“I should have known some callous lackey for a despicable group of schemers would drag me from my home in the middle of the night?” Although he failed to muster much spittle, Samson spat at John. “How do you live with yourself?”
“One day at a time.” John tightened the cords.
“You’re not the only guy who knows I’m in town,” Samson wheezed. “The other magicians have no great love for me, but they won’t be pleased to learn about this.”
“Maybe they’ll take the hint.”
Samson cackled and coughed. “They don’t run, John. Me, maybe. Them? No way. You ought to be the one running.” He struggled inside of the bedspread burrito.
“Thanks for the concern. Don’t give me any trouble. I’m already in a lot of pain. I’d gladly suffer a bit more.”
Samson grinned. He had two gold teeth. “I know the limits of what you can do to me.”
“Right. Which is why I’ll have a courier deliver you and your sideshow sidekicks to my employers.”
Samson paled. “I’ll give you ten times the money they’re paying you—”
John chuckled.
“Fifty times,” he pleaded.
“Friend, you made your bed, I’m just tucking you in.”
Chapter One
The Blue Falcons
Nate sat at the end of a sheetless mattress, bouncing a small rubber ball off the bare wall, keeping count of how many consecutive times he caught it. The ball got away from him and rolled toward the open, empty closet, coming to rest against the base of a cardboard box.
His new room was a little bigger than the old one, but felt unfamiliar and impersonal. Once the boxes were unpacked it would look a lot better.
His mom entered carrying another box with his name printed in blue marker. “You’re not getting much done,” she said.
“I don’t know where to start,” Nate replied.
“Just do this one,” she said, setting the box at the foot of his bed. “After you finish you can go play outside.”
“Play what? Robinson Crusoe?”
“I just saw some kids your age riding bikes.”
“They’re probably idiots.”
“Now, don’t have that attitude,” she sighed. “Since when did you become shy?”
“I don’t want to start all over again in a new place. I miss my old friends.”
“Nate, we’re here, and we’re not leaving. If you make some friends in the neighborhood before school starts, you’ll have a much better time.”
“I’d have a better time if Tyler moved here.”
His mom used a key to hack through the tape sealing the box. “That would be nice, but you’ll have to settle for e-mail. Get to work.” She left the room.
Still seated at the end of the mattress, Nate leaned forward and pulled back the cardboard flaps. The box contained a bunch of his old trophies cocooned in newspaper. He had a lot of trophies for a ten-year-old, having played four years of soccer and three of Little League.
He unwrapped the biggest trophy, earned last year by his first-place soccer team, the Hornets. He had been stuck at fullback all season, and had seen less action than ever. The forwards and halfbacks had generally kept the ball at the other end of the field as the team paraded unchallenged to their undefeated season. The coach, a black guy from Brazil whose son was the star forward, had spent the season yelling at Nate to stand up and stop picking grass. As if he couldn’t just hop to his feet on those rare occasions when the ball visited his side of the field. Picking grass was far more entertaining than watching his teammates score goals off in the distance. They should have equipped him with binoculars instead of shin guards.
Soon the trophies were aligned on a shelf, and the newspapers were wadded on the floor. Beneath the trophies, Nate found a bunch of his books, along with a broad assortment of comics. He loaded them into the bookshelf, then heaped the wadded newspapers back inside the box.