Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men Page 4

  In the next pass, John found Phil slipping inside his line with a move he hadn't expected. Their swords shrilled, as blade ran along blade until the hilts smashed up against each other. Phil whipped his foil down with a shriek of metal against metal. As the pressure of his opponent's weight left his blade, John skipped back to prepare for a counterattack. John cocked his wrist to activate the pass-over signal, but Phil still attacked, ignoring the right of way. He bore in, blade flashing. Caught off guard, John started to circle but misjudged the impetus of Phil's lunge.

  Phil's point rushed toward John, and he knew he would not be able to parry in time. He tried to twist out of the way, hoping to let the point pass by. As he shifted, his knee buckled, the tendons robbed of their tension as though someone had shoved his foot against them. Instead of twisting away from the attack, John collapsed. As he fell, the tip of Phil's blade ripped through his jacket, plowing a burning furrow through the skin of his shoulder.

  John gasped in shock. He was wounded, really wounded. Somehow the sensor tip had fallen from Phil's blade. Had John not fallen, the sword would have pierced his body. He could have been killed.

  Phil had his mask off in an instant. "You all right, John?"

  "Hell, Phil, you coulda killed him!" Will shouted.

  "I didn't know the tip was off," Phil protested.

  "Didn't you get the cut-out signal?" Yael asked. He sounded calmer than either of the other two.

  Phil shook his head. He was shaking. "I didn't feel anything."

  "I think we'd better quit for today," John said shakily.

  "John." Phil looked worried. "You gonna tell Coach?"

  "Going to have to." He plucked at the ripped jacket. The bloodstains were hard to miss on the white fabric. "I think he'll notice."

  "You gonna tell him I did it? It was an accident."

  "I know that, Phil. Look, it's okay. Really." Phil didn't look convinced. "Look, help me out of the jacket so I don't bleed on it any more."

  With Yael and Will's help, they got the jacket off without getting much more blood on it. They didn't jar John's arm much, either. Yael frowned at the wound. "Better get you patched, John."

  The jacket got tossed into the showers while Yael swabbed John's wound with disinfectant. By the time John was bandaged, everyone seemed calmer. Phil handed the soggy jacket to John. The rip was more noticeable than the bloodstains now, and John rolled it up without a word. They took a vow not to mention the incident to anyone until John determined what they'd tell Coach Montoya, at which point they would back whatever John said. The evidence of the accident put away, the talk turned deliberately to other things. Save for a lingering nervousness in voices and hesitancy in speech, the accident might never have happened.

  "I saw Kelley yesterday," Yael said.

  "Kelley Donaghue?" John knew the question was stupid even as he asked it.

  "Yeah, Donaghue. You chasing some other Kelley?"

  "I'm not chasing her."

  "The way you pant every time she walks by, I'd assumed you were running hard," Phil observed.

  "Hormones," Yael commented sagely. "Worse for the brain than books."

  "Have you asked her for a date yet?" Will asked.

  "Bet she'll be at the Zephyr concert," Yael said.

  "Maybe I'll check it out." John hated buzz rock. But if Kelley was going to be there, he might go have a listen.

  "Must be true love for you to be considering that," Phil said.

  "Ease up, guys," Will said.

  Phil gave him a sour look. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else?"

  Will glanced at his watch. "Shit! I gotta run if I'm gonna make the meeting. Sure you don't wanta come, John?"

  "Kelley Donaghue won't be there," Yael pointed out.

  "Maybe next time, Will."

  Politely, Will made no mention that John's response was the same as always. John wondered if Will believed him.

  Phil also had something else to do, so it was only Yael and John who headed over to the student center.

  The concert was a toxic spill of sound, but Kelley Don-aghue was there. She seemed surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly. John's attempts at conversation at any volume less than a shout didn't get anywhere. Even shouting he couldn't hear half of what he was saying himself. Kelley's words were lost even more completely. Fortunately, Kelley seemed as frustrated as John over their inability to say anything to each other.

