The Power Page 0,49

for her alone. In taking her backpack, his strong, deft fingers squeezed her hand, once.

That was when she knew it was going to be all right.

Cassie looked around at the Club. "You all - I don't know what to say. Thank you." She looked at Adam, who had made them understand. "Thank you."

He shrugged, and only someone who knew him well would have noticed the pain at the edge of his smile. His eyes were dark as storm clouds with some repressed emotion. "Anytime," he said, as Nick started to steer her to the door.

On the way, Cassie glanced back at Doug. "What happened to your/ace?"

"He's always been that ugly," Chris assured her.

"It was the fight," Doug said, touching his black eye with something like pride. "But you should see the other fifty guys," he yelled after her.

"Are we all in trouble for fighting?" Cassie asked Nick, outside.

"Nah - they don't know who started it. They'd have to punish the whole school."

Which, as it turned out, the principal did. The Thanksgiving football game was canceled, and there was a good deal of ill feeling among the students. Cassie just prayed nobody found out where the ill feeling ought to be directed.

"Can we keep things quiet until Thanksgiving vacation next week?" Diana asked at lunch. Cassie and Adam were the only ones who knew exactly why she wanted things kept quiet - so they'd have time to decide how best to use the Master Tools - but the others agreed to try. No one except Doug and Deborah was really interested in more fighting at the moment.

"I'm afraid, though. I'm afraid he'll come after us anyway. He could have the hall monitors pick us up for no reason," Cassie said to Diana afterward.

It didn't happen. A strange peace, a sort of bizarre tranquility, engulfed New Salem High. As if everyone were waiting, but no one knew what for.

"Don't go alone," Diana said. "Wait a minute and I'll go with you."

"I know exactly where the book is," Cassie said. "I won't be in the house more than a minute." She'd been meaning to lend Le Morte D'Arthur to Diana for a long time. It was one of her favorite books, and her grandmother had a beautiful copy from 1906. "I can pick up some dried sage for the stuffing while I'm at it," she said.

"No I don't. Don't do anything extra; just come back as quick as you can," Diana said, pushing a strand of damp hair off her forehead with the back of a greasy hand. They'd been having a strenuous but rather interesting time, trying to stuff a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Okay." Cassie drove to Number Twelve. They were late with the turkey; the sun was low in the sky.

Just in and out, Cassie told herself as she hurried through the door. She found the book on a shelf in the library and tucked it under her arm. She wasn't really uneasy - the last week had been so quiet. The Circle had celebrated Suzan's birthday undisturbed two days ago, on the twenty-fourth.

You see, I told you, she thought to Diana as she came out of the house. Nothing to worry abou -

She saw the car, a gray BMW, sitting beside her grandmother's white Rabbit. In that split second, she was already starring to act, to jump back through the doorway, but she never got the chance. A rough hand clapped over her mouth and she was dragged away.

Chapter Twelve

"Get out of here before any of them see us," the voice said tersely. Cassie could smell the acridity of sweat.

Jordan, she was thinking. The one with the gun. The one in the Pistol Club. The other one was Logan, who was on the MIT debate team, and was younger than Jordan - or was he older? Cassie never had been able to keep Portia's brothers straight, even when Portia was telling her about them, back on Cape Cod.

Her mind was working very calmly and clearly.

They drove her out of New Salem, onto the mainland, keeping her squashed on the floor of the backseat the whole time. Jordan kept his feet on her and kept something cold and hard pressed against the back of her head. As if I were a dangerous criminal or something, Cassie thought. Good grief. What do they think I'm going to do, turn them into toads?

The other pair of feet resting on her was feminine. Portia, Cassie guessed. No, Sally. Portia was too aristocratic to tromp