nemesis
thing," Zane agreed. "They may be competitive at sports, but I didn’t
get that he had any hard feelings toward the guy. If there’s real hatred, Matt
must be in the dark."
"That’s what scares me," I said weakly.
"I’m scared for Matt, first. That hatred was palpable; I don’t know Rod at
all, but if I had to guess, I’d say that a feeling that strong was going to get acted on, sooner or later. What if he’s violent?"
"He may not be," Zane offered. "Most
people aren’t. Or the anger may resolve itself—maybe there was a
misunderstanding of some kind."
"Maybe," I agreed, finding it hard to
imagine a guy as friendly and transparent as Matt doing anything to rouse that
kind of hatred. "But until I know for sure, it’s going to keep scaring me.
That… and the whole idea that this thing of mine—"
"You mean this gift?"
"This curse ," I corrected.
"The thought that this curse has more power over me than ever… that maybe
I can’t just ignore it anymore—"
"Then you’ll use it well," Zane
interrupted. His voice was gentle, but firm, and his eyes bore into mine, their
green depths sparkling with empathy even as he argued with me. "And I’ll
do whatever I can to help you. I promise."
Does he know how many fouettés you can turn?
Zane's nearly solid face was inches from mine. For a
moment, I had the very odd sensation, not entirely unpleasant, of careening off
the cliff of Pali Lookout myself, spinning out into oblivion, weightless,
carefree. But over my cliff, there was nothing but azure ocean, and a warm,
golden sun was shining.
I drew back, gave my head a shake, and stood up.
It had a been a very, very long day.
Clearly, I needed some sleep.
Chapter 9
It doesn’t get any better than this, I
thought to myself dreamily, stretching out my legs and wiggling my toes in the
sand. I couldn’t believe that any place as picture perfect as Mokuleia Beach
Park could also be so deserted… but it was. Though Mokuleia was part of the
North Shore, it lay at the famous surfing strip’s westernmost tip, just out of
the tourist mainstream. Despite the fact that it was mid-morning on a gorgeous
spring day, the wide, straight stretch of sandy beach, crashing turquoise
waves, and brisk-but-warm tropical breeze were being enjoyed by only a handful of
surfers out on the water, two middle-aged women sitting under a beach umbrella
about fifty yards away, Zane (who was currently hanging with the surfers), and
me. A few shadows flitted about too, of course, but none with emotions strong
enough to disturb me. For once, I could be alone with my own thoughts.
I had quite a few of them.
My parents had been surprised when I declined to
join them on today’s house tour with the real estate agent, but the opportunity
to have the car to myself all day was just too good to pass up. My
Wyoming-raised spirit couldn’t resist the chance to be behind the wheel again,
exploring new territory, enjoying sweet control. My sense of direction left a
lot to be desired, true, but I had something better than a GPS. I had Zane.
I smiled as I watched him catching yet another ride
with a singularly unskilled surfer in mustard yellow shorts. The surfer wiped
out on nearly every wave, allowing Zane to practice his rather eerie "this
is where the board should be going" move, which involved his
skimming over the water suspended in midair. This time he decided to shake
things up, wiping out along with the surfer in spectacular fashion, flying head
over heels in a back flip. Unlike the flailing mortal, however, Zane threw
himself up in a perfect arc, coming down on the board just as it resurfaced,
feet perfectly placed for the next ride.
"Showoff!" I yelled over the wind,
laughing. Zane grinned back at me, finishing with a stage bow, but my mirth was
dampened a bit when I realized that the women under the umbrella were glaring
at me.
Crap . They no doubt thought I was yelling at
the lousy surfer, who was floundering in the rough
thing," Zane agreed. "They may be competitive at sports, but I didn’t
get that he had any hard feelings toward the guy. If there’s real hatred, Matt
must be in the dark."
"That’s what scares me," I said weakly.
"I’m scared for Matt, first. That hatred was palpable; I don’t know Rod at
all, but if I had to guess, I’d say that a feeling that strong was going to get acted on, sooner or later. What if he’s violent?"
"He may not be," Zane offered. "Most
people aren’t. Or the anger may resolve itself—maybe there was a
misunderstanding of some kind."
"Maybe," I agreed, finding it hard to
imagine a guy as friendly and transparent as Matt doing anything to rouse that
kind of hatred. "But until I know for sure, it’s going to keep scaring me.
That… and the whole idea that this thing of mine—"
"You mean this gift?"
"This curse ," I corrected.
"The thought that this curse has more power over me than ever… that maybe
I can’t just ignore it anymore—"
"Then you’ll use it well," Zane
interrupted. His voice was gentle, but firm, and his eyes bore into mine, their
green depths sparkling with empathy even as he argued with me. "And I’ll
do whatever I can to help you. I promise."
Does he know how many fouettés you can turn?
Zane's nearly solid face was inches from mine. For a
moment, I had the very odd sensation, not entirely unpleasant, of careening off
the cliff of Pali Lookout myself, spinning out into oblivion, weightless,
carefree. But over my cliff, there was nothing but azure ocean, and a warm,
golden sun was shining.
I drew back, gave my head a shake, and stood up.
It had a been a very, very long day.
Clearly, I needed some sleep.
Chapter 9
It doesn’t get any better than this, I
thought to myself dreamily, stretching out my legs and wiggling my toes in the
sand. I couldn’t believe that any place as picture perfect as Mokuleia Beach
Park could also be so deserted… but it was. Though Mokuleia was part of the
North Shore, it lay at the famous surfing strip’s westernmost tip, just out of
the tourist mainstream. Despite the fact that it was mid-morning on a gorgeous
spring day, the wide, straight stretch of sandy beach, crashing turquoise
waves, and brisk-but-warm tropical breeze were being enjoyed by only a handful of
surfers out on the water, two middle-aged women sitting under a beach umbrella
about fifty yards away, Zane (who was currently hanging with the surfers), and
me. A few shadows flitted about too, of course, but none with emotions strong
enough to disturb me. For once, I could be alone with my own thoughts.
I had quite a few of them.
My parents had been surprised when I declined to
join them on today’s house tour with the real estate agent, but the opportunity
to have the car to myself all day was just too good to pass up. My
Wyoming-raised spirit couldn’t resist the chance to be behind the wheel again,
exploring new territory, enjoying sweet control. My sense of direction left a
lot to be desired, true, but I had something better than a GPS. I had Zane.
I smiled as I watched him catching yet another ride
with a singularly unskilled surfer in mustard yellow shorts. The surfer wiped
out on nearly every wave, allowing Zane to practice his rather eerie "this
is where the board should be going" move, which involved his
skimming over the water suspended in midair. This time he decided to shake
things up, wiping out along with the surfer in spectacular fashion, flying head
over heels in a back flip. Unlike the flailing mortal, however, Zane threw
himself up in a perfect arc, coming down on the board just as it resurfaced,
feet perfectly placed for the next ride.
"Showoff!" I yelled over the wind,
laughing. Zane grinned back at me, finishing with a stage bow, but my mirth was
dampened a bit when I realized that the women under the umbrella were glaring
at me.
Crap . They no doubt thought I was yelling at
the lousy surfer, who was floundering in the rough
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