Scary Cool (The Spellspinners) (12 page)

When Lance came into view, I sent him an image of where I was standing. The boy is too smooth to startle. He poured that wicked-looking machine right over to the edge of the path as if that was where he’d been headed all along.
Riding
that low-slung
, gleaming
chopper
, wearing a
leather jacket and sunglasses and all, he looked like a teen idol from a 1950’s B-movie.

I stepped delicately through the grass toward him, stopping before it thinned out near the road. “
Fancy meeting you here,
”
I remarked
, feigning surprise
.

“I figured I wouldn’t be welcome at the O’Shaughnessy place.”

“You aren’t welcome at the
Norland
place, either.
Nonny
objects to my socializing with a boy who hit me.
”

He nodded, unfazed. “I get that.
”
He took off his sunglasses. His green eyes were piercing. “
Rune’
s not crazy about
my
s
eeing you, either. But here I am
.”

A breeze stirred the tall stalks of meadow grass, surrounding me with rustling, swaying feathers of gold.
Yes,
I thought.
Here we both are.

Something softened in his expression. He almost smiled—but not quite. “So how are we going to do this, Zara?
When can I see you?
”

Adrenaline danced through my veins. I looked away, trying to hide it from him. “Well,” I said, stalling, “there’s always school.”

“Not good enough.”
And you know it.

I could feel a smile tugging at my mouth. “Okay.” I took a deep breath and let my eyes return to his.
“
Nonny’s
usually asleep by eleven. I could see you at midnight.”

“Tonight?”

I nodded. “Every night,” I said softly.

The motorcycle engine,
even at a standstill, was pound
ing loudly. I’m sure he
did
n’t hear what I said. But between the two of us, hearing words was unnecessary.
His
breath
stop
ped
momentarily
and
I
knew he had read me loud and clear.

Lance is too cool to let emotions show on the surface. If I hadn’t had inside knowledge, so to speak, I would
never
have guessed
the
excitement
my words sent through him.
He didn’t show it, but he was pleased. O
h yes.

He gave me a brief nod. “Midnight it is, then. Where?”

An image of the
skatching
well at his apartment flitted through his brain, but we both rejected that immediately—for different reasons, I noticed. I didn’t want to be so completely on his turf. He didn’t want Rune to know he was seeing me. Interesting.

My word, we’re getting good at this
wholesoul
thing.

“I guess the gazebo is okay,” I said. “We can
figure it out from there.”

He nodded. “Cool.”

A car turned onto Chapman Road. It wasn’t a car I knew, but I automatically ducked my head, hiding my face behind the curtain of my hair. Lance slipped his sunglasses back on. “This cloak-and-dagger stuff sucks,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later,” I agreed.

His engine roared to life. I
watched as he turned the
motorcycle
in a graceful loop across the road, then sent it leaping back toward town
like an unleashed tiger
. He looked sharp. He looked cool.

Scary cool.

My heart was thumping like I’d just run a race. I felt anxious and excited and guilty. And determined. I was putting myself in Lance’s hands—metaphorically, of course. Not literally.

Not yet, anyway.

I shoved that thought quickly out of my mind, afraid Lance could pick it up somehow—although our ability to read each other’s thoughts
fades
with distance. Still, it was safer not to go there.

I retrieved my bike, walked it out to where the dirt ended and the asphalt began, and started pedaling, again, toward home. The top half of the house was already visible, with my bedroom window halfway opened above the porch roof, curtains fluttering prettily in the breeze as if waving in welcome.
Home.

Sadness
squeezed my heart as I thought about what I might
soon
be giving up. I
love
this place. This house. My room.
Nonny
. Even the meadows
are
dear to me—the sweet smell of the grass, the birdsong. The
peach tree that shades
my window seat
,
o
n the side of my room that faces
the Chapman place. The
Chapmans
’ silly roosters,
waking me with
their
crowing in the grayness before dawn.
The even-sillier chickens, congratulating themselves at the top of their lungs every time they lay an egg.

I frowned, vowing to sternly repress any sentimental nonsense that stood in my way. I had to do this. I had to choose Lance over home. Lance over
Meg, over
Nonny
, over
everything.

My life depended on it.

This still didn’t seem real to me, but I knew it was true. Or,
rather,
I knew
Lance believed it to be true.
And
I had to take it seriously, because
he had more information than I had.

That would change, I promised myself. Starting tonight.

I was
wired
all evening. Even
Nonny
remarked on how keyed-up I was, and asked if I were all right. I assured her I was, but I wasn’t.
The breeze that had begun
earlier
turned into a typical September wind, warm and gusty. It would drop to nothing, then suddenly slap the air,
rattling
the
dry
grasses
outside
and
making
the trees toss their heads like nervous horses. It made me skittish, too, adding an extra twist to the
slowly-
crank
ing
knobs that were pulling my nerves tight. After
Nonny
went to bed, the breezes gusting in the silence
startled me,
and I thought
, every time, sh
e’d woken up and was heading
upstairs
toward
my room for some reason. Guilty conscience much?

