“You think the weather defended me?” Had the weather come to Piers’ rescue? Had he somehow called the sudden storm?
Jess grinned. “I know, it sounds weird, but haven’t you noticed how things go your way sometimes? For example, you forget to do your homework, and a freak snowstorm closes school.”
“Snow happens.” Yes, he’d wanted snow desperately that day.
“In September?”
“I can’t control the weather.” Sure, strange things happened, but had he actually caused them?
“I’m not saying you can… just…”
“Let’s talk about something else, okay?” Piers would wish for a real home with loving parents if wishing made things happen. Not foster care, where he’d stay until he turned eighteen. Just five more years to figure out what to do with his life. “I’m scared.”
“Of Timmy? Hah! I doubt he’ll bother you again.” Jess fished into the pocket of her oversized jacket and handed Piers an apple. She sank her teeth into one of her own.
Piers smiled and bit the fruit. Jess couldn’t resist raiding the kitchen—and usually blaming someone else. Food hoarder. At least, that’s what the house parent said. Having done without as a child, Jess swiped food whenever possible. “You never know when you’ll need it,”she always said. Missing a bag of potato chips? Check her closet.
He chewed a bite of the apple. The snowstorm and lightning had to be coincidences. If anyone managed to change the weather, it wouldn’t be him—definitely time for a subject change. The current one made him squirmy. “Wanna see what I drew today in art class?”
“Sure!” Jess wriggled backward, anticipation shining on her face.
Piers reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper.
Jess grinned, keeping her eyes on Piers, opening the drawing, and angling the image toward a streetlight. She glanced down and gasped, bringing the hand holding the apple to her mouth. “Oh, Piers, this is beautiful!” She ran her fingers over the charcoal image. “It looks so real. Did you have a cat… before?”
Piers refolded the paper. “I don’t think so. The image just popped into my head, along with a name.”
“What name?”
“Chynne.”
“Odd name for a cat, don’t ya think?”
Piers shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe I knew someone with a cat when I was little and don’t remember the name right.” Or maybe he’d merely dreamed of having a pet.
Like he dreamed of dragons.
Piers woke from a sound sleep. His heart pounded. What woke him? Images swirled in his mind, disappearing like smoke through a fist. A boy. Long white hair. Yellowish eyes. Cocky grin.
He’d dreamed of a boy. Again. He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. Few boys at school caught his attention and none of the girls. So, who could this dream guy be? No one real looked so ethereal. Kind of like an elf from a fantasy movie he’d seen.
And yet…
Before the memory disappeared, Piers pulled paper and a pencil off his nightstand. Thank goodness he’d been allowed a bottom bunk. He moved stealthily to not disturb the three boys he shared a room with. Shifting the curtain to one side gave him enough light to see via the street light outside the window. Had the light just brightened?
One swift stroke at a time, he sketched the boy from his dream. If real-life left Piers wanting, he’d take a mysterious stranger and dragons over reality any day.
Half-finished with his masterpiece, he fished under the bed for his ratty old backpack, which he’d picked out at a store one day with Uncle Lee. His heart ached. Damn, but he missed his uncle. He’d been so excited to start school. Uncle Lee took him from one store to the next to find the perfect bag.
Piers ran his fingers over the worn fabric, remembering the day, his uncle’s smiles, and how they’d gone for ice cream afterward. Uncle didn’t go out much, but he’d always been a good uncle. The best.
Piers reached into the bag, caressed the secret compartment holding his treasures, and pulled out his mother’s… journal? He opened the cover, ran his fingers over the first page, and studied the writing. Some strange language. The sample he’d copied didn’t match any of the languages he’d researched in the school library. What stories would he find in his mother’s words? Did the pages tell about her daily life? The boys she crushed on? His father?
If he stared hard enough, the words almost made sense… almost. Whenever he thought he understood something, the scrawl became gibberish again.
He turned the page.
Oh, dear Lord! Piers snapped the book closed. His mother must have been an artist, too, based on the realistic drawing. Only, Piers never drew human hearts on a table, dripping blood into a bowl. Words invaded his mind:
