Seven E-Book

Julie Steimle

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Jessica Mason's mother has had it. Had it with the town. Had it with her boss. Had it with her daughter's boyfriend. Had it with her daughter's friends. And had it with the magical freakiness that is Middleton Village, Massachusetts.

So after contacting the FBI's Cult and kidnapping division to get their help, she concocted a scheme that would ensure her daughter's safety, while helping the the other parents of the kids who had claimed to have been kidnapped by the Wolf's Wood Cult.

The thing is, the Wolf's Wood Cult isn't real. It never existed. The FBI knows it. And when Mrs. Mason finally found out that the eight kids had made up the story about their kidnapping to hide a darker truth--that these kids are involved in something extremely dangerous--she makes an even more dangerous deal than she realizes. The problem is, the dangerous thing is them. They are the Holy Seven. And anyone in their way better watch out.

Leseprobe

Julie Steimle

Seven

Hallowedspell Book Seven

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Part One:

“For Your Own Good”

Concerned Parents

Chapter One

“I’m sure most of you are wondering why I gathered you all together, in this place especially, to meet.” Mrs. Darla Amanda Mason gazed at the six couples sitting in the borrowed conference hall of the new library. She was a professional woman in her mid-thirties, time weary, and weary of living in a little town after only ten months. But this meeting was important.

Each couple sat uncomfortably in their chairs. Most were merely nodding acquaintances at church. Even now they did not want to make real eye contact.

“I think most of us can agree that something… disturbing is up with our children,” Mrs. Mason said.

Burly Mr. White shared a look with lean Mr. Dawson—one of many uneasy looks they had shared since that last January. Dignified Mr. Smith sighed, closing his eyes. Their wives were equally uncomfortable, fumbling with their buttons, stray threads, and their mobile phones. However, the plump Petersons gazed at her with looks of confusion. And the red-headed Cartwrights stared anywhere but at her, despite that their children were dating. Only the eccentric McCabes gazed at Mrs. Mason straight on. But that was because they knew exactly what their children were up to.

 They were an odd collection of parents. Besides only being nodding acquaintances, they came from different walks of life. Mrs. Mason, for example, was a recently divorced single parent with a sixteen year old daughter.

But Mr. White was the town butcher, his wife a simple stay-at-home mom that could have come out of a nineteen-fifties catalog. They had one child, an average teenage boy, they thought. They lived what they thought was the average American lifestyle, and they wanted to keep their lives that uncomplicated.

The Petersons, however, really did live the average American life. They were unassuming Americana enthusiasts, and hardly did anything that brought attention to themselves. They had one son who lived on scouting.

But Mr. Dawson was anything but common. He and his prim wife were fans of technology. They had two kids, both boys—one who just finished junior high, the other in high school. And they were grooming both to become the next Steve Jobs.  

As for the others, the dignified and often private Mr. Smith shared the same employer as Mrs. Mason—Mr. Howard Richard Deacon II, the resident billionaire. Mr. Smith was married to his third wife and had produced six children over the course of sixteen years. His first wife had died in childbirth. His second had three children before she divorced him. And the third he was happily married to, adding two little girls. His oldest boy and his two youngest girls lived with him. The thing about Mr. Smith was that he was fully aware things were not kosher in town, and knew his oldest son was involved.

Then came the McCabes who were the oddballs of the town. Mr. McCabe was the town’s leading pharmacist. He and his wife had five rambunctious sons. But they were also known to be extremely superstitious, believers in the existence of witches, curses, and conspiracy theories.

And lastly, the Cartwrights. They were the most prominent family in the town. Two kids. A boy and a girl. Mr. Cartwright’s father was the pastor of the most attended church in town, so people watched them regularly.

It would be sufficient to say, these people, if at a town party, would avoid each other.

But they all had one thing in common. And that was the subject Mrs. Mason wanted to discuss. All their oldest children were close friends. And all their oldest children had claimed to have survived kidnapping by the Wolf’s Wood Cult last September.

“Now, I don’t know what all of you know about the current goings-on of our kids,” Mrs. Mason said, heaving a weighty sigh. “But certain things have come to my attention in the past few months that I think you all should know.”

They looked up at her.

“First off, I was recently contacted by the FBI, kidnapping division.”

The other parents drew in breaths.

“And they informed me that there is no such thing as the Wolf’s Wood Cult.”

Half of the parents drew in an even sharper breath. The other half did not. Apparently, they already knew. Mrs. Mason mentally counted the number and noted who they were. The McCabes, the Whites, and the Dawsons.

“They said,” she continued, “that the Bureau had conducted a thorough search since the last incident in January. And they discovered that there never was a cult as we understand it.”

The half who had not known, shook their heads.

“Our children made it up,” she said.

“But that’s impossible!” Mrs. Peterson exclaimed, looking around at the others. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks ashen. “My James came back with nasty cuts on his body! A pentagram shaped scar was on his back! How do you explain that?”

Her husband nodded firmly.

“Someone abused my son,” Mr. Cartwright shouted in agreement, rising. “Horrible cuts! He was never the same after he was taken! And what happened to him last January? Huh? Where did he vanish to? And what about the damage to his room when they broke in and kidnapped him that second time?”

Mrs. Mason shook her head. With a peeking glance to the Dawsons and the Whites who shared yet another uncomfortable look, she said, “I think a few of you know the answer. Don’t you think it is about time you shared the truth with the rest of us?”

Both the Whites and the Dawsons squirmed.

Yet folding his arms and angling his head back, Mr. McCabe replied, “I don’t think you can handle the truth. That’s why the kids lied to you.”

All of the parents looked to him with groans. Here it comes…. And they braced themselves for the view point of the paranoid.

Except for the pragmatic Mr. Smith who asked Mr. McCabe with a side glance to Mrs. Mason, “What do you mean? Are you saying they told you what really happened?”

Nodding, Mr. McCabe then shrugged. “Sure they did. Peter doesn’t keep any secrets from me. He knows I will listen, even if it sounds entirely impossible.”

The Petersons stared dryly. But the Whites and Dawsons cringed again.

Mrs. Cartwright politely cleared her throat, lifting a cautious finger. “Uh, what do you mean, entirely impossible?”

But her husband shook his head, clenching his brow with a moan. “Oh please. Not this again. No more talk about curses and wolves and witches.”

“Witches are real,” Mr. Smith replied, deadpan, hardly moving.

