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Marik froze, folding in two with pain. “You said . . .”

  I looked from Marik to the corner and back. The truck was a block away by then.

  “He’s gone,” I said, fearing the truth of the words as they exited my mouth.

  Wednesday after school I was in Ms. Bryant’s classroom using her aerosol adhesive to mount our graphics onto the trifold display board. Marik had been right. Go figure. With every other thing falling apart in my life, somehow the assignment became of paramount importance. It made about as much sense as flossing after the Last Supper, but focusing on this one thing put me to bed late and woke me up early two days in a row.

  Even with the windows open, the spray glue emitted a stinging plume of toxic haze. Burrowing my mouth and nose into the crook of my elbow, I sat back on my haunches.

  At home, things were in a holding pattern. Leira was still hospitalized but had stabilized enough to be taken off the ventilator. Her doctors weren’t happy with her overall “failure to thrive,” but the little fighter was hanging in there. Afi had been discharged and was convalescing at home. The doctors hadn’t found an infection so were stumped as to the cause of the edema. Lack of oxygen didn’t keep an old cuss like Afi from grumbling, which was probably a good sign. My chart-maker mom had devised a schedule so that Afi had dinner and someone to kvetch at every night of the week. My turn had been yesterday; I’d made BLTs and split-pea soup, the latter a favorite of Afi’s, not mine.

  Jack was the sandbag on my chest. On at least two occasions I’d thought I’d heard or seen his truck. I couldn’t be sure, but both times my heart had crashed to my heels.

  “Whoa,” Ms. Bryant said, entering the room and fanning the air. “Maybe you should do that outside.”

  I took a deep breath, reexposing my airways to the vapors. I feared almost nothing at this point. “I’m done. Sorry about the fumes.”

  She picked up a file folder from her desk and waved it back and forth in front of her. “How’s your grandfather doing today?”

  “Better.” I pressed my lips together, wondering how she knew he was sick. I hadn’t said anything.

  “And did your dad decide to go with chili or beef stew for his meal with him tonight?”

  Now I added a jaw clench to my clamped lips. I had definitely not mentioned our meals-on-wheels program. Moreover, I didn’t even know tonight was my dad’s turn, never mind menu options. This was odd. I’d just spoken to my dad last night. It wasn’t like him to keep anything from me. So if he and Ms. Bryant were conversing, he’d have told me. Unless . . .

  “I’m not sure which he’s going with,” I said, playing along.

  Ms. Bryant had taken a seat at her desk and tapped a pencil against a stack of papers. “He thinks the beef stew is probably the safer choice. He claims the chili is his specialty, but it packs a bit of heat.” Ms. Bryant looked up, her eyes focused on something out the window, and her index finger trailed along her bottom lip. “If it’s even half as hot as his kisses, it should only be served with a fire extinguisher handy.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, lurching to a stand.

  “The chili — your dad says it might be too hot for your grandfather.”

  I was myself a fireball of confusion. With that TMI tidbit — so unlike Ms. Bryant and so inappropriate for a teacher — she’d been running her finger over her lips, her closed lips.

  “I have to go,” I said, grabbing my book bag.

  “Oh. OK. You and Marik are all set, then, for Friday.”

  “Yep. See ya.”

  If Ms. Bryant had added anything else to our parting comments, I didn’t hear it; I was probably halfway to the parking lot by then.

  I found Ofelia behind the counter at the store. She was ringing up items for an elderly customer. Hoping to speed the process, I stepped in and bagged up the few groceries. My heart flatlined for a moment when I lifted a clear plastic bag of pink apples, Snjosson Farms apples, into the brown sack. The moment the woman exited the store, I turned on Ofelia.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  “In what way?” She moved an errant dime from the quarter compartment of the register.

  “I’m not sure, but I think . . .”

  Memories rushed at me like linebackers. Birta’s “as if we’d want to put any more ideas in Katla’s head” comment, for one. As well as the guy in Starbucks and his suggestive comments.

  “Ofelia, I think I’m hearing what people are thinking.”

