The Warrior Heir (3 page)

Chapter One

The Flying Lobeck

"Jack!"

His mother's voice cut into his dreams and he reluctantly opened his eyes. It was late, he could tell. The light had lost that early-morning watercolor quality and streamed boldly through the window. He'd stayed up too late the night before, stargazing. It was the night of the new moon, and some of the key constellations hadn't slid over the horizon until after midnight.

"Coming!" he shouted. "Almost ready!" he lied as his feet hit the wood floor. His jeans lay in a heap next to the bed, where he'd stepped out of them the night before. He jerked them on, pulled a fresh T-shirt from the drawer, and threw a pair of socks over his shoulder.

Jack careened around the corner into the bathroom. No time for a shower. He washed his face, wet his fingers and ran them through his hair.

"Jack!" His mother's voice had a warning note.

Jack leaped down the back stairs and into the kitchen.

His mom had granola and orange juice waiting for him. She must have been distracted, because she had also poured him a cup of coffee. She'd left her muesli unfinished and was sorting through a stack of papers.

That was Becka. His mother was a woman of a thousand passions. Although she had a PhD in medieval literature and a law degree, she had difficulty managing the household economy: things like school schedules, lunch money, and getting the library books back on time. Jack had taken on the task of organizing both himself and his mother from an early age.

Becka looked at her watch and groaned. "I've got to get dressed! I'm supposed to be at a meeting in an hour." She shoved a large blue bottle across the table toward him. "Don't forget to take your medicine." She thrust her papers into a large portfolio. "I'll be at the library all morning and in court this afternoon."

"Don't forget I have soccer tryouts after school," Jack said. "In case you get home first." His mother was a worrier. She always said it was because he'd almost died when he was a baby. Personally, Jack thought such things were hardwired. Some people always worried, others never did. He supposed his father fell into the latter category. Maybe it was hard to worry from three states away.

"Soccer tryouts," Becka repeated solemnly, as if to fix it in her mind. Then she raced up the stairs.

Someone pounded at the side door. Jack looked up, surprised. "Hey, Will.You're early."

It was Will Childers, stooping to peer through the screen. Although Jack was tall, Will towered over him, and he was built solidly enough to play tackle on the varsity football team. His trumpet case looked like a toy next to him. "Jack! We gotta move! We've got jazz band practice this morning for the concert next week."

Jack slapped his forehead and carried his cereal bowl to the sink. Pushing his feet into his shoes without untying them, he grabbed the book bag waiting by the door. Fortunately his saxophone was at school. "School starts early enough in the day as it is," he grumbled as he followed Will down the street at a trot.

They cut across the grassy square and threaded their way between the classic sandstone buildings of the college. Trinity was a postcard Midwest college town; its streets lined with stately Victorian homes and ancient oaks and maples. Full of people who could recite every sin Jack had ever committed. He'd lived there all his life.

Thanks to Will, they were only a few minutes late for practice. It wasn't until Jack was seated in homeroom and the first bell had already rung that he realized he had forgotten to take his medicine.

What was amazing was that it had never happened before. The perfect record so far was his mother's doing. The medicine was priority one with her. She never forgot, not once, not this time either. He was the one who'd messed up.

Jack knew the history well enough. Jessamine Longbranch, the famous London heart surgeon, had swept in from overseas to steal him from the jaws of death. She still visited the States once or twice a year, and would give Jack a checkup.

Her bedside manner left a lot to be desired. He'd strip to the waist and she'd do a brief physical, run her hands over the muscles in his arms and legs and chest, listen to his heart with an unusual cone-shaped stethoscope, check his height and weight and blood pressure, and proclaim him healthy.

He always felt like a piece of meat during those meetings with Dr. Longbranch, poked and prodded for fat and bone, interrogated about his exercise habits. Their tenant, Nick, said it was a failing common to surgeons; they preferred to deal with people under anaesthesia.

Each visit ended with a reminder to take his medicine. Dr. Longbranch always delivered a new supply on her visits, and his mother ordered more from her office in London. The medicine in the blue bottle had taken on a kind of talisman quality, the elixir that kept evil away.