Everyone went deathly silent. Mr. Cartwright stared wordlessly at him. So had Mrs. Peterson, who drew in a sharp breath. The Whites and the Dawsons shared yet another uncomfortable look.

Mr. McCabe nodded to Mr. Cartwright, his mouth thinning into a line.  

Cringing, Mrs. Mason closed her eyes. She rubbed her temples. “There may be people in this town who think they are witches, yes.”

Several looked to her with a mixture of surprise. The McCabes were the most surprised that she would even admit to what she had.

“But that does not mean this so-called witchcraft was what happened to our kids,” she hastily continued. “What we do know is that our children went though some kind of trauma, and it was violent. This is our only real fact.”

She looked hard at Mr. McCabe. Then she gazed to the others. Taking in another breath for courage, Mrs. Mason glanced at the notes she had prepared for this meeting. The FBI agents had said it would be hard, but she had to do it for the sake of her daughter.

“Now, I’ve had a long discussion with the FBI over what has happened with our kids,” she said. “Mostly, though, we discussed the dangerous behavior that has been going on since their return.”

Several of the parents nodded wearily. Mrs. McCabe cringed, glancing to her husband who had to admit Mrs. Mason was right. Their children had been getting into way too much trouble.

“This club they created, for example. Medieval Club? The FBI believes is a cover so our children can continue messing with dangerous things, like sword play and mock battles,” she said.

The Petersons stiffened up, already appalled at the news. The Dawson’s frowned with another exchanged look to the disgruntled Whites. But Mr. Smith closed his eyes and shook his head. His wife’s expression of dismay showed they had already guessed this as well. But the Cartwrights shared a look, frowned, and folded their arms sternly across their chests.

Mrs. Mason shook her head. “Also, how our children talk together. You must have noticed it. Secretive.”

The Whites and Dawsons started to nod.

 “And what about all the sneaking out? And skipping school?”

Mrs. Peterson nodded with a tighter frown, peeking over to her husband.

“And all the fights they have been getting into?” Mrs. Mason asked. “I’m sure our children have had more detention in this one year than they have had in their lifetime.

“And the most disturbing? They are still getting hurt.” She looked to the Cartwrights. “How do you really feel about Andrew getting shot with an arrow before spring break?”

“He was protecting his friend…” Mrs. Cartwright murmured, but not very loudly. Her husband glowered over it with the same feeling he had when it happened. He had blamed the club then.

 “My daughter got sliced up her arm,” Mrs. Mason added with a nod to them all. “And she is blaming it on witches.”

They all stared, though the McCabes wearily did so.

“Look,” she said. “Our kids keep going missing, are playing with sharp objects, and setting things on fire. My daughter never got into any kind of this trouble before the so-called incident with the Wolf’s Wood Cult. And I don’t think your kids did either.”

But she didn’t look at the Cartwrights when she said that. Their son Andrew had been a famous hellion in his younger years. He had played pranks all over town, including with fireworks and therefore, fire. It didn’t matter that he had straightened up his act three years ago. The boy was dating her daughter and she didn’t want him to.

“So, I have something to suggest,” she said. But then with a shrug, she amended as all the parents bristled at taking advice from an outsider, “That is, the FBI suggested it to me. So hear me out. They said, and think about this, that those two older men who had come back from the so-called cult with them, were in fact the tail end of this so-called cult. That—and realize this is sad but most likely—our children are the Wolf’s Wood Cult.”

The Cartwrights jumped up.

“Impossible!”

“How dare you accuse my son of—!”

“My son is not a cultist!” Mrs. Peterson balled her hands into fists, rising. “He’d never do a thing like that!” Mr. Peterson said at the same time. “He’s an eagle scout!”

“Eddie isn’t the kind to—!” “You have no place saying—!” The Whites and Dawsons joined them, livid in their fury.

But the McCabes sighed, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes without any retort. Of course they didn’t believe it. Only the Smiths shared a look, raising their eyebrows at the thought.

“The FBI believes that the cult itself recruited and brainwashed its members into performing violent acts on one another,” Mrs. Mason shouted over their protests. “Our children were brainwashed! And this club of theirs is a perpetuation of that!”

The parents drew in breaths. They may not have believed their own child was guilty of cult activities, but many of them had suspected the others’ children a number of times.

“Now the only reason the boys did return, they say, is because Jessica followed Andrew and found him before they could entirely brainwash him.” She looked to the Cartwrights directly. They drew in breaths, calmed by the phrase ‘before they could entirely brainwash him.’ “But those kids are still perpetuating their dangerous games in secret. Which is why the FBI believes it is best to separate our children as soon as possible.”

“Separate them?” Mr. McCabe’s mouth opened into a stare. He and his wife actually looked appalled at such a suggestion. It worried Mrs. Mason. Delusional or not, the McCabes were the ones she needed to convince the most.

She nodded with strength. “That’s right. Separate. The FBI believes that if we immerse our children in wholesome healthy activities, separating them from each other for at least a month, they may be able to recover from the cult brainwashing.”

“Most of the boys are at scout camp,” Mr. McCabe protested. “What could be more wholesome than that?”

“But they are together. They hang around each other,” Mr. Smith said, shaking his head. “All the time. I have to admit, I would love to separate my son from all this dodgy sword wielding, red-crystal wearing fanaticism.”

The Petersons nodded together. “Agreed.”

Looking to the other parents, Mr. Smith added, “But separating our boys is almost impossible. They won’t do it willingly.”

Mrs. Peterson frowned, nodding more. “They’re joined at the hip, practically.” She said it meaning her son and Mr. Smith’s son in particular. The pair were best pals. Almost always together.

“That’s true,” Mr. Dawson chimed in. He glanced to his wife before saying, “And, uh, there are other factors involved.”

Mrs. Mason interjected before the McCabes could compound on that. “Yes. Jessica has…well, said some peculiar things about the goings on of…well, her gang of seven. She says they are bonded by a…” she sighed wearily with a skyward glance, “…magical connection.”

The Whites secretly shared a look again, whispering. Mrs. White shook her head at her husband. He sighed then said to Mrs. Mason, “More than that. Our kids talk about… battles… years of battles. Our sons speak as if they….” He sighed again, too fatigued to go on.

“As if they are older than we are,” Mr. Dawson finished the thought with a grumble. He gruffly folded his arms. “Our boy sometimes says things that an eighty-year-old man would say to a young couple wet behind the ears.”

Almost vacantly, Mr. Peterson scratched his head. “Yeah… Come to think of it. James does too.”

Mr. Smith frowned, silent in his thoughts. His wife dryly chuckled as if the idea was so ironic. “Talking back under his breath, saying stuff like…I don’t know. Like…”

Mrs. Peterson chimed in, “Like ‘I’ve been from the Salt Sea and back, thank you very much, without so much as a change of underwear. I think I’ll be fine.’” She nodded to Mrs. Smith. “Weird stuff.”

Mrs. Smith nodded. “Exactly. Or, ‘I know how to handle a fire, thank you. I’ve been doing it for fifty years.’ For fifty years? Fifty? Daniel’s sixteen!”

Several of the parents nodded, relaxing in their seats.

“Or saying things like, ‘Mom, I’ve taken on trolls and vampires. I think I can handle a rat’,” Mrs. Cartwright added.

They all stared at her.

She shrugged.

Mr. Cartwright waved it away edgily. “We found a nest under the deck is all. The boy grabbed that sword and went after them.”

“That’s another thing,” Mrs. Mason said, gaining courage from their personal accounts. She noticed the look on Mr. McCabe’s face say, Oh, here it comes. “Where did they get all that armor and weaponry?”

Mr. Smith raised his hand. “Daniel said Mr. Deacon gave it to him.”

The other parents drew in breaths.

Blinking and leaning back, Mrs. Mason asked, “When? Because Mr. Deacon has not been in town since I first moved here—not up until the time he returned with his son Howie.”

Uneasy, the other parents swapped glances.

“The only one who does not have armor is Peter.” Mrs. Mason looked to the McCabes. “Or those two older men that came back with them.”

All the parents whipped their eyes towards the McCabes. Both parents stiffened.

“What are you suggesting?” Mrs. McCabe almost shrieked, prepared to rise and run if needs be.

“They call him zombie,” Mrs. White said with an offish voice, shrugging.

“That’s right!” Mrs. Peterson exclaimed. Her face changed shades, her hands in fists again.

“And they meet up at your house a lot,” Mrs. Dawson added acidly.

This time Mrs. McCabe rolled her eyes. “Because we have food. They are teenage boys. And we—unlike the rest of you, know how to feed a mob.”

“And we, unlike the rest of you,” Mr. McCabe chimed in with a growl, “listen when they talk.”

This time all the parents rose. The McCabes pulled back.

But Mrs. Mason stepped in between, hands raised. “Wait! Hold on! Actually, Peter appears to be the most well-adjusted out of all of our children.”

“What?” Mr. Cartwright shouted, ready to lynch her next.

But his wife tugged him back to his seat. “No. She’s right. Peter is mostly like he always was. Remember? Andrew always said he was a little weird.”

The McCabes rolled their eyes. A little weird. Their son. And yet he was the most normal? They both glanced to the door. It was about time they left that ridiculous meeting.

“Actually,” Mrs. Mason inched in between them more, “I was thinking he might be the key to separating our children.”

They all looked to her again, not sure what she was getting at. The McCabes frowned deeper.

She explained, “Look, the FBI set up a fund (if you are all willing to take it) that would allow our children to be separate for at least a month this summer. A scholarship. Think about it. It takes about a month to break a habit.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of glossy brochures. The parents all leaned in to look at them. “So, they have given me a choice of scholarship-paid camps around this area that our children can attend. One month. That’s all they are asking.”

The McCabes shook their heads tightly, frowning.

Taking up one brochure, Mrs. Mason flapped it in front of Mr. McCabe’s nose. “There is one specifically for soccer camp. With real pro-scouts. Jessica tells me your son, Peter, could go pro. She says everyone outside of Middleton Village calls him the Witchdoctor, because he is so good.”

Despite his inclination to give Mrs. Mason what-for for interfering with his son, pride swelled within him. Few in town openly admitted that Peter McCabe was the best player on the Middleton High team. And Jessica Mason was right, the boy could, without a doubt, become the next Pele. But Peter’s fetish for shrunken heads, voodoo dolls, and kooky weird things—long before his kidnapping—made people constantly peer at him sideways. It didn’t matter to most that the shrunken heads were foam rubber and horse hair. They just didn’t understand it.

“Look,” Mrs. Mason said, just between them, as the other parents were already picking up brochures, examining them. “I’m going to take my daughter from this town and put her into a private school.”

Mr. McCabe drew in a breath. His wife frowned. They knew and liked Jessica. They didn’t think she deserved to be tucked away in a private school.

“Now, you can let your son stay forever in a town that you believe is filled with witches, languishing in a job that does not suit him. Or you can send him to this camp and watch him go pro.” Mrs. Mason flapped the brochure a little closer to his hand. “It is your choice, of course.”

The other parents peeked up, collecting the brochures that interested them. The Cartwrights plucked up one for a sports camp, one with an emphasis on basketball. Their son Andrew was MVP of the Middleton High team, or had been. They definitely wanted that back. They believed that basketball was the key to making him normal.

Mrs. White grabbed one for computers before Mr. Dawson could get his fingers on it, reading it avidly. What’s more, that camp was close by. With a grumble, Mr. Dawson plucked up the brochures for technical camps. He passed two to his wife to investigate.

As Mr. Smith looked at one for Camp Greylock, his wife gazing at another camp near Becket, Massachusetts, he asked, “What makes you think our sons will voluntarily go to any of these camps? I can just envision my son saying he just won’t go.”

Several of the others nodded in agreement.

“We could force them,” Mr. Peterson suggested.

But Mr. Smith shook his head. “I don’t think that is possible. Not with the way they are now.”

Nodding, Mrs. Mason looked to Mr. McCabe. “That’s true. They could resist camp. But I was once married to a magician. And the one thing I learned from him is attraction and diversion.”

“Attraction?” Mrs. White curled her lip into a judging frown at Mrs. Mason. “As in…?”

But her husband smirked, waving a brochure in front of her face. “As in find a camp they have been dying to go to. We know our kids. What has Edward always wanted to do, but haven’t been able because we aren’t rich? The FBI is paying for this!”

His wife nodded, thinking about it.

“But how are you going to divert them?” Mrs. Peterson asked. “James can be dogged about some things.”

“Give them no choice,” Mrs. Mason replied.

Already the parents shook their heads, the one thing they ever did together.

