The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (39 page)

“I can’t find anything about an order of dragons,” Chase said, leafing through a massive tome with a leather cover. It was an old book, something Briar had found in the basement. It was an old record of business entities in the United States around the turn of the Twentieth Century. “But I’ve definitely found some interesting stuff.”

“Me too,” Seth said, sliding his book across the table. I looked at the page he was on: a copy of a newspaper ad from World War I.

“Draconem Industries,” I read, “proudly serving the U.S. military with a variety of ammunition, announced today an expansion of its principal factory. The factory will be expanding its manufacturing of munitions and explosives. Draconem currently manufactures seven different bombs, each designed to be dropped from the sky and capable of destroying even the most well-fortified enemy emplacements.”

“Or a building full of civilians,” Seth added, wrinkling his nose. “The whole thing stinks. See that name? That means
dragon
in Latin.”

“Right … the meaning is
hidden
,” Chase said, grabbing one of the other old books piled up on the square desk. He licked his finger and leafed through the pages. “I saw something too ... Here it is. Look at this, from 1970.”

“The U.S. government recently purchased new flame-based bombs from the Yang Corporation,” I read. “The jellied gasoline compound is designed to stick to enemy soldiers for maximum casualties. The Army boasts these new bombs will ensure victory in all future wars.” I looked at Chase. “Ew. Really?”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Believe me, you don’t want to know more.”

“So how is this connected?” I asked.

“It’s tricky,” Chase said, grabbing another book. “And I would have never thought about it if my ex-ex-ex-girlfriend hadn’t gotten one of those stupid trendy Yin-Yang tattoos. Here.” He slid another much newer book across the table. “I dog-eared the page. No, wait.” He grabbed Seth by the shirt and looked at him, wide-eyed. “I
rabbit
-eared the page.”

Seth pretended to be impressed. “Har-dee-har-har.”

I looked at the page and felt my heart jump in my ribcage. “The Yang symbol is a dragon. Briar was right—the Order of the Golden Dragon is everywhere. Definitely big enough to very quietly move around a giant sleeping dragon.”

Chase nodded excitedly.

I was less thrilled.

Once we’d done enough research to make our eyes bleed, I ran home, switching into a pair of more comfortable sweatpants. I looked in the bathroom mirror, making a sour face at my reflection. Gawd, I thought, what if someone from school saw me outside and took another picture? I mean, let’s not fool ourselves: I could totally pull off black sweatpants, provided they weren’t too baggy in the butt area. But still, I had to look mildly presentable. I
had
to.

I didn’t want to end up on the Mean Girls’ website again.

So I went back to my closet, tossing aside the violet shirts in favor of something older and outside-appropriate, something that the Mean Girls would appreciate: a long-sleeve red and white striped shirt with solid red sleeves. It was enough. I disliked the color, but at least there was nothing about it that seemed worthy of ridicule.

“So that’s how you’re going to be now?” I asked my reflection. “You’re going to throw out your favorite shirts so you won’t be bullied?”

“Yup,” came the reflection’s answer.

I jogged to the baseball diamond two blocks away from Chase’s house, thankful for the cool weather, which would minimalize sweating. I hurried past couples out for strolls, cutting through alleys and testing my leg muscles with more than a few dodges of imaginary Corrupted. Every time I went through an alley, I imagined that crazy Frog Prince who’d come out of nowhere. Thinking of him reminded me of Sam Grayle and all of the unfinished business the two of us still had. Thinking of Grayle made me think of Death. Thinking of
that
made me wonder just how long I was going to last as the hero.

Thinking of
that
upset me, and so I brushed away all of my thoughts, focusing instead on the environment just as Briar had taught me. I was getting closer to Chase’s neighborhood, which had fewer cul-de-sacs and more square-shaped blocks full of small houses with green front yards full of leaves. I ran on the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding the dry leaves scattered across the grass and concrete, listening to the sounds.

A car with a damaged muffler.

An owl, awake a few hours early.

Dry leaves shuddering on a maple tree.

A middle-aged couple standing in their front yard, arguing about a couch.

I took it all in, walking the last two blocks to cool down. I was aware of my shoes crunching on the dry leaves. It used to be a sound I liked as a kid. Heck, I liked everything about fallen leaves! I liked jumping in piles of them, I liked stuffing them in friends’ shirts, I even liked raking them.

Now, they were something else entirely: a liability. Every time my foot stepped on a crunchy leaf, it betrayed my presence. It told everything hiding in the shadows exactly where I was.

Rachel, Clyde, Seth and Chase were already at the baseball diamond. Seth and Clyde tossed the softball to each other like pros, occasionally lobbing one at Rachel, who shakily caught the ball with a black leather glove. She had changed into baggy jeans and a black t-shirt, which looked right on her. The more subdued clothing choices she’d been making for school lately just weren’t her. Dark and baggy to match her dark eye shadow … that was her.

Chase watched them all approvingly, buttoning up his black vest. He was wearing a leather headband, too, and had an old worn leather baseball glove in his lap.

“Got one more for me?” I asked Chase. He reached into the red sports bag hanging from the back of his chair and tossed me a brown leather glove. “Thanks. Who’s batting?”

“Rachel,” he said.

“What do I do?”

Chase squinted in the setting sunlight, peering over at the diamond. “Clyde is pitching. You can play infield. Seth can play outfield.”

I nodded, giving his head a pinch with the big glove as I passed. I jogged over to the dirt between second and third base.

“All right!” Chase called out, wheeling onto the dirt behind home base. “Come on, Rachel.”

“She’s going to you,” Clyde said, pointing to me. “She’s a softie. She likes to swing early.”

