Page 112

“Mark, wait!” she called, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into her voice. Even if they weren’t friends now, they had been once—at least to some degree.
Isobel struggled to her feet. She caught up to him, hovering a safe distance behind until they were in view of the stands, knowing her chances of getting slugged would be less within the direct sight of parents and coaches. “Listen to me. You don’t understand!”
Her eyes darted between his back and the players collecting on the field. The announcer’s voice echoed over the sound system, reviewing the score. She saw Brad make his way with the other players toward center field. Securing his helmet in place, he clutched it to his head, gripping either side as though he hoped to block out the world. He didn’t look back, and Isobel realized that he could not see the dark forms that trailed him.
“Mark,” she said, catching hold of his arm.
“Get off me!” he shouted, jerking away.
“You have to tell Coach Logan to pull Brad!” she insisted. She caught hold of him again. “You have to!”
“I said, don’t touch me!” he growled.
“Denson!”
They both looked up. Coach Logan marched toward them, a cold wind whipping his fine white hair, reddening the hard set of his already chapped face. “What’s this?” he demanded, gesturing at Isobel as though she were a pet Mark had allowed to follow him.
“Brad told her to leave him alone, but she keeps bugging him anyway,” he said.
“Where’s your coach? Why are you harassing my players?” Coach Logan growled, the hot-iron color in his face getting deeper by the second. “Aren’t you supposed to be over there somewhere?” he asked, gesturing toward where the squad stood regrouping on the sidelines.
Fine, Isobel thought. She’d bypass Mark altogether—go straight to the source.
“You have to pull Brad out of the game!” The words rushed out of her all at once, tumbling one over the other. “Something’s not right. You have to pull him,” she repeated, pointing toward the field.
Now his face turned purple. His jowls started to quiver, and just when Isobel began to wonder whether he might be having a heart attack, he screamed at her, his voice rough and raw from the back of his throat, like a saw blade through steel. “Do I tell you how to cheer!?”
Isobel had to hunker into herself to avoid the flying spit.
“Denson!” he shouted before spinning away to thunder back toward the sidelines, his entire form vibrating with rage. Without another glance, Mark followed, securing his own helmet.
Isobel watched their retreating backs. Helpless, she looked searchingly to the field, another cold wind causing her to shiver.
“Well,” a quiet voice said. It had come from behind her, soft yet scratchy, with that strange static essence. “That went well.”
Isobel turned to see him leaning against the brick side of the stands. His wraith-thin frame partially obscured the painted emblem of the hawk’s head. With his arms folded and his hands tucked beneath his elbows, his red claws stretched out on either side like lethal fans. He leveled his black stare on her from beneath the ridge of his brow. A few spikes of coarse, featherlike hair escaped to hang loose over the jagged hole in his white face.
He smiled crimson. “Hello again . . . cheerleader.”
36
No Return
Isobel was really starting to hate Reynolds. Of all the opportune moments for him to show his stupid shrouded face, this one would be ideal. He could be so freaking after the fact.
“Call them off,” she said, staring straight at Pinfeathers, fists clenched at her sides.
“Ask me nicely,” he said, grinning, tilting his head at her as though there was something about her that struck him as quaint.
“Do it.”
“Don’t I even get a ‘please’?”
“What do you want with him?” she piped. “Brad doesn’t have anything to do with this!”
His expression darkened, the smile fading. “Doesn’t he?”
Her gaze flew toward the field. In an instant, she realized what Pinfeathers had been doing: He’d been trying to stall her—and he’d succeeded. She cursed under her breath and broke away, running full speed toward the fence that separated her from the playing field.
Pinfeathers appeared at her side, his figure unfurling through curling wisps of violet smoke. “I have a message for you,” he said.
“And I have one for you. Go away,” she snarled, showing him the open palm of one hand. Reaching the fence, she gripped the top, preparing to jump it. Could she really stop the play by herself? Or would she just get flattened into cheerleader pizza?