“Let me explain,” she said. Looking to the McCabes, she elaborated, “If his son goes to soccer camp, the other boys will automatically follow suit.”

They stared, not sure how that added up. Peter wasn’t the leader of the group, after all. That was Andy. And even then Daniel and James did whatever they wanted regardless.

“Think about it.” Mrs. Mason lifted her chin with confidence. “Peter is king of their club. I found a copy of their club bylaws, and it says the king has to attend every club meeting, except when sick.”

They nodded, it being the logical understanding.

“If he goes to camp, they can’t hold club meetings. And if they can’t hold club meetings, what will they do? Hang out?” She held up her hands, shrugging. “Possibly. But if Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright offer their son the chance to go to basketball camp, hinting that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… and if each of you quickly offered your children their camps, mentioning Peter going on his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to them, while I take Jessica on a vacation, well… what choice do they have but to go?”

“But what if they see through it?” Mrs. Smith asked. Her expression showed all her skepticism that her stepson Daniel would be taken in by such a scheme. Daniel was the quickest of the bunch. Not so much brilliant as he was fast on the uptake, he figured things out sooner than most people alive—much like his father. Mr. Smith waited for Mrs. Mason’s response.

Mrs. Mason said, meeting her gaze and nodding affirmatively, “If they figure it out, level with them. Don’t mention the FBI, but tell them that if they are truly friends, a month separation would not hurt in the slightest.”

The Smiths nodded. That would do.

Mr. McCabe blinked, thinking on that. He shared another look with his wife. She shrugged.  

“And what if a month is not enough to help them back to normal?” Mr. Dawson asked. He looked like he had spent too many a sleepless night worrying about his oldest son, Semour. The ink from the brochure in his hands was coming off from clenching it a little too tightly.

Gazing directly on him, Mrs. Mason said, “Then all I can say is get therapy. Because this is all I can offer you.”

Each parent by this time had a brochure in their hands. They looked uneasily at one another. Was it the right thing to do? They were not sure. But all of them had been worried about the changes in their children. Disconcerting changes. Only the McCabes looked uneasy for a different reason.

“What if this harms our children rather than helps them?” Mr. McCabe asked. “I mean, they support each other. Help each other. They have conquered in-school bullying by being with each other.”

Looking directly at him, Mrs. Mason patiently replied, “Normal children attend summer camp. How could camp possibly harm our children?”

Sighing, Mr. McCabe shrugged. He looked to the soccer camp brochure then glanced to his wife. It was a rare opportunity for his son. No doubt about it. And it wasn’t forever.

“Now,” Mrs. Mason said, taking heart by the lack of protests or insane questions, “There are a few things that need to be finalized. It is best to send in the applications through me. I will send it to my contact in the FBI and they will arrange for all the other details.”

“How will we know if our children have been accepted into these camps?” Mrs. White said, flipping through the computer camp brochure she was holding. “Some of these say there are limited openings.”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Dawson said, peering at the brochure her husband was holding. “It looks like we should have applied to these months ago.”

But Mrs. Mason gently shook her head. “No. No. The FBI agent said they have a few reserved spaces in each of these camps. They use them on occasion for witness protection. It’s all good.”

Mr. McCabe frowned at the fine print on the one he was holding, reading the price. He quickly looked up. “Are you sure these are paid for? This one is expensive!”

Meeting his eye, Mrs. Mason chuckled. “I assure you, they are all paid for.”

The parents read them more avidly. Free camp. An end to their children behaving strangely. It was perfect.

“Ok, let’s say we do this,” Mrs. Cartwright said, glancing to the wistful expression on her husband’s face as he perused through the sports camp brochures for his son Andrew. “And our children return in a month’s time, how does the FBI intend to follow up on this? I mean, this is their plan. They must have some way of assessing our children are no longer brainwashed, right?”

Nodding, Mrs. Mason said, “They intend to send in an undercover agent into town and—”

All the parents snickered.

“Into this town?” Mr. White smirked.

Mrs. Mason’s genial smile froze.

“Yeah,” Mr. Peterson laughed. “Everyone knows strangers can’t get in.”

The McCabes shook their heads. Mr. McCabe handed back the soccer camp brochure. “Alright. My wife and I need some time to think this over.”

But his wife snatched it up. “No! We don’t need to think about it. You know Peter would want to go.”

“But it will break up the Seven,” he snapped, frowning. “I can’t be selfish and send my son off to—”

“It is not selfish to care for our son’s happiness!” Mrs. McCabe snapped.

“Lillian…” His voice took on warning.

“Simon…” She returned it with a growl. “It is for one month. One. And she’s right. He’s a sixteen year old boy.”

He grumbled under his breath.

“Now I know this whole Holy Seven thing has turned your head sideways. And Peter has gotten away with a lot of stuff we wouldn’t normally allow with the other boys,” she said. “Don’t you think it is about time we straightened things out a bit?”

He grumbled more.

“Besides, if it truly is his destiny, things will work out in the end.” Mrs. McCabe folded her arms with her and-that’s-final look.

Her husband rolled his eyes then hung his shoulders. “Yes, Dear.”

She turned to face Mrs. Mason. “Where is the application so we can sign him up?”

Quickly taking it out of her files with relief, Mrs. Mason handed it over.

“We’ll take one for this camp,” Mr. Smith said, pushing the brochure across the table towards her.

“And we’ll take this one,” Mrs. Cartwright said, plucking the one from her husband’s fingers.

“We want this one for James,” Mr. Peterson said, waving it in the air.

“Is there only one computer camp in the list?” Mrs. Dawson asked, glaring at Mrs. White who had primly plucked up the application form for the computer camp near Williamstown before the Dawsons could get to it.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Mason frowned. “Sorry. Yes. Would Semour be interested in an inventor’s camp instead?” She held up another glossy camp flier.

Taking that brochure, Mrs. Dawson peered at it. Her husband looked over her shoulder then pulled it closer to read it. The others were already avidly filling out their forms. Mr. McCabe stood back, frowning. His wife was already dotting i’s and crossing t’s, checking her penmanship before passing the completed form back.

And Mrs. Mason collected them with polite thanks.

“And what about your daughter?” Mr. McCabe asked, so much grudging tone settling in his throat. “What do you intend to tell her? I doubt she would willingly let herself get shipped off to a boarding school.”