No one was home to bring it to him, he knew. Becka would be in the library at the university, and then in court, unreachable at both places. His mother didn't carry a cell phone because she was convinced they caused brain tumors.

Perhaps he could reach Nick, though, at the house or his apartment. Nick would answer the phone if he was doing handyman work in the house, though he never checked his voice mail. Or maybe Penworthy could be persuaded to let him walk home and get it. It was worth a try. He asked for a hall pass just as the final bell rang.

Leotis Penworthy, the Trinity High School principal, was working cleanup in the school lobby, intercepting students who hadn't yet made it into their classrooms and taking names from the unfortunates who still trickled through the front door.

Penworthy wore ankle-length pants and a powder blue polyester sports jacket that was three sizes too small. His stomach poured over a belt hidden somewhere beneath. His face was always flushed, as if the constriction at his waist had forced the blood upward into his temples.

"MISTER Fitch!" he crowed, collaring a boy who was trying to slip past him. "Do you know what time it is?" It was a comical matchup. Fitch's clothes were a chaotic mix of Goodwill bargains and oversized military surplus chic, sleeves rolled to fit, pants belted to keep them from sliding from his slender frame. His pale hair was bleached white at the tips, and he wore three earrings in one ear.

"Sorry, Mr. Penworthy," Fitch said. He glanced up at Jack, over Penworthy's shoulder, then looked back at the floor. The corners of his mouth twitched, but his voice was solemn. "I had some updates to do online this morning, and I guess I lost track of time." Fitch was webmaster for the school's site, and unofficial systems administrator for the high school. A cheap source of high-grade technical expertise.

"Don't think you can use the Web site as an excuse, Mister. We gave you that computer so you could do the work on your own time."

Harmon Fitch had run late for a lifetime. His mother worked nights, and Fitch had four younger brothers and sisters to get on the bus.

"Mr. Penworthy," Jack broke in. "Excuse me. I, ah, forgot something at home and wondered if I could go get it." He kept his tone neutral.

The principal turned his attention to Jack.

Penworthy despised him, an opinion he communicated in a hundred different ways.

"Mr. Swift," Penworthy said, lips spreading in a predatory smile. "I find it incredible that a boy of your intelligence could be so utterly disorganized."

"You're right," said Jack politely. "And I apologize. I can be home and back before homeroom is over, if you'll let me go." Fitch was already halfway down the hallway. Penworthy didn't notice. He had a new and better target.

"I'm sorry," the principal said in a way that had no sorry in it. "Students are not allowed out of the building during school hours. It's a matter of liability."

Jack didn't feel like explaining about the medicine to Penworthy. It wasn't something he liked to talk about. But he knew an explanation was his ticket home. "I have to go home to get some medicine. It's for my heart. I forgot to take it this morning."

Penworthy scowled, rocking on his heels like one of those inflatable dolls that pops back up when you knock it down. Jack knew it would be difficult to deny this request (a matter of liability). But the principal had weapons of his own.

"Fine," Penworthy snapped. "By all means, sign yourself out in the office and go home and get it. But plan on serving a detention this afternoon to make up the time."

"But I can't," Jack protested. "I have soccer tryouts."

"Well, Mr. Swift, let this be a lesson to you." Penworthy's pale eyes gleamed with triumph. "Nothing reinforces memory like consequences."

Jack knew he was stuck. If he didn't make it to tryouts, he wouldn't make the team. And he thought he had a chance to make JV at least. "Never mind, then," he said, turning toward the pay phones next to the school office. Becka wouldn't allow Jack to get a cell phone, either. "I'll call home and see if I can get someone to bring it in to me."

"Just make sure it's an adult," Penworthy warned. "We have a zero tolerance policy regarding drugs in school."

There was no answer at the house or at Nick's apartment. Surely a few hours' delay in taking his medicine couldn't hurt. In his sixteen years, he couldn't recall so much as a single symptom. The surgery had cured him, as far as he could tell. Longbranch had never even explained exactly what the medication did. His mother, who was usually so full of questions, treated it like a magic potion.