  The gang with whom Kelley had come was headed off to the Frilly Cow for a late-night snack, but John was broke. Since he hadn't really been expecting to go anywhere but home after practice, he hadn't brought any money with him. Bad form to mooch, or sit around with nothing in front of you. Afraid she'd think less of him, he mumbled an excuse that involved some kind of heavy assignment. She seemed disappointed, and that was encouraging. John did come away with one treasure, a promise from Kelley to go to another concert with him. A quieter one. He whistled "Jolly Drover Boy" all the way back to the rezcom.

  Kim Murphey was doing sets down at the Northsider Club.

  Was that a good choice?

  Maybe. Kelley had said a quieter place, and she really liked music. She was a music major; she had to like lots of different kinds of music, didn't she?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not. She might be like the others. As soon as any of his potential girlfriends saw his room or went on a date to a folk concert, they took off like a rocket, blasting back to corporate mainline straight! ine.

  It was their fault. They had no appreciation. And not just for the music.

  Meaning no appreciation for me. Well, a nice thought. But how could you tell for sure?

  He waited, but he got no answer.

  Ah, well. Faye wasn't always there.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Maybe the distant rumble of thunder and the threat of a storm had put Helen on edge, but the woman pulling up on the motorcycle gave her a shiver. She didn't really look like trouble. Not like those biker babes. No leather jacket, no freaky haircut, no gloss makeup. This one looked almost old-fashioned with her long hair, ratty knapsack, denim jacket and jeans. And a helmet. The wild ones never wore helmets.

  Shifting for a better look, Helen kicked the sign lying under the counter for the twentieth time tonight. Why hadn't Sam gotten around to putting the damn thing up? All well and good that he was bright enough to think of a placard advertising their store as the first convenience in Maine. Sam was the manager; he was supposed to think up things like that. He'd even done the work of making the damned thing himself, instead of sticking her or one of the other employees with the job, but he hadn't finished it. Sign didn't do any good if no one saw it. The counter help had been tripping over the damn thing for nearly a week now.

  Helen watched the woman leave the helmet balanced on the bike's fuel tank. Stupid move. She might get away with it, though. It was only Tuesday. If this were a weekend the lot would have been full, and the helmet would have been gone before the woman got into the store.

  The woman's features were sharp, and might have been really pretty when she was younger. She looked tired and a little worn out. When she came through the door, she looked around as if trying to put everything into its place.

  As if this shop were different from millions of other convenience stores.

  The woman headed toward the back, down the aisle leading to the microwave and coffee bar. As she passed, Helen pretended to be busy with work at the counter. Her act wouldn't fool anybody who'd worked a store, but most people didn't know how little there was to do. The woman didn't even look at her. Helen continued to watch the woman surreptitiously. She didn't look dangerous, but there was something about her. Better to keep an eye on her. You could never be sure about someone who rode a motorcycle.

  By the time Jose finally emerged from the back, the woman had gotten her coffee and had put a burrito into the 'wave. Jose caught sight of her and gave her a look, a lingering look. That kind of business was normal for him; the boy woul
d jump anything with the right genitals. Almost anything, she amended. Like Helen, this woman was too old for him.

  On second thought, maybe the woman wasn't that old. Real exhaustion made a person look older than she was. The way the woman had fumbled with the 'wave showed that she was really out of it.

  Jose sauntered past her in the aisle, pretending that he had business at the self-service counter instead of joining Helen at the counter as he was supposed to. He might as well have just come up front. She didn't even look at him when he bumped her elbow; she just sidestepped away from him. Jose finally looked in Helen's direction, and she gave him a scowl. He grinned sheepishly and abandoned his stalk, bringing the rolls of change she'd sent him to the back for.

  Just as Jose lifted the panel to enter the counter section, there was a flicker from the parking lot. Power surge? No, the store lights had stayed steady. She hadn't heard a truck. Probably just her imagination. Sam always said she had an active imagination. If he only knew what she imagined about him.

