Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(6)

Tack had pulled himself up against a post, hacking and spitting. "That all you got?" he wheezed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, then calmly regarding a red smear on his wrist. "You hit like a bitch."

"Don't!" I shouted at Ethan, arms shooting wide. "He's down! You won, okay?"

Ethan looked me in the eye. Blinked. Then he stepped around me and stomped on Tack's hand. My friend howled as Ethan squatted down to eye level. "Ready to channel Taylor Swift, Thomas? Warm up that pretty voice."

Hands balling into fists, I was about to do something stupid when a voice carried from beyond the circle. "Yo, Ethan!"

Ethan looked up, annoyed. He spotted Noah, who tapped his watch and pointed toward the parking lot. "Let's get out of here, man. I'm starving."

"But Tack hasn't sung yet."

Across the courtyard, a door swung open.

Principal Myers stepped outside. "What's going on out here?"

The crowd dissolved like smoke, Ethan and his friends hustling away with the others. In moments, the only people left were me, Tack, and our principal.

Myers trudged over and stared down at Tack, frown lines creasing his forehead. "Bit off more than you could chew again, didn't you, son?"

"Inner ear infection." Tack rose unsteadily to his feet. "I fall down a lot."

"Who did this?" Myers asked sharply. 

Tack remained silent, eyes on his sneakers.

Myers grunted, then turned to me. "Ms. Wilder? Care to share who just pummeled Mr. Russo? Although I bet I can guess."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. This was Tack's call.

"I see." Myers removed his glasses, began cleaning them with a handkerchief. "Well, normally we'd all go to my office until I had this sorted out, but today is not a normal day. If things go well tonight . . . assuming we get good news . . ." He shook his head testily, as if unsure how to continue. "We'll discuss it tomorrow."

Myers pierced me with the glare of a disappointed father. "Can you see that Mr. Russo's injuries are properly attended to? Without missing your appointment?"

"Of course." I scooped up our packs. Tack straightened his clothes with exaggerated dignity and began limping toward the parking lot. Myers watched us for a long moment before heading back inside.

I caught up with Tack by the curb. "Hey!"

He halted with his back to me. I put a hand on his shoulder. Felt him tense. Ignoring the reaction, I gently but firmly spun him around. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"That I was going to get my ass kicked anyway, so I might as well take the first shot."

"Well, mission accomplished. How's the hand?"

He flexed his fingers painfully. "I don't think anything broke. Hurts like hell, though. Got any Advil?"

I dug some from my bag, along with a package of tissues. As Tack downed three pills, I began dabbing his right eye, which was already swollen. His hand was a puffy mess.

Ethan had met my eye before delivering the stomp. That one was for me.

Inside, something snapped.

Ethan's smirk. His casual violence.

Or maybe yesterday had been one murder too many.

Releasing Tack, I spotted Ethan's Wrangler at the back of the parking lot, a dozen spots from the next closest vehicle. Everyone had fled on foot, probably down to the cafés on Main Street, intending to return for their cars after the smoke cleared.

We were all alone.

"Come on." I hurried toward the Wrangler.

Tack followed, confusion plain on his face. "What? Why?"

After checking to make sure the coast was clear, I reached inside and pulled the gas tank release. Circling to the passenger side, I spotted an oily rag and a can of WD-40 on the floor of the backseat.

"What are you doing?" Tack whispered. "Ethan loves this Jeep, maybe physically."

"He shouldn't have stomped your hand." I ripped the rag in two and doused the larger piece with oil. Then I unscrewed the gas cap and shoved it inside.

Tack's eyes nearly popped from his skull. He ducked behind the hood, eyes darting with new intensity. "Holy crap, Min! This may be a little out of proportion."

"So was crushing your fingers." I tapped my lips, stymied, ignoring the voice of reason screaming inside my head. Then I spotted a book of matches in Ethan's ashtray. It's almost like he wants me to do it.

Beads of sweat rolled down my back. I lit a match, used it to ignite the smaller rag. The oil-soaked cloth caught easily, orange tendrils curling and twisting like greedy fingers. Pivoting carefully, I held the flames under the larger rag hanging from the gas tank.



       
         
       
        

Poof.

Tack was bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Come on! We gotta bail!"