Returning the glare, Mrs. Mason said, “She will not get ‘shipped off’, as you put it. And my daughter is my business.”

“Oh, and you are minding yours?” He snorted bitterly.

Gazing on him, dry and tired, Mrs. Mason replied, “Yes, I am. I am merely extending an offer that was extended to me. You can choose not to take it.”

He glowered at her.

“We’re taking it,” Mrs. McCabe said. She turned around and linked her arm with her husband. “You. I need to have a word. Outside. This instant.” She leaned back, smiling apologetically. “So sorry. Just let us know when everything is finalized and we can tell our son.”

Nodding, Mrs. Mason’s smile returned.

The couple walked outside, Mrs. McCabe growling in Mr. McCabe’s ear. He muttered back, their voices indistinct beyond their heads.

Once the McCabes had gone, Mrs. Mason said to the other parents, “There was one other thing the FBI agents asked me to do. They mentioned that our boys might try to smuggle with them some of their cult weaponry. We need to keep them from doing so as best as possible.”

They nodded, each of them thinking it was a matter of course.

“Oh, and if possible, when they are gone, to hide their weapons and any dangerous items they may have gotten from the cult.” She said. “They are looking specifically for a particular cult item—an Egyptian cross? They said it looked golden. Have any of you seen it?”

They all shook their heads.

“Perhaps the McCabes have,” Mr. Smith suggested, passing along their filled-out form. “They seemed to have an idea what our children have been up to. Better than us, at least.”

The Dawsons shared another look with the Whites before stepping forward. Mr. Dawson said, “You might want to get hold of Jessica’s red crystal, if you really are going to send her to boarding school. It would constitute as a ‘cult item’.”

“Hey!” Mr. White protested, stepping forward. “It is nothing of the sort! They got that stone from the circus. It is a flame spinel, rare. And it has nothing to do with cult activities.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Dawson growled back. “Then why does my son use it to start fires? Huh?”

Mr. and Mrs. Smith lifted their heads. “Fires? They can start fires with that stone?”

Mr. White violently shook his head. “No. No. It is a flame spinel. I know my precious stones. It’s just unusually warm. They’re pretending. Pretending.”

“Well, I don’t want my son pretending to start fires with a so-called magic fire stone,” Mrs. Peterson snapped. She set her hands on her hips as her husband passed along the form for an adventure camp somewhere near Amherst.

“Pretending or not,” Mr. Smith argued, “I can’t have my son even thinking about fire. He’s turned into such a pyromaniac since…” he shook his head. “So how are we going to get that stone from him? He wears it all the time.”

His wife shrugged. “Search me. You could try asking for it.”

Mr. Smith shook his head.

They all did, thinking hard about the red stones.

“You know,” Mr. Dawson added, peeking at Mr. White, “They gave one of those stones to Michael Toms too.”

Several of the parents drew in breaths.

Michael Toms was a wealthy boy from out of town whose grandmother lived in town. He had also been kidnapped, not long before Peter had. But he had returned to California since his escape. All of them knew he remained in close communication with their children since he had returned home.

Mr. White hung his head back with an exasperated moan. “Oh, for pity’s sake. I cut the stone. There were eight crystals when I was done. It is not like they are carrying around pocket knives. Wouldn’t you give your kids mace if you knew the town’s gang was after them?”

“The town’s gang?” Mrs. Peterson’s mouth opened in a gape. “This town does not have gangs!”

“What about the—” Mr. White started.

But Mr. Smith interrupted with an upraised hand. “Not everybody believes in that.”

Then they all knew what Mr. White was implying. The witches.

Mrs. White frowned. Her face colored. Averting her eyes in embarrassment, she shrugged apologetically to the others.

Mrs. Mason rolled her eyes.

Shaking their heads, the Dawsons sighed and turned to Mrs. Mason once more. Mr. Dawson said testily, “Anyway, be forewarned that the stone has that kind of significance to the group.”

Mrs. Mason nodded. “Alright. But the agents were not aware of anything having to do with red crystals. They were only adamant about the weapons and the golden Egyptian cross. They said that it was vital that we find it.”

The parents shared yet another series of looks. But none of them had seen it and said so.

Discussion over.

Forms filled out, papers signed, couple by couple, each set of parents left the meeting room until Mrs. Mason was left alone with her success. She neatly stacked the forms and slipped them into a large manila envelope prepared for that purpose. Sealing it, first with the glue then with extra tape, Mrs. Mason carried the rest of the brochures that had been left behind and stuck them back into her bag. She walked out of the room, out of the building, and to the street where an old fashioned, standing mailbox was stationed. She slid the thick envelope in, her hopes going with it.

Then she went to her car and drove home.  

“You’re home!” Jessica turned from the island counter where she was making her first from-scratch dinner for herself and her mother. In the worldly sense, Jessica was not especially beautiful. But she certainly was not plain. Jessica was a brown-haired, brown-eyed marvel. She wore fashionable glasses, and when she smiled her face lit up with intelligence.

Normally that smile cheered her mother, but so much was weighing on Mrs. Mason’s mind that she had to force a grin.

“So?” Jessica inched in, still grinning. “How’d it go? Did they take it?”

Her mother nodded, knowing Jessica was only aware of her meeting with the McCabes. “Yes. They jumped at the chance like you said they would. They’ll be applying for scholarships so they can send Peter to soccer camp without any trouble.”

Jessica chuckled. “I told you. Peter could go pro. This is awesome! I am so glad you found that website and asked me about it. I mean, I know Andy loves soccer and all, but Peter really is the best.”

Mrs. Mason nodded. Whenever Jessica chose to compliment another boy over her boyfriend, she meant it.

But then Jessica tilted her head to the side and mused out loud, “Yeah, the best. But will the witches let him go? They don’t like seeing any of us happy, you know.” And she jogged back to the salad she had been chopping.

Mrs. Mason resisted the urge to cringe. The witches. It always went back to the witches. Was the town cursed? Maybe metaphorically. It was so backward, she might as well say it was a curse.

“I wonder how his parents will spring it on him,” Jessica said while chopping up the cucumbers into decent bite-sized pieces. “He’ll flip. You know. He’ll love it.”

Chuckling, Mrs. Mason hoped so. If he didn’t, the entire plan would fall apart.

So she asked, “Oh, but isn’t he king of your club? Will that be a problem? I didn’t really think about that.”