“You’d be a better trash talker if ya took off your sunglasses,” Rachel said, grabbing the bat sitting on home plate. She got into a batting stance. Chase murmured something to her.

Clyde pitched the ball underhand. Rachel swung, connecting. The ball went rolling toward me. I crouched, clumsily scooping it up and tossing it back to Clyde.

Clyde pitched again. And again. Every time, Rachel swung early and the big softball came rolling toward me.

“I’ll just read a magazine,” Seth called out.

“Come on,” Chase said. “Close your stance.
Trust
me.”

Rachel slid her left leg—her front leg—further to the right, closing her stance. Clyde swung again. She connected early again, but this time her shoulders were facing toward first base. The ball went rolling that way. I ran across the diamond, scooping up the ball and tossing it back to a flabbergasted Clyde.

“Now swing upward,” Chase said. “Like you’re swinging a golf club.”

“I’ve never swung a golf club,” Rachel said, laughing nervously.

“Neither have I,” Chase said. “But we’ve both watched it on TV.”

Clyde pitched again. Rachel swung downward, missing. The ball bounced once and landed in Chase’s glove. He plucked the ball from his glove. His fingers touched the ball, moving it around in his hand. It looked so comfortable there, and it was impossible for him to hide the longing on his face.

Finally, he tossed it back to Clyde. “Try again,” he ordered. “And make sure you use your natural strength.”

Clyde tossed the ball again, this time putting a little pepper on it. Rachel swung, connecting with the ball. It sailed up into the air, right at me. I jumped at high as I could, reaching out with the baseball glove. The ball floated over, landing into the grass in front of Seth.

“Yes!” Rachel shouted, jumping up and down. She jogged to first base, celebrating all the way.

“All right,” Chase said, unable to contain a proud smile. “Who’s next?”

I nearly knocked Clyde over on my way to home plate.

Chase nodded, wheeling back a foot. “Now get your stance right. Come on. Come
on
. Slide your foot forward.”

“I’m more comfortable like this. Pitch it, Clyde!”

Clyde tossed the ball. I swung, feeling the wooden bat barely connect. The ball piddled back to Clyde.

“That was a screamer!” Seth called out from the outfield.

“Just
listen
to me,” Chase said with an exasperated frown. “Slide your foot forward. Watch the ball, and as you’re swinging, let the sweet spot of the bat connect with the ball. Let the bat do the work.”

Clyde pitched again. I swung, following the ball with my eyes. It connected with the thickest part of the bat, flying past Clyde and bouncing in front of Rachel, who was standing in the dirt between second and third base. Rachel clumsily grabbed the ball with her bare hand instead of using the glove.

“Not quite getting the point of the glove, Rachel!” Seth called out.

“OK,” Chase said. “This time, I want you to really use your butt. We’re going to shut Seth up.”

Crimson red flooded up my neck, burning my face. “Um …”

“You’re going to push off with your back foot,” Chase explained. As you’re swinging. And keep the bat back a bit. Like this.” He held a phantom bat in his hands. We locked eyes and I suddenly could read his mind: he wanted to be standing behind me, helping me get into the perfect batting stance; I wanted him standing behind me, his strong hands wrapped around mine. But I could deal with just staring at those beautiful eyes.

“Back foot,” Chase said, shaking away the thought.

“Back foot,” I repeated, watching Clyde comically wind up before tossing the ball. It came fast, and I had to swing quicker. I used the strength in my right butt muscle to put a little more oomph into it. The ball connected with the bat just a little higher than the sweet spot, but the added force of my modified stance more than made up for it. The ball sailed over Rachel’s head, then over Seth’s head.

“I did it!” I shouted, holding the bat up like a spear. I hopped up and down on home plate.

Chase smiled. “Yeah, I kinda figured your butt could do it.”

Later, back at Chase’s, we ordered pizza.

I’ll admit: I gorged a bit. One of the pizzas was full of veggies and heavy on pizza sauce, my favorite combination. And Chase’s parents warmed up some apple cider, perfect for a cool autumn day.

We congregated in the massive living room with Seth firmly in control of the movie selection. Clyde and Rachel had stocked up on breadsticks, using up a thousand or so napkins for the grease. Chase’s parents had moved the couch a bit and gotten a smaller coffee table so he could maneuver around the entire room with ease.

“That was nice of them,” I pointed out when the two of us made our way into the kitchen for seconds.

“It was.” He held out his plate for another slice of pepperoni pizza. “Is the rabbit around? I could leave him something by the door.”

I shook my head. “He’s probably trying to find more information on the Order. I think he secretly enjoys going to the downtown library.”

“He’s strange, to say the least.”

“Who?” Rachel asked, walking into the kitchen. We watched her grab a soda from the fridge.

“Oh, Sam from the fencing squad,” Chase answered.

Rachel popped the top. “Oh, totally. He still collects LEGO toys. I bet he plays with them.”

She walked back into the living room.

“Man, this alternate life stuff is weird,” Chase said. “Kind of exciting, too.”

“Yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “Then comes the running and screaming and sharp teeth and giant sea monsters.”

From somewhere down the hall, Chase’s mom announced she was going upstairs to the office. “So you’re getting along with your parents now?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We had a long talk. It was … really, really awkward.” He chuckled, taking a bite of his pizza. “But it was good. Good talk. Very good talk. We didn’t even shout at each other like we usually do. We just tried to listen.”

“I’m glad,” I said. Looking down at him, I couldn’t help but feel good. It took a while to realize it, but he had such nice eyes—it wasn’t just the color, it was the way he could really
look
at you. The muscles around his eyes made his entire face so animated; when he was taking you seriously, you could totally tell it just by the way the top of his cheeks tightened.

All he needed to do was to get rid of that ridiculous headband.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s talk about the headband now. What’s the deal?”