soon.

  CHAPTER 10

  I reported back home and informed Mom about the police car that was dripping with malicious energy. All we had to do to track the practitioner would be to follow the police car one night until they finished their shift and then tail them back to their home. This was after Mom informed me the police probably weren’t in the business of giving out the names of their officers over the phone. This would mean possibly staking out Mike’s house to see if the officer returned; at least that would be a starting point.

  I did manage to get a good night’s sleep and when I woke up on Monday morning, I had a quick shower and grabbed three Special K bars for my breakfast. I hadn’t talked with Marcus since the death of Travis Butler and I needed to give him an update.

  There’s something surreal about heading off to school when one of your fellow students has died unexpectedly. There’s a hush about the hallways as classmates text one another furiously and the rumors fly faster than free tickets to an NHL game. According to Marcus, the news of Travis’s death hit Facebook within one hour of the automotive carnage on McLeod Trail – probably around the time that someone put flowers on the cement divider between north and southbound lanes of the busy roadway. Believe it or not, I don’t have a Facebook account. I find it to be a massive waste of time because I hate the gossip mill. That and there’s the whole servo parvulus thing; in short, I’m not allowed to be on it thanks to an edict from my mother.

  According to the object of my affection, a couple of hours of postings appeared on Travis Butler’s wall expressing shock and dismay. This was followed quickly by an outpouring of grief that spilled over into all the social networks by suppertime. To everyone at Crescent Ridge High School, Travis Butler had either committed suicide or was hit by oncoming traffic, but I knew the truth. He was murdered. Period. End of story.

  And I sure as hell was going to find out who killed him.

  I stood in the foyer alongside Marcus and stared at the notice that had been posted by the school administration on the giant bulletin board; right next to the large sign announcing the upcoming school Holiday Season Dance, set for the coming Tuesday night. (We don’t call it a Christmas dance due to the multicultural makeup of the school.) There was a yearbook photo of Travis along with the words, “Classes Canceled for Today. There will be a Memorial Service in the Gym at 9 AM. Grief Counselors will be available – please contact the Guidance Department to arrange for an appointment.”

  Marcus emitted a tiny sigh. “Geez… I don’t know what to think. I mean, I didn’t know Travis that well, but he did add me as a friend on Facebook which is surprising seeing as how I’m persona non grata at school. This just feels unworldly.”

  I draped my arms over his shoulders and then I gave him a tiny peck on the nose and forced a smile.

  “Are you OK?” I asked, quietly. “Do you need to talk with someone? You had a close call on Sunday.”

  Marcus shuffled his feet and he lowered his gaze. “Maybe. I mean, I feel a little bit guilty because I could have been killed and instead it’s Travis who is going to be having a funeral. My mother is freaked right out about this, she almost didn’t let me go to school today. Fuck, Julie… This is all so messed up.”

  This was serious, because Marcus never drops the F-bomb. Ever. He buried his face into my shoulder and squeezed my waist with his bony arms as he let out a quiet little sob.

  I pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Marcus, I’m going to find out who did this. I promise you that I’m going to find them and…”

  He pulled back from me and looked into my eyes. “And do what? Kill them? Jesus, you’re not really thinking that, are you?”

  I chewed my lip for a moment as I returned Marcus’ gaze. All around us were small groups of students engaged in quiet conversation and the air was filled with the sound of ringtones from dozens of phones as they texted back and forth.

  “This was a murder that no homicide detective will ever solve in a thousand years, Marcus,” I said firmly. “Last night, I headed over to Mike Olsen’s house to talk with him. There was a police car parked out front with the engine running. It was dripping with malicious energy.”

  “Holy crap, what are you saying, that a cop is behind this?”

  I shrugged hard. “Maybe… Possibly. Look, there won’t be any police investigation because to everyone but you, me, my mother and Betty, it looks like Travis
got hit by a car. More people are going to wind up dead until whoever did this is stopped, and I’m going to stop them. Count on it.”

  Marcus gave my hand a small squeeze. “Everything about your life flies in the face of the way things are supposed to be. As long as I’ve known you, I’ve seen so much stuff that can’t be explained and I’ve given up trying to do it. But now with Mike Olsen and Travis, Jeez, we’re just freaking teenagers, for crying out loud.”