  She froze for a moment and then closed the cash-register drawer, triggering its bell.

  “I have always wondered —”

  “Wondered what?” I asked.

  “Why I was called here.”

  “What? Why? I’m so confused.”

  “Katla, I know Hulda has told you that your gifts are special, even among our ranks. And your most recent bestowment, it shows a power beyond what Hulda probably ever imagined.”

  I exhaled. “Except those powers may get me disciplined.”

  “Yes, they may, but that does not negate their existence. And if you’re tapping into people’s thoughts, your gifts are continuing to grow and expand.”

  “I never asked for any of this.” I backhanded an imaginary this away from me. “Especially not this new psychic nuisance. I just want . . . I just want to be normal again.” With the admission, tears puddled in my eyes.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Ofelia said with a twitch of her eyebrows. “As to your newest gift, I imagine it will prove useful soon, if it hasn’t already.”

  Something Ofelia had said earlier burbled to the surface of my consciousness. “You mentioned you’d been called here. Why do you think that is?”

  “I suspect that you have the ability to draw out the special among us.”

  Again with the whole lodestone concept.

  “To have an individual gift is not unheard of,” Ofelia continued. “Mine you knew of, of course. Many Storks also have the power of healing.”

  I thought of Hulda and Grim ministering to Jack at the portal when Wade had torched him in an attempted sacrifice. The Bleika Norn and her purported healing abilities also came to mind, as well as her Asgard counterparts: Bleik and Eyra.

  “I wonder, and it’s just a theory, if you haven’t assembled — even if unwittingly — those you learn from, draw powers from.”

  Now I wasn’t just a lure, I was a leech, too. My use of Jinky’s talents came to mind here.

  “So this mind-reading thing, can I turn it off?” I asked with a pout. “There are some things I seriously don’t want to know.”

  “You can’t turn it off, but you will eventually become inured to the distractions, the way we often don’t register background noise like traffic or mowers or barking dogs.”

  When another customer entered, reciting his shopping list over and over in his head — eggs, milk, Kleenex, Nyquil, eggs, milk, Kleenex, Nyquil — I mentally overrode him with my own to-dos: Spare Leira, get Jack back, save the world. Spare Leira, get Jack back, save the world. I waved good-bye to Ofelia. At the door, I was careful to cover my hand with my sleeve so as not to get slimed by the guy’s germs.

  No one was home at my house, so, after a quick snack of chocolate milk and SunChips, I headed across the street in search of Marik. Our project required a ten-minute presentation, which was the one component we had let slide.

  I had never been inside the house of the elderly couple hosting Jinky and Marik. After the woman, Mrs. Cantwright, let me in, she cornered me in the foyer, asking about my mom and Stanley and describing her great joy in having “kids” in the neighborhood again.

  “Is that why you take in exchange students?” I asked.

  “Goodness, no, I didn’t even know such a thing was possible. Someone from the international agency called me late in the summer. Well, it seemed about time we had some young ones in the house again.”

  I wondered at who or what was behind this arrangement. My head hurt with the exercise of it. Because random simply wasn’t.
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br />   A few minutes later and an inadvertent tap into her sadness that her grandchildren lived so far away, I was directed up the stairs to the second bedroom on the right. Family portraits lined both walls of the staircase, and I took note of a black-and-white photo of a crew-shorn Mr. Cantwright, a cat-eye-bespectacled Mrs. Cantwright, and a clutch of five toothy kids. So maybe a house would seem a little empty after a big brood like that.

  At the top of the stairs I passed the first doorway, which was ajar and revealed Jinky sitting at a large oak desk. At the sound of my footsteps, she looked up and waved me in.

  Scattered across the desktop was an array of antique-looking items: a small scale, a glass cork-stoppered bottle, a bundle of dried herbs, and a box containing even more instruments that looked like they came out of an old-fashioned drugstore.

  “What’s all this?” I asked.

  “Display items for Friday.”