  She had to slap Jose lightly on the shoulder to get his attention long enough for him to turn over the change. The boy was still checking out the woman.

  "Forget it, Jose."

  "But she's so pretty."

  Helen looked again. The plastic food seemed to agree with the woman; she didn't look near as bad as when she had walked in. Yeah, you could say she was pretty, if you liked the angular, foxy-featured type. Jose would like the type; he liked all types. The boy mumbled something to himself in Spanish, and Helen just shook her head. Young and headstrong. She had work to do. She rang the "No Sale" to open the register for the coins, and the store went dark.

  Damn!

  Storm must have caught a power line somewhere. Even the streetlights were out. A car went by, headlamps throwing a wash of light across the lot. Nothing out there but the woman's bike. No more helmet.

  Even on a weeknight.

  With the power out, Helen had to secure the till. Telling Jose to close the register's drawer, she stepped out from behind the counter. Best to lock the doors until the power came back.

  Impulsively, she stepped outside to see how extensive the outage was. Funny, there wasn't any wind. Must have been a lightning strike, then. Just took out the local stuff, though; she could see lights down at Duffy's Tavern and most of the houses beyond it. The streetlights along Route 4 were on, too. But for at least a quarter mile either side of the store everything was dark.

  Amazing how quiet things got when it was dark.

  She heard a scuffling by the dumpster and turned quickly enough to catch a glimpse of a pair of kids ducking behind it.

  The helmet thieves, no doubt. She took a step back toward the door, knowing she'd best lock it up.

  With a shock, she realized that the kids were running toward her, not away. One of them held something in his hand, something that glinted.

  The helmet?

  Shit, the kid had a knife!

  She stepped back again, hand groping for the door she'd let close behind her. Instead of metal, her hand touched leather. Warm, slick leather. She spun to find a tall man standing between her and the door.

  "Help me, mister."

  "You're not her," he said. He sounded disappointed.

  Pain shocked a scream from her as fire lanced into her back. Her grasping hands reached out for the man, but he stepped away from her. Her knees hit the cement. Her spine seemed on fire. She'd been knifed in the back.

  Why was the guy just standing there?

  Fuck him!

  Helen heaved herself up. One of the kids was tugging on her. Little bastard was wearing a mask. His buddy was pawing at her too, his nails gouging like claws. God, were they going to rape her while she bled her life away?

  She kicked one of the little bastards and he staggered back. She backhanded the other, sending him staggering away too. She was surprised at her strength. Where was it coming from? Her back felt cold now.

  Her knees buckled again, dropping her. She reached up for the door handle, but one of the punks grabbed her arm. She felt his stinking breath on her cheek and his nails digging into her flesh. He twisted her arm back, painfully. Her knees left the cement. She flailed helplessly as he heaved her up. The kid was laughing as he held her over his head.

  What the hell was he on?

  His partner chattered something in a gutter dialect, and both of them laughed. The jazzed punk grunted and heaved her straight at the store window.

  She hit it, hard, and smashed through. The impact was worse than that night her ex-boyfriend Billy had thrown her against the wall. She clipped the video rack and sent it spinning in a clatter of cassettes. She heard a distant sound like steak hitting a counter, and she was gasping for breath on the floor.

  Much worse than what Billy had done.

  There was glass everywhere. She felt it slicing her skin, shredding her clothes. More of it tinkled down on her in a sharp-edged rain.

  "MadredeDios!"

  Josh's voice was halfway between surprise and fear.

  Something flew in through the smashed window, something about the size of one of the punks. They had to be jazzed, really jazzed, to jump like that. Jose, standing frozen in shock, was nearly bowled over. The other one piled in too. The three of them went down in a heap of flailing limbs.

  Helen's legs wouldn't move and her right arm lay twisted beneath her. She was broken, dying. Her chest was afire, leaving her no breath to scream. A warm stickiness was oozing along her thigh. She began to cry. It was all she could do.