"Not too fast, though." I rose, walked casually down the aisle. "Don't attract attention."

"Attention. Right." He could barely keep from sprinting. "Wouldn't want that."

Thirty paces to the sidewalk. Ten more out of the parking lot. Roughly thirty seconds had passed, with no effect. As we crossed the street, I worried that my plan had failed and we'd have to go back and ditch the evidence.

A jarring boom. The ground shook. Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted a black plume billowing above the trees, angry shadows dancing just beneath.

Tack swallowed audibly. "Oh, man. We really did it this time. If Ethan ever finds out-"

"I almost hope he does." Then I turned my back on the mounting inferno.

Here's another thing about me.

I'm not afraid of much. Not after what I've been through.

And I forgive as little as I forget.

Hitching both our packs, I led Tack away down the street, my blood pumping mile-a-minute. Somewhere far off, a siren began to wail.





5



I hug the brand-new Fancy Farms Pony to my chest.

Rock it back and forth.

I love her. I love her piebald coat, like a checkerboard come to life. I love her flowing black mane, as soft as real hair. I love the slight bend to her right foreleg, as if she's ready to prance right across my lap and off the couch.

I name her Spirit. She's two feet tall, an exact replica of a real horse. I will cherish her forever.

It's my tenth birthday. Just Mom and me, tucked inside our trailer as a thunderstorm rages outside. The disturbing memory of two years ago has faded. It was just a bad dream, like they all said.

My presents aren't expensive, but I love them dearly. I know we don't have much money. Jessica told me so, one day after school. But I really, really wanted a horse to play with. Nothing as babyish as another My Little Pony-although, to be honest, I still play with the four I have. I wanted something lifelike. Something that felt as real as possible without a barn and hay and a jillion dollars.

And Mom found the perfect one.

I hop Spirit around the room while Mom readies my birthday cake. I'm overwhelmed with happiness. Everything I need is right here in our cozy mobile home. Why would I want all that other stuff Sarah and Jessica are constantly talking about? Tiaras and nail-styling kits and two-piece bathing suits. Seems so silly. 

I wish Thomas was here, but I know not to bring it up again. A shadow crossed Mom's face when I asked why he wasn't coming. Something to do with his father. It's okay, though. I'll see him tomorrow.

There's a lull in the storm.

"Want to see the neighborhood, Spirit?" I carry her outside with both arms. Mom cautions me not to go far. I won't, I promise.

Some people like to make fun of our trailer park, but I know Spirit isn't like that. The packed-earth lanes and boxcar rows are perfect for a frisky pony.

The rain has let up, but the wind still howls, shaking the floodlight mounted on a post beside our unit. The sun has set, and it's very dark. The usual night sounds are missing, probably because of the storm. No crickets. No squawking birds. Not a single call of a hunting coyote. Suddenly, I don't want to be outside, not even in my own front yard.

As if in response, there's a crack of thunder. The sky opens up once more.

Before I can scurry back to the door, a wraithlike form steps into the light, throwing a long shadow that covers me head to toe. For a moment, I'm blind.

Then my eyes adjust and I see him.

The black-suited man.

He's here, standing across from me in the pelting rain.

The nightmare of two years ago explodes in my brain. Cotton candy. The chasm. A push in the back and a long, long fall. The man looks exactly the same as on that day.

I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the storm. Dropping Spirit in the mud, I dart for my front door, but the monster is quicker. So I whirl and bolt down the rain-soaked lane, then up a narrow alley between neighboring units.

Heavy boots slosh through puddles behind me. Fighting panic, I double back along the rear fence, hoping to swing behind our trailer and pound on the window. Mom has to be wondering why I'm not back inside by now.

Lightning knifes across the inky-black sky.

I freeze. The man is ahead of me, blocking my path. I dive into the scraggly bushes lining the fence. There's a hole in the chain-link nearby. Thomas and I use it all the time.

Branches snap a yard from where I'm crawling through the mud. I can sense the man straining to reach me, hindered by the grasping thorns. Slithering on my belly, I find the gap and scramble through it, a thousand tiny needles ripping at my skin.

I stand, run, pitch headfirst into a flooded gully. Without a plan, I struggle down the swollen creek bed, thinking only of escape.