Page 51 of Circle of Death
Suddenly, the boy is holding on to nothing—and staring into thin air. He spins around. “What the hell…?!”
The boys look up just before a metal trash can comes crashing down, knocking them to the ground and showering them with rancid, wet garbage. The football wobbles off against the curb.
The boy who had his hand on Maddy now feels rough hands onhim. Hands he can’t see. They yank his baggy jeans down to his ankles, exposing his scrawny belly and threadbare gray briefs.
Then a voice comes out of nowhere, fierce and determined, whispering in his ear.
“If any of you assholesevercome near this house again, I will find you, I will slice off your tiny testicles, and I will kill you. In that order.”
“It’s a goddamnghost!” shouts one of the other boys, wiping a gob of wet garbage off his chest.
“Screw this!” shouts the third.
The boy with his pants down struggles to his feet and yanks on his waistband. Tripping and stumbling, he scrambles across the street with the others. In a second, they’re all through the fence and running toward a cluster of abandoned buildings.
Maddy watches until the boys are out of sight, then turns and heads down the sidewalk, walking slowly. She’s still stung by what Deva’s mom said. She feels useless, powerless. She just scared off three skinny kids. Big deal. She’s a few blocks along before she remembers that she’s still invisible.
She stops at the gate of a run-down playground. Probably left over from the last century. She walks past the broken swings and climbs to the top of a rusted, skeletal dome.
As she perches on top of the structure, she materializes again. She closes her eyes and pictures Deva. Her face. Her hair. Her laugh. She flashes back to the night in the subway club. Pulsing music floods her brain. She sees Deva through the crowd, looking straight at her, eyes bright and teasing. Full of life.
Maddy takes a deep breath and shakes off the vision. No looking back anymore, only forward. She stares up into the sky and focuses her mind. Her feet press hard on the narrow bars of the play dome—and transform into black talons.
Seconds later, she’s soaring across the city toward home. A sharp-eyed hawk.
Her first attempt at this form. As the warm air passes under her wings, the part of her brain that’s still human feels both fury and freedom. Who needs Lamont or Margo—or the useless cops?
She’ll catch this sick animal on her own. Whatever it takes.
CHAPTER 62
I’M STANDING WITH Margo, Jericho, and Burbank at what’s left of JFK International Airport. Rising sea levels have almost submerged it. Most of the airfield is now covered by the waters of Jamaica Bay, but one long runway is still in operation. And sitting at our end of it is an aircraft like I’ve never seen.
“I promised you a plane,” says Hawkeye proudly. “And here she is.”
I’m not sure how to react. The last plane Margo and I flew in was a DC-3 twin-prop in 1933. Newark to LA in twenty hours, with four stops along the way. The machine sitting on the tarmac looks more like a missile. It’s about thirty feet long and no more than four feet across, with a pointed snout and a single giant engine in back.
“This is incredible,” says Burbank, running his hands over the raked wingtips.
“No way this thing gets off the ground with three people,” mutters Jericho.
“Almost ready,” Tapper calls out. He’s under the black fuselage making an adjustment. Hawkeye brings out two nylon jumpsuits, one for me and one for Margo. Bright yellow, with zippers up the front.
Margo shakes out her jumpsuit to its full length and holds it up by the shoulder seams. “Lamont, this ishideous!”
“Thin, but insulated,” says Hawkeye. “You’ll thank me at fifty thousand feet.”
With a sour face, Margo slides her feet into the attached booties and slips her arms into the sleeves. I suit up next. Tapper is walking toward us, wearing a bright red version of the same outfit. He’s rubbing goop off his hands with a towel. “Well. What do you think?”
I step up to the plane and place my hand on the tailfin. It feels as flimsy as a tin spatula. “Are you sure this thing is airworthy?”
“I won’t lie. It’s experimental,” says Tapper. “But it’s supersonic. Should get us to Paris in two hours.”
He walks to the side of the fuselage and presses a lever. Two clear canopies flip open—one over the cockpit, and one over the impossibly small passenger compartment. Forget luggage or weapons. There’s barely room for us.
“All aboard forParis,” Tapper says, one leg inside the aircraft. Burbank, Hawkeye, and Jericho move back onto the runway apron.Wayback.
“Lamont, are you sure about this?” asks Margo.