  The sounds of struggle by the counter stopped, but she didn't care. No point. No point at all.

  Nym started moving as soon as she saw the shadows flickering outside. She went through the door the male shopkeeper had used to enter the public portion of the store. She found herself in a stockroom. Off to the right was another room, a window separating it from this one. Through the window she saw a man sitting at. a desk. Through the partly open door leaked loud, rhythmic sound, almost music; all bass, no melody. Noise. The noise drowned out the struggle behind her. The man looked up from the papers in front of him, and his brows furrowed when he saw her.

  She ignored him.

  The back door was bolted. She threw the bolt and flung the door open, stepping to one side as she did so. Nothing rushed in, so she ran out. Keeping next to the building, she circled around to the front.

  At the front corner she stopped, glancing cautiously around. She could see no one. The sounds of struggle still emanated from the store.

  She ran to the bike.

  The helmet was gone, but that wasn't important. She hopped on and kicked the engine to life, revving it hard. She bumped jarringly over the parking stop as she made her turn. Fighting the bike's attempt to twist out of her control, she barely avoided the dumpster. But then she was clear of obstructions and pointed toward the road.

  Something whooshed past and fire blossomed behind her. A glance showed her the convenience store engulfed in a growing fireball. The tall silhouette of a man moved between her and the fire. She throttled up, ducking low against the bike. Her hair streamed behind her and she pushed the bike as hard as she could.

  The air crackled.

  She was still too close. And no protection.

  Slowing as much as she dared, she cut around a parked car to put it between her and the store. Almost instantly, the vehicle burst into flame. Heat washed over her.

  She opened the throttle. Distance was the only answer now.

  Something else ignited behind her, but not so close.

  She left it all behind.

  Enviro lab had gone on forever. Sharon, John's partner, was a real scijock, always concerned for two or three decimal places past what John thought necessary. They'd been the last ones done. By the time John got cleaned up and out, the campus was emptying. Students in ones and twos were hustling back to the dorms and out to the rezcoms. John ambled along, content to take his time. A band of raucous frat boys from one of the jock houses, alrea
dy well into celebrating the weekend, tumbled past. He indulgently endured their jostling. Who was he to complain? He had his own celebrating to do tonight.

  Right?

  Ah, well. He supposed this was one situation Faye would not be keen to comment on. Faye had seemed worried about him all week, even before the fencing incident with Phil, but she hadn't responded to his questions about her fretfulness, which was a little unusual; she was usually frank about her feelings. She was probably just in a funk because John had a date tonight.

  He didn't like it when she acted this way, and had hoped he and she could talk it out. But she had made herself scarce, and they hadn't talked much. Even when she was around, she was far less communicative than usual, so he really didn't know if he was right or wrong in his suppositions.

  She'd get over it.

  He had just begun to think he detected her lurking around, when he noticed that the frat boys had pulled up and were blocking the entire walkway in front of him. They were hooting and hollering and egging on one of their number, a hulking jock by the name of Winston whom John remembered from his days on the frosh B-ball squad. Winston had been long on brawn and short on brain, and something of a bully. He and John hadn't gotten along at all. Winston was shoving a smaller kid around and shouting slurred insults. Some things never changed.

  Winston's victim was much smaller than he was, a slender kid wearing glasses. Glasses! Nobody but geeks wore glasses anymore. The kid looked vaguely familiar, but John couldn't recall his name. It came to him when he heard the kid's reedy voice yelping in protest when Winston snatched his glasses. This geek was one of the freshmen who had made advanced placement into John's second-year Global Studies program. Trahn was his name.

  Jocks and geeks, a natural antipathy, and not something to get involved in. John edged his way through the outer fringes of Winston's frat brothers. Intent on their brother's harassment of a lower life-form, they let him pass. John felt sympathy for the kid and hoped things wouldn't get too physical; in the past, he'd received more than enough similar attention. John cleared the knot of jocks and jock sympathizers and headed north. It wasn't his problem.