Lord Fool To The Rescue Part 8

Heavy steps shuffled toward the big window.

"Uh, oh. Not good."

"Not good is right."

"Well, we've cleaned up messes before." The small search party moved around the room, tossing around magazines, snooping through the long wood boxes that served as storage and seating for generations of little boys' b.u.t.ts.

"Are you going to come out, Jamison?" The words pushed through the wood.

h.e.l.l no.

He wasn't even going to breathe unless they climbed out, squeezed through those twisted tree limbs, and crawled onto the roof. They had no proof he was there. No proof.

He held his lungs open so air could come and go as it pleased, but he wouldn't rustle a friggin' leaf!

"Do you think he's here?" one whispered.

Jamison smiled in relief-they didn't know for sure!

"He has to be. Why would those two be here without him?"

"I don't know. Skye said Ray's been watching her closely. If he knew about the tree house, he could have come without Kenneth's grandson."

"Uh oh."

"What?"

"Another trap door."

Jamison felt pressure on the hip that covered the escape hatch. He held still, not pus.h.i.+ng back, but not giving way. In his bladder, Jamison's heart moved over to make room for his Dew. If he p.i.s.sed his pants, would they think it was rain?

"A seventeen-year-old couldn't fit through there."

"But he could be on the roof... You on the roof, Jamison?"

CHAPTER TWO.

Moments earlier...

The silence was broken by a "Holy s.h.i.+t!" and it took Skye a moment to realize she hadn't imagined it.

From inside the deep circle of flattened cornstalks the only thing visible, besides the star-dotted sky, was the row of trees marking the end of Kenneth's property. Nestled in the branches of the second tree was the old clubhouse. Dangling beneath the clubhouse, and to either side of the giant trunk, were the spot-lit faces of two wide-eyed teenagers.

No!

Chaos erupted around her. The Final Host moved as one toward the trees. Some broke into a run. She had to go along. What excuse could she offer if she didn't?

A twisted ankle?

Her ankles didn't twist.

Too tired?

Her kind didn't need rest.

Too distraught over losing Warren?

Perhaps. Though losing people was the one constant of their existence. In fact, they'd be losing her in a matter of weeks.

Her turn to stand in the center of the circle had never bothered her before, but two days ago a lot of things changed. Two days ago she'd felt a tug in her empty chest and looked up to see Kenneth Jamison's handsome grandson looking back at her. Two days ago she'd slipped easily into the character of the sixteen-year-old girl she was supposed to resemble. Of course she didn't feel mortal; she'd never feel that. But she'd felt something. And in a body with no sensation, feeling something was monumental.

Unfortunately, that something was being smothered by dread.

Step by step she dragged her feet through the cornfield but instead of leaping over the fence with the others, she stalled. She couldn't bear it. Young Jamison would have noticed her in the circle. What a freak he must believe her to be.

If he'd seen.

There was a chance he hadn't recognized her in the darkness, from that distance, and that slim chance kept her from joining in the chase. If she came face to face with him now, he'd fear her, and she dreaded seeing that emotion mar his strong face. Even worse would be finding disgust in his big brown eyes.

While they'd watched each other over the fence for the past two days, she'd gotten a good look at him. His brows were much darker than his golden blond hair with their ends bowed up like the edge of a bird's wing. His flat cheeks rippled into dimples when he'd laughed with his mother, and his straight white teeth only made his Texas tan stand out that much more.

So foolis.h.!.+ What she should worry about was losing his cooperation, not his approval. Making an enemy of Jamison Shaw would jeopardize her a.s.signment, and all she could think about was his dimples?

Ridiculous! She was impervious to everything. She felt nothing. The emotions of mortals were things she watched from a distance, manipulated when necessary. They did not manipulate her.

Why, then, did she suddenly feel emotion? What would the others say? Was she flawed? Would they call for a replacement and send her to the center of the circle early?

Fear. This is fear.

She sagged against the fence and nearly laughed in relief. Those of the Final Host had nothing to fear; that was the entire point of The Arrangement.

Her thoughts calmed. Everything would happen as it was destined to happen. Jamison, and the strange connection she felt with him, had a purpose. She needed only to wait and see what that was.

She heard Ray Peters pleading for G.o.d's help and found a gap through which she could watch the proceedings. He was on the ground, held firmly by three of her robed "cousins." Shock had him shaking like a junkie in withdrawals and she pitied him, even though he half-deserved a good fright. She'd warned him to mind his own business, first kindly, then sternly. She wondered if at that moment her warning was replaying in his head-"Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed...the cat."

She took a deep, bracing-but-unnecessary breath and looked back to where the other captive sat.

It wasn't Jamison!

A very black-haired Burke Costley struggled and spit, but his captors only laughed and interrupted when he began cursing. If he meant to punch empty air he was succeeding nicely. He probably saw six robed men, not three, and he was fighting the wrong three.

Clearly he was far too wasted for adrenaline to sober him up. The fight drained quickly, turning his arms to sagging rubber and he slumped to the ground in a loose pile next to his well-recognized beanie. Burke was soon carried away like a baby, and Skye had little doubt that if left to himself, he probably wouldn't remember anything in the morning.

As Ray was led away his army fatigues churned beneath him, but there was no need. He barely touched the ground, thanks to his escort.

The yard was quickly emptying of white robes, except for the circle of men surrounding the base of the tree, as if they might shake the mighty trunk until Jamison dropped from the branches like a ripe peach. Thank goodness that wasn't an option; from that height, they'd end up with peach jam.

Skye had a.s.sumed, when she'd first seen Kenneth's grandson, that he noticed her only because of her apparent age. After all, she'd been given plain, non-memorable looks. But as she'd moved throughout the compound, and he'd gone in and out of his grandfather's house, the connection between them had become real.

