The Magickers (20 page)

There was no Bailey at dinnertime either. Nor at the campfire. Ting sat miserably, a handkerchief twisted in her fingers. She leaned close to Jason. “I miss her,” the slender girl said quietly. “And to top it off, someone took my favorite watch.”

“Trap didn't work?”

She shook her head at Trent, her long dark hair falling forward over her shoulder. “I can feel her. Can't you? I'm scared she's lost somewhere and can't get back.”

Trent just shrugged. Jason held Ting's wrist for a moment, her skin soft but slightly cool to his touch. “We'll find her, and that's a promise.” A log split open with a loud pop, sending a shower of orange sparks up into the night. When the Magickers gathered everyone and held hands to sing the Parting song, Jason was already planning what he wanted to do about his missing friend.

 

“You're sure,” Trent said into his ear, “it's the red Jell-O.”

“No, I'm not sure . . . but you're still awake, right?” Jason paused in the darkened corridor of the Lake Wannameecha Gathering Hall, and he could all but feel Trent's hot breath down the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

Jason inched forward. This back way smelled of dust and old wax, and musty still air that hadn't stirred in a long time. It felt like the mummy wing of the great museum he'd loved when he was younger, when he still had a father who would take him, and still lived in a great city that had a huge, stuffy museum. The air tickled at his nose, and the fine hairs on his arms.

“This,” remarked Trent quietly, “is dead.”

Jason nodded. It did, indeed, feel lifeless, as though they had stepped into a huge mausoleum or tomb, though it was far different from the tomb that haunted his dreams. He inhaled. Their very presence ought to be enough to wake the Dead. He gritted his teeth. Something nudged at him, an insistent thought. Nothing could be this quiet . . . unless it were a trap. It could be Magick . . . it
had
to be Magick. He stopped in his tracks. “Don't breathe, Trent. Don't think. Be as . . . lifeless . . . as the Hall is.”

Trent sucked in his breath. “Of course!” he answered in a low voice, as if Jason had discovered something basic, something primal. And so, quietly, scarcely breathing or thinking, they inched toward the doors to Gavan Rainwater's office. A tiny band of light fell upon them, and they froze in their tracks. Trent slipped to his knees as Jason leaned over Trent's shoulder, looking in, and he peered in as well.

Eleanora sat on the edge of a great, cluttered desk carved of dark gleaming oak. Her shoed feet dangled a long way from the floor. Gavan sat back in an immense leather chair, his face creased, one hand rubbing his brow. The bright purple amethyst filled his other hand.

“At least we know she is alive,” Gavan said. He passed his open hand over the crystal.

“It's almost as if she doesn't want to be found.”

The two stared at each other. “Sometimes they forget . . .” Gavan said slowly.

“Oh, no. No! Don't say that.”

“Eleanora, she could wander lost until it's too late, you know that. Once she's forgotten, we've little chance of getting to her.”

“Is she trapped . . . inside?”

“I can't tell. Damn me, but I can't tell!”

Eleanora leaned over and put her hand on Rainwater's knee. “It's not your fault.”

“It is. I should have warned them first. But the moment is so wonderful . . . that first bonding, that first crystal . . . I didn't want to cloud it for them.”

“You didn't know.”

He shook his head. “And I should have known! Gregory would have known. . . .” Still clutching the crystal, he leaned back heavily in the chair. “They'll begin to panic if we can't rescue her soon. We'll lose some of them, they'll call home, we'll have to let them go.”

“FireAnn is ready with the Draft.”

He shook his head, an expression of profound loss settling on his features. “What a waste. What a dreadful, horrible waste.”

“We do what we can. Look at all the lives we've touched here. Nearly fifty, Gavan! Fifty with the strength to be a Magicker in them. . . .”

He looked at her. “Not enough,” he commented. “Not enough for what needs to be done, not enough for what we all face.”

“You always were impatient,” Eleanora said softly. “It's a beginning. The toddler does not begin to walk without a first step.”

“Yes, well . . . we've had to fight for this step. If we stumble, the Council won't fund us for another session. We'll have to return to training one by one . . . and watching the Talented slip through our fingers or be lost to the Dark Hand. She must be frightened, and she's hiding. Hiding so well we can't find a trace of her. In the crystal or out.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead, then paused as if listening. Gavan turned his head, staring toward the door. “Do you feel something?”

“Me? Yes, but my nerves have been jangled since we came through the pass!” She twisted around on the desk. “Who's there?” she called out sharply.

Gavan stood up quickly.

But Jason had already pulled back, retreating, hauling Trent behind him. He did not dare even breathe until they were in the normal areas of the Hall. They both gasped for breath, dodged out the side door and into the shadows. Even at that, Jason thought he could hear something moving with them, breathing, and pacing their steps.

They moved slowly, so as not to frighten the crickets into silence or fall over a branch. Back at the cabin, lights having been long turned out all over the camp, they dropped their clothes on the floor and slipped into their bunks. Jason let out a sigh of relief that they had not been short sheeted . . . yet.

He could hear the rustle of Trent settling into his blankets. “What now?” he asked.

“Sleep. See what the morning brings.”

If it did not bring Bailey, he would have to do something drastic. Wherever she was, she shouldn't be there. And with every passing moment, it got more dangerous for her. If the Magickers themselves were worried, she should be terrified.

14

T
HE brassy sound of Reveille woke them. Jason stretched in his tangled blankets, blinking sleepily at the cabin roof. He could hear Trent grunt as he pounded his pillow and tried to settle back in, but it was hopeless. Gray morning seeped in as did FireAnn's morning yell and pot clanging at those who had invaded her kitchen during the night. He grinned in spite of himself. If not scared away permanently after days of this, the varmints must almost certainly be half deaf by now!

