Magic Time: Angelfire by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff, Marc Zicree Page B

Without a moment’s thought, I turn my horse and head due north.
    “Goldie?” Cal comes up beside me. Sooner (a nervous Nellie if there ever was one) prances and rattles his bit. “Don’t we need to find a place to cross the river?”
    I only half hear the question. “River? No… he’s on this side. Up ahead. North.”
    “Where?”
    “Don’t know. Somewhere. I hear him.”
    “What are we doing?” demands Colleen from behind. “We’ve been heading west all day. Why are we turning north all of a sudden?”
    “Because, that’s where he is.”
    She swings her horse—a big, red roan named Big T— right around in front of Jayhawk and cuts us off. “Look, Goldman, we are not out of danger here. Every night we spend in these woods is a night we risk attack. Crossing the river is our best chance of losing our Shadows.”
    “What makes you think they don’t live on that side of the river, too?” I ask. “Besides, this isn’t about avoiding Shadows. It’s about finding the Bluesman and his flare friend. Crossing the river is also our best chance of losing them .”
    She gives me a hard glance and turns to Cal. “Look, Cal, I vote we cut our losses and get the hell out of these woods while we still can. We’re heading west. Let’s keep heading west until we find what we’re after.”
    “I can handle the Shadows,” I say.
    “Oh, come on, Goldie. You did it once . Next time it might not work. Your juju doesn’t exactly come through every time, does it? Besides, they might figure out that the fire isn’t real.”
    “It wasn’t the fire; it was the light.”
    Colleen snorts. “Says you.”
    She is about to say more, but Cal’s patience has evaporated. “Cut it out—both of you. You sound like a couple of stubborn kids. I happen to think Goldie’s right. I also think we don’t have time for this argument. We have to keep moving.”
    “We sure do,” Colleen says. “West.”
    “Yes, after we’ve tracked this guy down and answered some questions.”
    “It may turn out to be nothing,” Colleen argues.
    “Or it may turn out to be everything,” Cal counters. “For now, we go north.”
    She meets him eye-to-eye for a moment, then shrugs and reins Big T out of my way. They follow me north along the Ohio River, down a corridor of crystal trees.

    We ride until dark, then set up camp near the river. From our campsite we can hear one of the things that’s different about the Ohio these days—it’s not the gentle, meandering giant of lore and legend. This new, post-Change Ohio doesn’t gurgle and murmur, it roars.
    A short hike up the back of a low bluff in the waning sun, and we can see the difference, too. The Ohio is a froth of whitewater rapids, and our camp is downwind of a very impressive, if abbreviated, waterfall. It’s loud enough to make sleep difficult.
    Of course, I have the added impediment of guilt. For his faith in me and my abilities, I have repaid Cal by losing contact with our Pied Piper. I can no longer hear him. And because we are in an area of low brush, there are few glass leaves sending out good vibrations.
    The river rapids are not loud enough to keep me from overhearing a muffled but heated disagreement after I’ve turned in. The participants are Colleen and Cal, and the first inkling of the subject comes when Our Ms. Brooks raises her voice to announce that Goldie is unstable and not to be trusted and, furthermore, Cal knows it.
    This is not an unusual observation for someone to make about me, but since I realize it’s leading up to something more portentous, I roll surreptitiously out of my sleeping bag and sidle up to the back of the rock behind which this fascinating debate is taking place.
    “Look, Cal,” Colleen is saying, “I know you don’t want to say it, or even think it, but we both know damn well that Goldie is two tacos short of a combination plate.”
    I hear the delicate sound of Cal’s eyes rolling. “He has a kindled mood disorder,” he defends me.