  I placed my hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes. “Magic doesn’t play by anyone’s rules other than those of the person who is wielding it. This might be about me or my mother or someone with an old score to settle. It’s cool if you want to lay low during this, Marcus.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t say that wanted to lay low, Julie. I’m just… I’m just scared is all. Magic and now murder… It’s all terrifying when you take the time to think about it. What sucks is that it has taken a guy getting killed to make everything hit home.”

  Marcus had a right to be scared. Magic can be terrifying even to someone like me who has been learning their craft since they were a little kid. There are times when I think about the power that I wield, a power amplified by the copper band on my right wrist, and I shudder at what it all means. I possess enough skill to kill a person – to kill lots of people, but I use that power as a force for good. The person who killed Travis had turned their power into an abomination, and it was clear that both Marcus and I had long been taking his exposure to my magical life for granted.

  I took his hands once more and tried to give him a hopeful smile. “Marcus, you have always been a part of my magical life, but things have changed and neither of us has had much of a chance to prepare ourselves for what it means. Half the time, I’m trying to figure out what it all means and I’m the person wearing the copper band. But we’re an amazing team and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have standing by my side when the shit starts flying.”

  He nodded and smiled back. “The shit started flying on the weekend, Julie. And if Mike and Travis were targeted, it means that nobody at Crescent Ridge is safe. I’d rather be doing something about it, so I’m in.”

  Did I mention that Marcus Guffman is awesome? He was scared to death and he still had my back.

  We had about thirty minutes to kill before the memorial service in the gym, so I decided that it would be a good opportunity to see if we could track down Mike Olsen and find out what he was doing in the moments before he came under magical attack.

  You know, assuming that I could get him away from his friends for long enough to grill him.

  I reached into the front pocket of my jeans and felt for my amulet. I’m a little paranoid about losing it now that I know it’s one half of a Shadowcull’s weapon. I exhaled in relief as my fingertips brushed against the embossed sigil on its surface.

  “We have a bit of time before the service,” I said as I looked around at the throngs of students whose eyes were fixed firmly on their handheld devices. “Care to do a little detective work, Mr Guffman?”

  Marcus glanced at his watch and then adjusted the strap on his backpack. “If it’s going to help us find whoever did this so I can breathe a little easier, then I’m all for it. Where do you want to start?”

  I motioned with my thumb to the hallway immediately to my right. “Mike Olsen. Your nemesis and victim of a Soul Worm attack. Let’s do this thing.”

  I downed a phial of potion and gagged as Marcus and I pushed through small groups of students who were gathered in front of their lockers or standing in the middle of the hallway texting and, the entire time, I kept my amulet clutched tightly in my hand as I focused on detecting even the tiniest current of supernatural energy. It’s a lot like playing Where’s Waldo?, because every single person alive carries a magical signature; each tingle of energy feels similar to the next and what I was searching for would be something stained with intense emotions – the building blocks for a malicious spell.

  All around me the hushed voices of fellow students spoke of the same thing: Travis Butler’s suicide. The general tone of discussion ringing through my ears ranged from rumors of a breakup with his girlfriend to plain old disbelief that someone so popular could actually be dead, so I shut out the voices and focused a little bit harder until I found what I was looking for.

  Except what I found wasn’t anything like what I was expecting. Instead of sensing a foreign surge of spiritual energy amid the collected auras of the dozens upon dozens of students filling the hallway, there was a hole.

  I stopped in my tracks and squeezed my amulet tighter in my hand and I pushed my senses further. All around me pulsed spiritual energy that flowed out from the bodies of my fellow students in hundreds of thin, wispy tendrils. The whole hall was filled with a vaporous curtain of weak magic, save for one small area of absolutely nothing – a small pocket of emptiness from which nothing emanated.

  I released my grip on my amulet and pointed down the hall. “Over there,” I said nodding to a quiet corner of the hallway. “It’s like a spiritual dead zone.”

  “Dead as in another ghost?” Marcus whispered in my ear.

  I shook my head. “No, dead as in just a bubble of absolutely nothing at all. Let’s check it out.”