  I was still shocked that Jinky had managed to hijack their project. Nor did I rule out some kind of coercive charm or potion. I wasn’t even sure if Penny fully comprehended the metaphysical nature of their merchandise and services. She still described it as a kind of gift shop selling candles, jewelry, and aromatherapy products.

  “They look old. Where did you get them?” I lifted the bottle. Whatever it had once contained was now a dark film at the bottom.

  “From Mrs. Cantwright. When I described the idea of our shop to her, she said she had some apothecary items in her basement.” Jinky, I noticed, kept her thoughts to the point, much like her eyeliner. It was interesting, anyway, to catch that she thought I looked tired and pale and wondered if she shouldn’t reread my runes. I was grateful for the warning. Maybe this mind-reading thing would come in handy, after all.

  Marik appeared at the open door. “Ah, I thought I heard Katla’s voice.”

  “I was hoping to go over our presentation,” I said, setting the bottle down. “It’s worth twenty percent of our grade.”

  Marik bit back a smile; he was obviously vindicated by my recent preoccupation with our project.

  “Sure, let’s practice.” He stepped aside for me to lead the way out of the room.

  I felt funny in Marik’s room and made a point of leaving the door wide open. Whereas Jinky’s scattered belongings — her leather coat and boots, a basket of makeup, and her surprisingly numerous photos — lent personality to the space, Marik’s room was bare bone-colored walls and military clean. Even the bed looked hard and sharp. I sat in a straight-backed chair while Marik sat on the edge of the tightly tucked mattress.

  I had typed up a script but found on our three run-throughs that Marik had a tendency to ad-lib, playing the charm card with the audience, even when the crowd was imaginary. At the end of the last of these shows, he grabbed his side.

  “Is it getting worse?” I asked.

  He nodded yes.

  “Is that a bad sign?”

  His affirmation was, again, a bob of the head.

  “Can you think of nothing that would help? Some kind of medicine or therapy that would exist on both Midgard and Vatnheim?” I thought of the herbs and instruments at Jinky’s disposal.

  “Medicine cannot make me human. Not in the important ways, anyway,” he said, wincing with the effort of it. “I’m quite resigned to my lot. I only hope that yours and Leira’s are different.”

  His lot? It sounded so fatalistic. All at once, what Hulda had told me about fate and karma came to mind. She had claimed them similar except that karma was “our will as we swim in the river of our past and present.” She’d gone on to clarify that “we cannot change the course of the river, but the strokes of our swim influence our destination.”

  “Maybe we have more influence in our destiny than we give ourselves credit for,” I said.

  “Were it only true.” He nodded with pouted lips. “I do not share your optimism, but I think it’s a lovely thing to behold.”

  He gave me one of those molten looks, the kind that had Penny and the entire female population of Norse Falls High beset with a heaving bosom. Mine may not have had much in the volume department but it was billowing like a sail. I could feel the blush creeping up my chin and cheeks, and I ducked my head to keep my composure.

  “Time to go,” I said, gathering up my index cards.

  “So soon?”

  “If I want to see Leira tonight, I have to get there before visiting hours are over.”

  For the third time that day, as I had with Ms. Bryant and Ofelia, I left someone in my rearview with a hasty and awkward retreat as subtle as tire marks.

  Mrs. Cantwright caught me with my hand on the door. “It was nice to meet you, dear,” she said. “And it’s lovely to see the house looking in the pink again.” She giggled as she said it, obviously enjoying her pun.

  The way she said “pink” with affection made me think of a possible connection. “Did you by any chance know its former occupant?”

  “Yes. She was already an old woman when we first moved in, but so kindly and helpful.”

  “Helpful?”

  “Well, you know, she had a way with people.” Ms. Cantwright brought her hand to her cheek. “She was well known for her green thumb and her healing touch. My oldest, Ruth, had the worst asthma as a child. I don’t know what we would have done without her help.”

  The collection of items up in Jinky’s room suddenly made more sense. “Were those her things that Jinky’s using for her project?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, they were. I was so surprised when she left them to me.”

  “What exactly did she use them for?”