Jessica snorted, peeking back at her mother. “Didn’t think about it, my eye. You knew. And you know we won’t have meetings for a month if he goes. Don’t pretend you don’t like that.”

Jessica’s mother shrugged, entering the kitchen with a peek to the vegetables to see where she could help. “Just a thought. But…what will you do then?”

Shrugging in return, Jessica replied, taking a peeled carrot to the food processor for shredding. “I dunno. Hang out in the park? Go to the rink. We’ll figure something out.”

Secretly smiling, Mrs. Mason relaxed. If their plans were that ambiguous without Peter, then all was fine. The plan would work.

Each to His Own

Chapter Two

Grubby, itchy, sweaty, and oh so tired, Peter waved to the scoutmaster’s van as it drove away. Grinning. With his backpack slung over one shoulder, he turned. The trip had been awesome. It had been great to get out of Middleton Village for a while. It had been great to be in the outdoors with his friends, using his ‘Eagle Scout’ skills to his fullest. Yet he was more than happy to be back home. A nice hot shower. That’s what he needed now.

He jogged into the alley between shop buildings to the fence and lifted the latch to get into his backyard. From behind it, anyone could see that a family lived there. The place was not all business. Soccer balls, Nerf balls, neon water-gun sprayers, and random toy trucks were strewn over the grass—rained upon by the sprinkler in an arch, back and forth, soaking everything. Chuckling to himself, he turned left and jogged up the wooden steps leading to the second floor back porch.

He glanced at the black-domed barbecue grill and the drying picnic table cloths hanging over the railing before going to the door. Swiping his dark brown hair from his sweaty, dirt-smeared forehead, he listened first before opening it.

“Give it back!” His seven-year-old brother Owen shouted on the other side. “Give back Captain America, Hunter! Or I’m going to tell Mom!”

Ten-year-old Hunter taunted, “Nah, nah. Mom’s busy! Try and get it, shorty!”

“Hey! Shhh! Shut up you two!” Stephen, who would be a freshman at Middleton High next year, snapped back. “Mom and Dad need you to be quiet! They’re in the kitchen talking about something important!”

Peter paused. His parents didn’t often discuss serious things just the pair of them where they could be interrupted.  When they talked, they did it in private, in their bedroom or in the pharmacy office downstairs. He decided to open the door quickly and pretend he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Peter!” Owen jumped up, slapping Hunter on the head with a grin. He then hopped to the door with a bounding skip.

Hunter charged after him. “You brat!”

“I’m back.” Peter waved, stepping inside. He dropped his backpack in the entrance way. He nodded to Stephen who stood in his pajamas just inside the kitchen doorway. Pink calamine lotion smeared over all the red spots on Stephen’s chalky white skin. “It was fun, Stephen. Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

Shrugging, Stephen said, “Go say that to Davis. He’s still stuck in bed.”

“Chicken pox,” Peter muttered frowning. Their twelve-year-old brother had contracted it first, right after a scout camp planning meeting at the end of the school year. Peter shook his head, coming in farther and kicking off his sneakers. “I still think the witches cursed you with it.”

“I think they were aiming for you.” Hunter said, dropping the action figure he had been holding hostage onto Owen’s head.

Owen yowled then grabbed the thing, running off before Hunter changed his mind.

Cringing, Peter nodded apologetically. “Yeah… Sorry about that.”

Stephen and Peter were both at the same meeting. Davis was running around at the time, a bit wild, and might have upset the ‘well-made’ plans of so many witches by bumping into the wrong person at the wrong time. Things like that happened a lot around Peter and his friends.

“I brought something back from camp.” Peter walked in farther. He could hear his parents’ voices lowering to a murmur. He mouthed to Stephen ‘What are Mom and Dad talking about?’

Stephen pressed his lips tightly closed then tiptoed back towards the kitchen, peeking in. Then he mouthed, ‘You.’

Peter lifted his eyebrows. ‘Really? What about?’

Chairs scraped on the linoleum in the other room, pushing away from the table.

Taking in a breath, Stephen replied out loud, “I think I’ll leave that up to them.”

His mother emerged soon after. She cautiously smiled at Peter, hopeful, yet also like she felt guilty about something. His father came out after her, a mite peevish. But he also managed a smile.

“Welcome home,” his mom said.

Peter took a step forward. “What’s going on? Am I in trouble?”

Mrs. McCabe shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

His father rolled his eyes.

“But we do need to talk,” she added. Then she beckoned him to the kitchen.

Shrugging, Peter leaned toward Hunter and said, “You guys can go through my pack. I brought stuff home you guys might like. But give the praying mantis in the peanut butter jar to Davis.”

“Praying mantis?” Owen got excited. He ran to the backpack.

“It’s Davis’s!” Hunter chased after him, wrenching his little brother’s hands off the zipper before the boy made havoc with the live contents. Half of Peter’s little brothers collected strange insects—a pastime their parents considered healthy—At least healthier than collecting fake shrunken heads and voodoo dolls. Stephen hopped in to interfere. Their scuffle sounded heavily with thumps against the pressed carpet. Hopefully it did not disturb the people shopping in the pharmacy below.

Peter turned from his brothers’ chaos and hitched on a smile for his parents.

But he could already see from the uncomfortable ways they stood that they had something difficult, if possibly unpleasant, to say. Maybe it had to do with the unexpected attack of the chicken pox, which grazed past Peter and took out three of his brothers. Owen had recovered quickly. Hunter seemed to be immune.

Or maybe the talk had to do with the disappearance of Mrs. Snickles, their mom’s orange tabby. It was barely out of kitten-hood. It had hardly left the house except in Mrs. McCabe’s arms, but somehow it had gotten out. Peter blamed the witches.

Of course it was also possible that after all the other disasters that had befallen them since Peter’s escape from the library curse[1] his parents had had enough. The pharmacy had been raided by a knight in black armor and set on fire by a circus all in the same year. And business had gone down. Mostly from the ‘witch’ patrons, though.

“Uh, could you come into the kitchen?” his mother requested, gesturing in that direction.

Shrugging, Peter did so, still feeling tired and achy. But the shower could wait.

There were sandwiches on the table. Egg salad. He hurried a little faster.

“We thought you might be hungry,” his mother said, almost apologetic. She sat down next to the plate, gesturing for Peter to take one. When she didn’t, she added with a tired smile, “We already ate.”