By 11:30 I was a wreck.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I
slipped my shoes back on, shrugged into my jean jacket, and
skatched
.

The
abrupt plunge into
darkness was disorienting. I should have turned my bedroom light out and let my eyes adjust before popping downtown.
I
couldn’t see a thing for a few seconds, but
knew
exactly where I was,
of course—
I had
chosen
the entrance of the gazebo
for my
skatching
point
.
I reached out blindly, encountered the rough wood of the roof support, and clutched it, waiting for the world to take shape around me.
I knew Lance wouldn’t be here yet.

I briefly
considered
returning to my room to
do my bit for the planet and
turn
my
light out, but was distracted by a sound.
Tick, tick, tick.
I knew the sound, but couldn’t place it for a moment. Then, just as a
nother
gust of wind drowned it out, I saw what it was: Amber, in her high-heeled boots,
was striding
beneath the street light at the corner of the park, heading right for me.

Too bad Lance hadn’t taught me yet how to create a glamour.

Of course, there was no point in hiding anyway
. S
he had seen me. And—come to think of it—why should I hide? I
stood as tall as I could
, lifted my chin, and waited. My only regret was that I was dressed like a teenager and Amber was dressed like a supermodel. She looked elegant and wicked. I just looked, you know, like me.

The
heels
gave her
extra
height
,
and the
woman had to be six feet tall
to begin with
.
She
moved with a lithe, intimidating confidence. The wind tossed her hair as she approached, making her look like something out of a movie—an evil goddess, or maybe
a villainous-but-gorgeous spy from a James Bond thriller
.

She stopped near the foot of the steps, put her hands on her hips, and
looked me over. Her lips were curled in a cold little smile. I could not pick up her thoughts, but I could sure read her feelings. Waves of hostility emanated from her and beat against me like strong surf.

“You must be Zara,”
she drawled
.

“And you’re Amber.”

“That’s right, sugar.”

She sounded pleased. I was at a loss to know why—until I realized she thought Lance had talked about her.
It was my turn to wear the contemptuous smile. “Lance pointed you out the other night,” I told her.

Her smile vanished. “So you were here. I knew it.”

“No, you didn’t.” I remembered what Lance had told me:
She isn’t very powerful.
I sat down on the steps and stretched my legs out in front of me. “So tell me—
now that we’ve met—
what brings you
to Cherry Glen
?
You’re a long way from home.
”

I was judging by the Southern lilt in her voice, of course; I had no idea where she lived. But I sensed, again, her assumption that Lance had told me all about her. She laughed, tossing her head so the wind could blow her hair back from her face. “Why, I just had to see you in person. See what all the fuss was about. After all, i
t concerns me, too. Anything that concerns Lance concerns me.”

Something cold seemed to stab me in the gut.
I
didn’t move a muscle,
grateful that she couldn’t read me the way I read her
.
I tried to look mildly curious. “Why on earth is that?” I
marveled. “What is he—your
baby
brother
?”

Ooh, that made her mad. “Very funny,” she snapped. “You know exactly what he is to me.”

The
cold
knife in my gut twisted. “Actually,” I said—grateful that my voice sounded perfectly normal—“I have no idea.”

Her anger shifted slightly as she directed part of it at Lance. “That son of a—“ Several choice epithets
salted
the air.

“Well, why don’t you tell me?” I suggested. “Since he didn’t.”

Her eyes glowed a funny color in the tricky light. Catlike. Yellow.
Another gust of wind rattled the trees aroun
d us. “Well, then. You might as well know. Lance and I have been Chosen.”

“Chosen for what?”

She gave an incredulous little laugh. “Don’t you know anything?
Chosen.
We’ve been Chosen.” I must have been giving her a blank look because her foot started tapping impatiently. “By the Council. You know.”

My expression obviously did not change, because her eyes narrowed. She leaned down toward me. “Do you really not understand? Or are you just pretending?
Lance and I will be
mated
, sugar pie. We’re going to bring the next
spellspinner
into the world.
Don’t
you know the rules on that?
Well, no, come to think of it.
”
Her lip curled with contempt. “You wouldn’t.”

I understood her now. I just couldn’t speak. So
she went on, pacing in her
stiletto heels
, reminding me of a leopard in a cage
.

“There have to be forty-nine
spellspinners
. No more, no less.
There’s only so much Power to go around.
We can feel it, you know. When one of the Council members kicks the bucket, and there’s only forty-eight of us, we all get stronger for a while. Then, right around the New Year, the Chosen ones mate. And come the next July, there’s forty-nine of us again.”