  Lost in thought, she pinched her chin. “It was such a long time ago. I know she made a poultice of honey, ginger, onion, and mustard oil. Caraway seeds, apple seeds, and turmeric were ground and mixed with lemon and hot water and taken as a drink. Well, there were any number of remedies for any number of ailments.”

  “It’s nice of you to lend them to Jinky.”

  “I enjoy seeing them in the hands of someone who values them and takes an interest in their original purpose. She puts up a tough front, but deep down she has a natural empathy for others. She’d make a good nurse.”

  Personally I couldn’t imagine Jinky in one of those cotton smocks or white-soled shoes, but it was fun to picture it.

  Later that night, watching Leira’s tiny chest labor up and down, but finally of her own accord, I was struck by the vagaries of life. She could be taken from us at any time; Marik claimed a prophecy foretold as much. Afi, too, was vulnerable. The “break” with Jack already felt like a death to me. It was torture knowing that I had hurt him. Too painful, in fact, to dwell on. And I felt low imagining Marik’s demise. His exuberance and excitement at every little thing gave him a childlike quality. It seemed so unfair that it would be cut short. On the other hand, as a mercreature, he’d already had a long life, but one that was soulless. Did it count? Did it compare? Was it anything close to a fair trade-off?

  With every puff of life Leira fought for, I, too, was filled with purpose. And in between, in the valleys where her ribs collapsed and she had to begin again, I raged against the fear that had kept me from what had to be done.

  “Honey, you look so tired,” my mom said, pulling me from the undertow of my thoughts. “Why don’t you go? Leira’s holding her own. I’m going to stay until she settles, but you look exhausted; you should head home.”

  “I will,” I said, “in a minute.”

  I watched my mom cooing and rubbing Leira’s twig-thin arm. Leira’s eyes followed my mom’s every movement and she visibly settled with every loving stroke. For my mom’s part, her words, both spoken and unspoken, were encouragement. I felt the power of her positive energy and sensed that meditative support — faith, hope, and the like — had far more benefit than was given credit. Soon, the familiar lullaby filled the room. I sat for a moment in the bedside chair, allowing myself to drift along with the cadence of the sound. At the last course, I snapped to. “That the swan’s snowy sp
an is but a wish away. May this comfort you as you wake to this day full of love, full of hope, full of glory.” The swan, of course! With that, another piece of my plan clicked into place.

  “Good night, Mom. Good night, Leira.” I blew them both a kiss from the doorway. My mom, her tender focus still on Leira, waved distractedly.

  At home, and in the privacy of my room, I paced the length of the space, sequencing all that I knew.

  Brigid couldn’t break through, not alone, anyway.

  I’d vowed to renege on Safira, but, without a disruption to the essentials of the agreement, the pact held.

  Marik, whose animus was one of those essentials, had offered to help me.

  Furthermore, to survive here, Marik needed a soul. I delivered souls.

  Birta — not knowing I could hear her — had mentioned an “autonomous bestowment.” Somewhere, somehow, the process had been achieved without Stork council approval.

  If Marik got his soul, this would alter one of the essentials. If, by doing so and in going full-on renegade, I were temporarily suspended, this would also be a sabotage of the spell. There was Jaelle, too. Why not help her out in the process?

  The plan wasn’t without its flaws. Leira’s compromised lungs and long-term prognosis were a concern. But I was making progress.

  I face-planted onto my bed. My great master plan had more variables than a calculus textbook. It was all too much. I didn’t change into PJs, brush my teeth, or even turn out my light. I simply allowed the tug of sleep and my abilities to take over.

  “Get up!” I yell at the zombified Jaelle, who, just as I last found her, sits on a log. Nothing. I shake her shoulder. Still nothing. Her eyes are open, and she stares ahead.

  I take in the scenery. We’re at the shore. Waves crash over a sandy beach.

  With quick glances left and right, I check on the boy and girl. They’re still there, but both appear agitated now. The baby girl sucks on her fist with her twitching mouth just one gasp away from a wail. The boy rocks back and forth with his knees folded into his chest and his eyes wide with fear.