Peter eyed his father, walked past him, and sat next to the plate, glancing at his mother. He took one, lifted it to his lips, and paused. “Are you all now pod people? Is this poisoned?”

His father broke into a laugh and dropped into the nearest chair. He set his head into hand, sighing.

His mother rolled her eyes, mostly at her husband. “No.”

“Because you are acting really weird.” Peter then took a bite and chewed.

Looking once to his wife, Mr. McCabe then dramatically tossed back his head let out an abrupt manic laugh, cackling and rubbing his hands. “Bu wa ha ha ha! Now you have eaten the formula! You are under our power!”

The boys in the living room snickered, rushing off with the contents of Peter’s backpack.

Mrs. McCabe rolled her eyes more.

Peter eyed his dad with slower chewing, watching his father’s manic cackles subside. The man returned to his grim stance. Peter shook his head and took another sandwich half off the plate.

With a wan glance to Peter’s mother, Mr. McCabe finally said, “No…we’re just…. We have some news.”

This time Peter stopped eating. He stared, eyes wider. “What? Is it serious?” He set down his sandwich. “I mean, what is it? Is it a worse curse than chicken pox? Cancer? AIDS? Ergot poisoning”

His father painfully chuckled, wearily shaking his head.

Rolling her eyes once more to the ceiling, his mother replied, “No. This isn’t witch related.”

“Oh.” Peter frowned. Then he looked around for some water. He was parched. And since there was no added witch trouble….

His mother popped up from her seat before he could.

Peter followed her with his eyes, closing one analytically as she went to the refrigerator and took out the gallon jug of water they regularly filled and refilled from the kitchen sink. She plucked a glass from the cupboard and set it in front of him, pouring.

“Are you pregnant?” Peter asked.

She almost dropped the jug. “Peter!”

The water sloshed heavily inside the container and thudded onto the table.

His father started laughing again, yet less maniacally.

She slapped his arm.

“Ow.” His father rubbed the sore spot.

“What then?” Peter held up his hands. “You guys have been staring at me like something life-changing is about to happen. What?”

“Something might,” his father replied. Then he pulled out the camp brochure. He slid it over the table to Peter.

Looking at it, Peter then picked it up. His eyes scanned over the words, widening. “Pro soccer camp…?” He faced his parents. “What? Why are you giving this to me? We don’t have the money for—”

“We got a scholarship,” his mother said. “You can go, leaving tomorrow.”

His eyes got even wider. “A scholarship?”

“All paid for,” his mother said, a flicker of hope in her gaze.

But his father frowned, looking away.

“What’s the catch?” Peter asked. Yet he clutched the brochure, peeking hungrily at the slick shiny pages. It was everything he had ever wanted. The glossy photos showed the grounds and men involved in dramatic, almost heroic poses of athleticism. Peter had seen ads for this camp on the internet. He had even added up the cost and calculated how he could earn his way to go. Becoming a pro soccer player was his dream future. His ideal. The only thing that had stopped him was the money—though he also had wondered about the ages-old witches’ curse on the town. No one could go in or out without their permission.

“The catch is,” his father said, “that Mrs. Mason passed this along to us.”

Peter peeked up at his mother, who weakly shrugged. He examined the frown on his father’s face.

“And…?” Peter waited still.

“And,” his father glanced at his mother with another frown, “We think she is trying to break up the Holy Seven.”

Peter stared for just a second before cracking into a wet-eyed chuckle. Peter wiped the corner of his eye. “Mrs. Mason? Dad, she doesn’t know anything about the Holy Seven. She doesn’t even believe in magic.”

Mr. McCabe nodded, conceding that. “True. But she is trying to break up your group of friends.

But Peter only nodded, not bothered at all and still amused. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Old news. She doesn’t like any of us.”

“Peter,” his father leaned in gravely, “She’s arranged for—”

“What your father thinks is that something nefarious is going on,” his mother said. She cast his father a terse look.

Mr. McCabe glowered back, folding his arms. He leaned away from them both. “Fine. I do. I think you should be thinking about the future of the Holy Seven. What about your training? What about Medieval Club?”

“What about his life? His future?” his mother retorted. She set her hands onto her hips. “He has a future in soccer!”

“Maybe his destiny has nothing to do with soccer!” his father shouted back. “You and I both knew it was a long shot to begin with.”

“Not if he goes to this camp!” his mother snapped back then grabbed the brochure.

Peter blinked. It was usually the father who encouraged sports careers. Then again, soccer players did not mess with witches on a regular basis, deal with werewolves or curses, and they did not learn to use medieval weaponry. Soccer was safe. And he knew his mother wanted him safe.

 “Look! It says real pro scouts. I double checked it! Peter has been dying to go to this camp for years! Years! Peter, tell your father what you want!”

Unexpectedly on the spot, Peter leaned away from his parents. He then looked to his mother.

What did he want?

All his life, he figured, he would be stuck within the curse of Middleton Village. If he was lucky, he would get out of town for a brief while, attend college (which major, he didn’t know yet), and be part of college soccer. Then as the curse demanded, he figured he would return to Middleton Village where he would end his days in a job he never really wanted. Just like everybody else. He had even thought that maybe he would take up the pharmacy after his father. Or, if he was lucky, he’d end up at the high school’s soccer coach—if the current coach quit or retired.

But after being identified by Mr. Carlton Jones (a member of the last generation’s Holy Seven, an SRA hunter and a traveling historian) as a member of this generation’s Holy Seven, his future had changed. So had his point of view.

Chosen by God, Mr. Jones had said, the Holy Seven were to battle against supernatural things gone haywire throughout the world. That meant he had to travel. That also meant he and his friends had to break the witches’ curse on the town so they could leave and come back at will. They hadn’t done that yet. The Seven had ended a number of curses around town and had fixed several problems already. But they were all still in high school. Most of them now juniors. It wasn’t like they were ready to travel the world yet. And taking on the covens of Middleton Village was not easy.

One thing at a time. There were only so many curses they could end before graduation, after all. And there was so much responsibility with being a member of the Seven, besides. They still had so much to learn. There was still so much to being the Holy Seven that they did not know.

But looking up to his mother’s expectant face, he knew what he had to answer. Turning toward his father, he bowed his head and said, “Dad, do you trust that us eight[2] were chosen for a reason?”

His father blinked at him and drew in a breath.

Peter sighed then continued. “I think Mom is right. I should go to this camp.”

Already his father began to shake his head.