He felt fine anyway. If any symptoms developed, he would say he was sick and they would have to let him go home. He returned the phone to its cradle and headed back to homeroom.

Jack hadn't been back in his seat for more than a minute when Ellen Stephenson touched him on the shoulder.

"What kind of measurements did you get in the respiration lab?" she whispered. "I was working on my lab report last night and my numbers were all over the place."

Jack fished in his book bag and passed his science folder to Ellen. "Mine were, too. I was wondering if the machine had been calibrated."

She bent her head over his data sheet, squinting at his sloppy notes and raking her chin-length brown hair behind her ears. It hung, straight and shining, like a kind of helmet. She half turned in her seat, extending her long legs into the aisle. There was something different about her today, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Lipstick. She was wearing rosy pink lipstick. Jack couldn't remember seeing her wear makeup before. He drummed his fingers lightly on the desk, contemplating Ellen's lips at close range as she read down the page. It had been a long time since he'd looked at anyone but his ex, Leesha.

"Your data are at least as variable as mine," she agreed, passing his folder back. Their hands collided, touched for a moment, and she jerked hers back quickly. The folder fell to the floor, scattering his papers.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry." Kneeling next to his desk, she frantically scraped the pages into a pile. She looked up at him, mutely extending the wad of papers toward him. Her eyes were clear gray under a smoky fringe of lashes, and her nose had a little bump at the bridge, as if it had been broken once. Jack resisted an urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, he stuffed his papers back into his folder and extended his hand to help her up.

This seemed to unsettle her again. She brushed at her skirt and fussed with her hair. "Well. Maybe we can ask Mr. Marshall about it in class."

"Ask him about … ? Oh. Sure, okay." Jack cleared his throat. "If you want."

The bell rang, startlingly loud. Jack began shoving books and folders into his book bag.

"Um…Jack?"

He looked up to see Ellen standing between him and the door, her backpack slung over her shoulder. "I wondered if you felt like studying together tonight for the social studies test. I took some good notes," she added. "We … ah … could compare them…"

Jack looked at her in surprise. Ellen had never shown any interest in him before, other than as a benchmark of sorts. She was new to Trinity High School, but she already had the reputation of being a high achiever. In fact, she had a few points on Jack in some of his honors classes.

Maybe she doesn't have much else to do, Jack thought. It sucked that she had to change schools in her sophomore year. Ellen didn't hang out much. He didn't recall seeing her at dances, or at Corcoran's after a game.

She was really cute, though, and he wasn't going out with anyone. Not since Leesha dumped him for that jerk Lobeck. He'd probably be at tryouts and …

Tryouts.

"I'd love to. I mean, I wish I could," he said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "But I've got soccer tryouts tonight, and I'm not sure what time I'll be done."

"Soccer tryouts?" she repeated, looking him up and down. "Really? Do you play?"

Jack sent up a prayer to the gods of soccer. "Hopefully."

"All right," she said, dropping her gaze away from him, the color coming up into her cheeks. "Sure. Maybe another time." She shifted her book bag again and headed for the doorway, moving with a lithe, athletic grace that sucked the breath right out of him.

"Stephenson!" he called after her. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. "Another time, promise?" He grinned at her. She returned a tentative smile, and then was gone.

Dumb, he grumbled to himself. Really deft. He knew from experience that girls wouldn't ask twice. He had lots of friends who were girls, had known most of them since they'd shared apple cider and oatmeal cookies at the Trinity co-op nursery school. It wasn't easy to figure out how to move on from there. Small towns were kind of… incestuous.

Leesha Middleton had been different. She'd moved to Trinity the previous year. You didn't make friends with Leesha. You surrendered. She could have gone out with anyone, but she chose Jack. And now she'd chosen Lobeck.

Ellen was new blood, too. Well, he'd probably have to make the next move.

Jack tried to call home again at lunchtime. Then he tried his mom's office, but Becka hadn't checked in with Bernice. He shuddered, imagining his mother's reaction if she got the message in the late afternoon. With any luck, he'd beat her home. Anyway, he felt fine. Great, in fact.