  We walked down the hall a few hundred feet and spotted a familiar form sitting on the floor in front of his locker with his arms dangling over his knees. It was Mike Olsen, his backpack beside him. His face bore no expression as he looked at the floor, only he wasn’t in a trance like at the C-Train station. Mike just sat there, his eyes slowly blinking every few seconds.

  “He looks stoned,” said Marcus as we headed in Mike’s direction.

  I nodded. “Yeah, except he isn’t. He looks… I don’t know, just messed.”

  Marcus grunted said, “For the record, Mike has a built-in nerd detector. In the past he’d know if I was coming from a hundred yards away and under normal circumstances, I’d have been ganged-up on by now. There’s something wrong with him.”

  “No doubt,” I replied. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  We pushed through a trio of students who were gossiping away about Mike Olsen’s dishevelled appearance and who were convinced he was strung out on something. We stopped in front of him and he didn’t even look up. Not freaking once.

  I knelt down in front of the giant defensive back and studied his face for a short moment. His hair was matted and flat on one side and body odor filled my nostrils. Small patches of facial hair on his chin and both cheeks showed that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and there was a spot of dried-up food at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes which, under normal circumstances, carried a glint of mischief, seemed empty; as if even the tiniest flicker of interest had been purposefully removed.

  “Mike, you need to take a shower, dude,” said Marcus as he knelt down opposite me. “Cheerleaders don’t do man-stink.”

  Mike didn’t reply to Marcus’s deliberate attempt to get a rise out of him. He didn’t move. His eyes simply looked straight ahead; as if he were focused on something only he could see.

  I placed my hand over Mike’s right hand and reached out with my spirit to see if I could get a read on his thoughts. Instead of being instantly met with a slideshow of memory images, there was nothing. It was as if a giant blackboard eraser had wiped his brain clean. I narrowed my eyes for a moment and wondered whether the jolt of magic I’d used to zap his central nervous system at the C-Train station had done any damage when Mike opened his mouth and said one single word.

  “Tired,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t carry even a hint of emotion. It was flat and toneless.

  I squeezed his hand and leaned in to listen because I had to get him talking.

  “Too much partying on the weekend, Mike?” Marcus asked as he gave Mike’s shoulder a small shake. “I’d say I was sympathetic, but I’ve never been to one of your parties so I don’t exactly have a frame of reference.”

  Mike slowly blinked and I watched as h
e broke his stare. His eyes slowly rolled to Marcus and he whispered two words.

  “Guffman… dweeb.”

  Marcus glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, he’s not completely gone, Julie. At least he recognizes me, so that’s a good thing, right?”

  I nodded. “I think so… Mike, how are you feeling right now?”

  What he said next sent a tremor of fear that shot down straight into the pit of my stomach.

  “Empty,” he said as he slowly turned his head in my direction.

  I looked over my shoulder to see that a throng of students had gathered around. A few held their phones in front of their bodies to take pictures of a clearly messed-up Mike Olsen.

  An enormous figure pushed through the small gathering of students and squatted down in front of Mike’s feet. It was Stephen Greyeyes; a massive linebacker from the football team who actually made Mike Olsen look small by comparison.

  “He’s been like that all weekend,” said Stephen. “Nobody on the team wants anything to do with this asshole. We don’t hang with stoners.”

  Um, wow.

  One of the most popular kids at Crescent Ridge High School had just pronounced judgement on Mike Olsen and instantly the air was filled with the sound of fingers plugging away at the keyboards of dozens of phones. In minutes, word about Mike Olsen being a stoner would be the second most talked-about thing at school, and, what’s worse, he was now one of us.

  A so-called loser. No social status. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch, zero.

  And Marcus, surprisingly, would have none of it. He stood up. “So that’s how it works, then?”

  Stephen Greyeyes got back to his feet. He literally towered over skinny five foot eight Marcus. “How what works, bone sack?”

  What I saw next even gave me pause to rub at my eyes in disbelief.

  “Mike Olsen,” said Marcus. “On Friday he’s a star defensive back and a popular dude at school and on Monday he’s been sent back to the minor leagues based on an accusation from you because, for some insane reason, your popularity gives your accusation instant credibility. Seriously, I think that physics might be wasted on me because social anthropology is what’s at work here.”