“I know you think this is a mistake,” Peter added, continuing on at a quicker pace. “But each member of the Seven has something unique about him that he, or she—in the case of Jessica—contributes.” He shook his head. “I may not ever be a great swordsman. And I may never master any of the medieval weaponry the others think I need to learn—which is the whole point of Medieval Club. But I’ve decided that I’m not in the Seven for that anyway.”

His father stopped shaking his head. He stared, listening.

Peter said, “I mean, when we ended that curse that time the basketball team got turned into a pack of timber wolves?[3] I didn’t use a sword. I drove the van. I brought things we needed. But mostly I contributed by being a public face. The kids from the other schools who had also been cursed knew me. And because of that, they trusted me. Maybe the Seven needs a go-between. If I go pro in soccer, I can travel the world. I can be a face people can trust. So when those of the Seven who have had all that sword experience go out doing what they do best, they will have less resistance.

“Besides, Mr. Jones said being in the Holy Seven isn’t a career.” Peter casually shrugged. “He was an historian. The former Seven had jobs—ordinary jobs. And besides, I can’t stay in Middleton Village forever. Not if I want to be in the Holy Seven.”

“Oh.” His father’s stare had almost turned into that of a deer in headlights. There were moments when the man saw the potential of the Seven emanating from Peter like a light—an intimidating light that often made him feel small in comparison, or (at least) bearing down on him to crush any hope for normality. And though Peter had never lived ages in that other world like some of his friends, there was agelessness about him when he talked about the Seven.

“I want to do this,” Peter said, lifting up the pamphlet. “This could be my future.”

Yet, with the remains of doubt and worry he had left in him, his father asked, “What about Medieval Club? They can’t hold meetings without their king.”

“Dad,” Peter chuckled, peeking up at his father. “It is summer. Medieval Club is a school club. Nobody will mind.”

Silence prevailed in the kitchen for a while. Argument over? A drop of water fell from the kitchen faucet into the sink.  

However, a lingering frown remained on his father’s face. “What about that demon your friend Michael Toms found in California?”

His mother stiffened. The light in the room almost felt darker. Hairs prickled up on the back of Peter’s neck.

“Wasn’t it created to hunt the Holy Seven down and kill them?” his father asked. Worry lines dug around his eyes. They had first formed right after spring break when Michael Toms had called and told the rest of the Seven about his misadventure during the Easter holidays. “What about her? He said she’s deadly.”

This time Peter rolled his eyes, mostly to remain nonchalant. He was also beginning to feel the ache in his body again from all that sleeping on the ground. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Dad. Is that all you got out of that phone conversation? Dad, he said she had no intention of coming east to hunt us down. The fact that she didn’t kill him proves she means it. She’s harmless.”

But he did not mention the ache he felt in his gut whenever he thought about it. They worried too much as it was.

“When was the last time you heard from Michael?” his father pressed. His mother looked to the ground, trying not to worry.

“Right before scout camp,” Peter replied, just as tersely. He had to find a way to change the subject.

“What about now?” his father asked.

“Now I am talking to you. Do you want me to call him?” Peter asked. “He’s going to get annoyed.”

His mother shook her head, setting a hand onto his father’s shoulder. “That will not be necessary. I think it will be fine.”

“Fine?” His father shook his head. “How can that be fine? I mean, I can’t sleep at night now that I know there is a demon roaming the earth that was created specifically to kill my son.”

Mrs. McCabe set a hand to her forehead. She peeked at Peter, cringing. It had worried her perhaps more than his father. But she was trying to stay strong. He could tell.

Maintaining his unworried façade, Peter shook his head, rubbing another ache along his shoulder. “Trust me. For pity’s sake, trust Michael. He knows she’s ok. She was the demon those witches were trying to conjure during winter solstice. And Michael says she just wants to live a normal life.”

“I still can’t believe it,” his father muttered, folding his arms. Not good.

“That aside,” his mother cut in, “Peter, I think if you are intending, then, to go to this soccer camp, you had better pack. It runs about three weeks.”

“A month,” his father interjected. Good, back to the subject he’d rather be on.

She ignored him. “The packing list is in your bedroom on your bed.”

Peter blinked in a stare at her. “Already?”

She smiled. “I knew you’d say yes.”

He chuckled and shook his head. Of course he would have. Pro soccer camp was the opportunity of a lifetime.

Grabbing another sandwich half from the plate, Peter nodded to his mother then his father and jogged to his room past his camp backpack, which was entirely open and strewn all over the carpet. All the bug jars had been taken out. The dark conversation had dissipated. He could go back to thinking about lighter things. He hopped into his room to the bed where the list lay.

Soccer gear, of course. Clean white shirts without any school affiliation on them. Pajamas, toiletries, and underwear. Uniforms would be provided by the camp along with camp shirts and shorts. He needed sun block and insect repellant. That was about it.

His brothers peered into the room.

“Another adventure?” Stephen yearningly asked.

“Not fair,” enviously, Hunter muttered.

Owen nodded. “Why can’t we get to do all those things?”

Peter chuckled, shrugging, and took off his dirty scout shirt, tossing it to the clothes hamper. It made it halfway in. “Maybe you will, one day.”

But Stephen shook his head and backed out of the room. “No. I don’t think so.”

“You’re the witchdoctor,” Hunter said, agreeing.

Owen stuck his tongue out, spitting a raspberry.

Stephen added knowingly, “No. You are destined for something else. Just…” He paused, frowning to the floor. “Just don’t forget us little people in Middleton Village. Ok?”

Peter looked back at his brothers, halting what he was doing.

“I mean it,” Stephen said then turned away to his bedroom for some rest. “You’ll be famous. I know it.”

Peter didn’t often blush. But his face went uncomfortably hot just then. Usually his brothers just teased. Rarely did they admire him. He was just too weird, Davis regularly said. But then, maybe they had been hiding it all this time. Peter unexpectedly felt proud.

But he couldn’t get distracted right now.

Shower first. Then laundry. Then pack up once more. Off to another adventure. The other six of the Seven in town would be fine without him.

Andrew Cartwright, who had been dragged to scout camp by Peter and James, had enjoyed himself thoroughly. It had been unexpected, of course, as it had been a while since he had taken scouting seriously. After all, the last time he had slept on the ground was on the battlefield in another world.

But happy, and home, he thought maybe he too would get his Eagle before the year was out.