It was this connection that made her sharply aware of his presence over nearly thirty feet above her. Too bad she hadn't been so aware of him before the ceremony began. If she hadn't been so saddened to be losing dear Warren perhaps she would have felt that tug and warned the rest. An interruption would have been welcomed; it would have supplied an excuse to keep Warren for an additional day.

Lucas and Jonathan began climbing the tree. If the situation weren't so serious, their struggle to find the elusive footholds in billowing skirts would have been funny. The two were aware of Skye's a.s.signment and that Jamison could not be handled as Ray and Burke would be. But what would they do? Jamison must not resist. If he struggled and fell...

Skye had always wished she could taste peach jam, but she suddenly scratched it from her wish list.

She turned her back; she couldn't watch. Lucas and Jonathan would keep him safe. Besides, she and the boy would both be embarra.s.sed if Jamison fought like Burke then found her watching it all for entertainment.

Conversation was apparently unaffected by gravity since she couldn't catch a word that was said. She strained to discern a voice other than Lucas and Jonathan's, but got nothing.

Leaning back, she slid down the fencepost until the ground hit her rump and she folded her bell sleeves over her knees. Nothing to do but wait and count stars.

Two robed figures vaulted over the fence to land beside her.

"Too weak to clear the fence, Skye?" Lucas chucked her under the chin and pulled her to her feet so abruptly she nearly took flight.

Jonathan looked at her closely. "More likely she didn't wish the young man to know of her partic.i.p.ation. It might have played against her, and she is working under a time constraint."

She gave Jonathan a generous smile. He was a great reader-minds, faces, auras-he read them all. Clearly. Subjectively.

"Well, then, you have little to worry over, my dear." Lucas began walking along the fence, toward the house. "He wasn't up there."

Skye had begun to follow, but stopped. "What do you mean, he wasn't up there?" she whispered a bit loudly.

"He. Wasn't. Up. There. Jonathan walked around her to follow Lucas. "No heat traces of him on the ground, either, so relax."

Of course she couldn't relax! She happened to know Jamison had been up there. He was still up there. The question was what should she do about it?

Perhaps he was asleep, under a blanket they hadn't checked. Perhaps he'd missed it all. But that wasn't likely. Lucas and Jonathan were anything but subtle. They wouldn't have tiptoed up the tree, taken a peek and come back down. They would have stomped through from corner to corner and bellowed out the windows.

Jamison wasn't asleep. He'd seen it all, and now he was hiding. She couldn't blame him. She'd hide if she were him, if she'd seen what he'd seen then heard his friends being taken away.

She had a choice, which was odd since she never had choices to make, only clear-cut objectives. There was no owner's manual to tell her to report any strange connections she felt with her mortal counterparts. She had no clear obligation to correct Lucas when he claimed Jamison wasn't up there. After all, her senses could be wrong. She wasn't supposed to have such a sense anyway. Who was to say she wasn't imagining something up there? It was over the property line, unhallowed ground. It could be a demon.

It could be, but it wasn't. It was only Jamison.

Only Jamison. If only it were that simple.

CHAPTER THREE.

"There's the bell. You'd better get going." Jamison's mom gave him a subtle squeeze and turned toward the parking lot.

He hoped she wouldn't look back because he wasn't moving an inch until Ray showed up. Screw first period.

Mom didn't look back, but before her car pulled onto the street a green BMW screamed into the s.p.a.ce she'd just left.

Okay, actor boy. Act cool. You saw nothing. She knows nothing. I was never there.

The door opened and a ball of white and gray unfurled. He watched like someone had commanded him not to take his eyes off her. So much for cool.

She must be cold. More layers than usual. A leather book bag dug into her shoulder. A white glove pushed the door shut and she turned. Sungla.s.ses. Clever.

Were they allowed to wear sungla.s.ses? Plastic, black sungla.s.ses?

"Hey." She smiled as she walked toward him, but she revealed nothing. "You're Kenneth's grandson." She held out a gloved hand and stopped two feet away. Guess she forgot she was in a hurry.

"That's me."

"You're wondering if I'm allowed to wear sungla.s.ses."

Holy s.h.i.+t, he thought, but he kept his face blank, except for his raised eyebrow. Granddad had taught him that, years ago.

"I'm teasing. Don't imagine I can read minds. I just get asked that every time I wear them." She started to take them off, took one look into his eyes, then replaced them.

"Hungover?" He couldn't believe he just asked, but he covered the slip with a friendly smile.

"That's not allowed." She laughed. "But I am allowed to shake hands."

Stupid! Her hand was still out there, hanging!

He grabbed it a little fast, a little hard, but she just laughed again. It wasn't a silly Tickle-Me-Elmo laugh like most girls. It was a real laugh, like...the kind of laugh that made you think a person got you. And he wished there was a stupid red b.u.t.ton on her palm he could push to hear it again.

Push here.

He still held her hand, not looking up as a kid ran past even though he felt the guy staring. Her gloves were the softest he'd ever felt, like the angel hair his mother always laid under the nativity scene at Christmas time.

"Lamb's wool. Nice, huh?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, still holding firm. She'd given him the excuse. Not his fault. "Like angel hair."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed back her hand, biting her bottom lip.

"Nope. Just wool." She cleared her throat. "I'm Skye."

"Skye what?"

What an idiot. He'd let a little bit of small talk make him forget all about Ray and Burke, about what the Somerleds may have done to them to keep them from making it to school that morning. Ray knew how Jamison dreaded that first day. If somewhere, deep down, there was any trace of the best friend he'd grown up with, Ray wouldn't let him down today. Not if he had a choice.