It was Trent who got up first, then smothered a curse as he bumped the table in the near dark of the cabin. “Very funny,” he muttered, swiping at the papers which covered the tabletop. “Who moved the table? And lookit this.” Jason, throwing the shutters open to let what little light there was into the cabin, turned.

“What?”

“Spelling out SOS with my drawing papers! Funny guy.” With a half smile, Trent swept up the papers and shuffled them into a short stack.

“What?” Jason stared at his friend.

“SOS. At least, that's what it looked like.” Trent looked back, and then in realization, added slowly, “You didn't do it, did you?” He stared at the wooden tabletop. “Maybe I didn't see it the way it was.”

“Maybe you did.” Jason reached for his clothes uneasily.

Trent snorted. “And maybe if we stand around here all morning, we'll miss hot water and then breakfast!” He grabbed a stack of clean clothes and began shoving them on before dashing out the door a length ahead of Jason. The mess hall was half-empty by the time they sat down at the tables to eat, their hair still wet and slicked down around their ears.

A fog lay over the surface of the lake, and low clouds made the day sullen, but it looked as if the sun would win through shortly. Trent dove in, eating as if he were starved, as usual. Jason stared at his tray. Everything had looked good when he'd chosen it, but he wasn't really all that hungry. The table at the other end was horribly, terribly empty. Not to mention ominously quiet. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He swung around on the bench to where Henry sat, scraping his fork around his plate.

“What?”

Squibb looked up. “What what?” He squirmed halfway about, and pushed his glasses into place on the bridge of his nose.

“Thought you wanted something.”

Henry shook his head. They must have bumped shoulders accidentally. “You're sure?”

Henry ran his hand through his fuzzy black hair, then brightened a little. “Well, actually, yes. I was supposed to tell you Jennifer and Ting already had breakfast and left.”

“Is Ting still upset?”

Henry nodded sadly. “Not only with Bailey gone. She says there's a ghost in their cabin.”

“Besides the thief?”

“A thief and a ghost? Ting couldn't sleep all night, they said.” Henry's eyes got rounder. “Woof.” He stood up, tray in hand. “Catch you later,” he got out before hurrying off.

“You think there's both?” Trent asked, snapping a crisp piece of bacon in two and devouring it. “Or one making enough noise for two?”

“I don't know. First of all . . . the thief has been going through our things, too. But not stealing anything . . . so why just steal from Kittencurl? I don't get it. And as far as a ghost goes . . . well, I think it's just nerves, but I don't blame her. I mean, Bailey just vanished. Where did she go? What happened?”

Trent waved his fork around. “Beam me up, Scotty?”

Jason elbowed him. Someone a table or two down snickered, as though they'd heard that also. He lowered his voice. “We already know there's a lot they haven't told us yet, and probably a lot they can't tell us. Not yet. And what if we went home, bragging about camp and why we're so special? They can't risk that.”

“So they're gonna keep us here forever? Camp Bri gadoon? We only wake up every hundred years?”

“No. Of course not. But . . . something.”

“We'd cook our own gooses by talking. Someone, somewhere, would want to dissect us for sure. Or burn us at a stake.”

“That won't shut everyone up, and you and I know it. So we learn, but we're in danger. In danger from what?”

“Ourselves? Other Magickers?”

Jason thought of the whispered comments about the Dark Hand. Someone or something worried Eleanora. Was it a good thing or bad thing they had all been gathered into one place at one time? “Could be both, Trent. Why would only the good guys survive, you know?”

Jason sat in thought a moment, pushed his French toast around, had a bite or two, then pushed his tray away. “I've got an appointment with Dr. Patel before I start classes.”

Mouth full and munching away, Trent managed a nod.

Jason felt a little odd going into the back office area of Lake Wannameecha Hall, unable to detect the quiet heaviness they'd felt last night. Of course, a lot of things seemed different at night, but he was fairly certain they'd run into a warding or something magical. He was relieved the eerie and menacing atmosphere was gone this morning.

Anita Patel looked up with a smile as he leaned in the doorway and knocked, her dark hair smoothed into quiet wings about her small face, her sari and jacket in soft blues, tiny mirrors sewn on them reflecting slightly as she shifted her weight. “Ah, Jason! Come in. Right on time. How is that ankle feeling?” She patted the cushion next to her as he sat down. He swung his leg up on it, and she unfastened the splints, pulling down the cuff of his sock.

He watched as she probed the mottled flesh with gentle fingertips. The color had gone from purplish to greenish and now was mostly yellowish, and the bruised area was shrinking quickly. It didn't hurt at all.

“You're healing very well.”

“Can I take 'em off?”

“I'd say so. Wear them only if you're hiking with Sousa or Jefferson, or maybe canoeing . . . use them when you're doing something really strenuous where you might need the support. Otherwise, I'd say, do your flex exercises, and you should be fine.” She smiled. “About time?”

He nodded. “Seems forever. Only four weeks though.”

“You heal quickly,” the doctor and yoga teacher said quietly. “It is a good thing, and equally lucky you didn't tear a ligament or tendon. Nasty to repair, those are.” Her almond eyes considered him. “Now, your hand please.”

“My . . . hand?”

“Yes. I'd like to see how that scratch is healing.” She paused, waiting.

Reluctantly, he laid his hand on the desktop. She raised a hairline-thin eyebrow, then gathered up his hand. “Healed,” she remarked in a very doctorly voice, looking the thin white crescent-shaped scar over carefully. She probed it gently and although he managed not to hiss his breath inward, she must have felt him tighten. “Or is it?” She felt again, gently, and he winced. “Strange. It is still tender, no?”