Orphan of Mythcorp by R.S. Darling Page B

that had shattered during Nimrods
uninvited entrance. “Come on you stubborn bugger, get off.”
    The nails pulled out, sending me sprawling
backwards. As I landed on my butt, a ten-foot tall black woman’s
face materialized in the hallway. “Ahh!” I screeched and scrambled
backwards. The ghostly face vanished like a puff of smoke as my
buggered knee exploded in pain. What was that thing? A huge
decapitated spook? Man, I needed doojee.
    With sweat dripping from my forehead, I stood
and used the cripple-stick to shove the plywood out of the way,
looking around to make sure that face didn’t return. The opening
was narrow, only wide enough for someone real thin. I knew being
skinny would come in handy some day. I wedged my leg through first,
and then, as I was stuffing my head through, I happened to look
back inside.
    Lamorak was watching. Blast! Caught in the
act. What could I do? I waved, pressed a finger to my lips.
“Shh.”
    Lamorak did not move; just stood there on the
bottom step, looking at me with his creepy whiteys. After ducking
through the hole, I glanced back. Lamorak swiveled around and
climbed the stairs, triple-braids bouncing with every step. He was
tight with Ash, so no doubt my little Great Escape would be fodder
for the Morai rumor-mill by sunup tomorrow.
    One problem at a time.
    I stood on the grass, sucked in great gusts
of fresh air. “Should’ve worn a jacket.”
    Bending down, I dragged my cripple-stick
through the hole and looked out over the baseball diamond. Quiet
out here. Peaceful. It was just temporary, I knew, but still. After
buttoning up the top of my blue flannel shirt, I started hobbling,
tracing the perimeter of the school. Seven minutes later I rounded
the second corner and reached the Weeping Willow in the front of
Philicity High.
    The school was situated about a half mile (a
wild guess, as I have no experience in judging distances) down from
the end of the street to my left. The other end I couldn’t even
see, it was shrouded in night shadows. So I took off, left down the
lane. It was strange. For the first time in my life walls did not
rise up beside me and there were no locked doors barring my path. I
could go anywhere, do anything. I was my own man walking my Empire
of Dirt.
    My right hand remained firmly pressed on the
top of the cripple-stick, but my left, well, it was jittering. It
kept shooting up to my face every few ticks, scratching at
imaginary creepy-crawlers.
    ‘ Are you scared?’ Marie asked. ‘You’re
hand is—’
    “ I’m fine,” I snapped. Shook my head
and sighed. Marie had lost some enthusiasm for her dancing.
“Listen, I’m sorry I bit your head off. It’s just,” snapping my
hand and banging the stick to dispel the jitters, “I’ve never been
on my own before. And it’s a big city.”
    Half-truths are the same as partial-lies, but
they sound friendlier.
    As I hobbled along on the sidewalk in dark
periodically interrupted by street lamps, I stole peeps at Maries
face. It was still bruised. She’d always been there for me, a loony
but constant presence I could always look on without feeling like a
perv or a stalker. She’d even taught me how to talk and how to
dance. Seeing her like this, bruised, depressed, scared—it shook
me. I decided that if I ended up needing another spook spy, I’d
send Castor or Naked Charlie, or maybe even Sigurd.
    Well, maybe not Sigurd. He was not someone
you wanted around unless some apocalyptic bull-crap was going
down.
    By the time I reached the end of the street,
I was totally buggered. I plopped my rump down on some kind of huge
memorial rock on the corner. As I rested, Marie kept watch,
sneaking peeks down the streets while performing half-hearted
pirouettes.
    The slip-slide murmur of traffic was
clear from my new rump rest and I could even see red and blue blurs
through the fog down the street. I looked up at the reflective
green street signs. “Corner of Beta and
151 st Street? Holy-moly!” We
were