The Bridge (4 page)

“Enough talking,” his grandfather said, smiling as though his grandson hadn’t gotten slapped in the face with reality. “Let’s enjoy dinner and talk about this later. The pasta is hardening and you haven’t finished your salad.” He gestured to Everett’s barely touched bowl.

“Of course. This tastes wonderful, Mr. Hallman,” Mr. Pendley said.

Everett couldn’t wait until Mr. Pendley left.

EVERETT’S TRAINING
was to begin on Saturday. For the rest of summer he was to attend three-hour-long classes every Saturday and Sunday at his mentor’s house. His mentor was Omar Allan, a renowned witch whose claim to fame dated back to the seventies, when he had taken down a ring of corrupt witches who attempted to bridge spirits back from the afterlife as their personal servants. Now it was clear that at least one of the witches Omar had defeated was a Bridge Master.

Everett had heard of Omar only because of his grandfather’s bedside stories, and what he had heard reduced him to a squealing fanboy. Though Omar had passed his physical prime, he retained noteworthy control over his powers.

Witches had two primes: their physical prime and their energy prime. Everett’s energy prime, if he ever had one, would be nothing special. He would be lucky if it allowed him to do what he should have been able to do at seventeen.

After cleaning the dishes, Everett lit two lavender incense sticks and stuck them into his mother’s porcelain ash catcher. As the smell filled his room and soothed his nerves, he continued reading the second volume of witchtales. He found the story Mr. Pendley had referred to. It introduced the importance of Bridge Masters and put them in a spotlight that dimmed out ordinary witches. The way the witchtales described them was borderline elitist, reinforcing their superiority over the witching world.

Everett didn’t remember this tale from his childhood. He searched “Bridge Masters” and “Bridge Guardians” on the Internet but found nothing. His best chance sat with the Order’s official website. As a minor he had no access to it. His grandfather did, but it was late and he didn’t want to contribute to the extra wrinkles on his grandfather’s forehead.

By the time the incense burned all the way through, Everett was asleep. He woke early in the morning to clean the burner and go through the night routine he had pushed aside in favor of reading. He went back to bed and slept into the early afternoon, trying to avoid all thoughts about his life’s sudden change in direction.

He was Everett Hallman, a low-energy Bridge Master. It was a joke.

After breakfast, he went to the library to work on his compare-and-contrast document. The martial arts dojang held adult classes at this time. Everett couldn’t focus on his document when Bryce lingered in the front of his thoughts. He had to know if Bryce would be there.

Like yesterday, the class was taught by the blonde instructor. The only spectator in the room was a woman working on a laptop. Everett took the seat by the door.

There were about twenty white-, orange-, and gold-belted teenagers and adults on the floor. Half the class was divided into pairs. One person held a padded paddle while the other person practiced kicks with the top of the foot. The instructor worked down the line, adjusting the students’ bodies before and after they kicked.

The rest of the class performed a choreographed pattern of techniques one move at a time. Someone led them, but one of the floor’s pillars blocked him from view. Everett couldn’t hear his voice over the shouts of the paddle-kicking students, but he had an idea of who the leader was.

The blonde instructor’s black belt had seven golden stripes on one end and her full name on the other end. Everett assumed the Korean characters under the embroidered “ANN NYSTROM” were a translation of her name. If all black belts had the same format, then Bryce’s belt had his full name. If he could find out Bryce’s last name, he could Web-search it.

Ann’s portion of the class switched paddle holders. In the gaps between shouts and paddle hits, Bryce’s voice carried over the floor.

“… should be so straight you could shove a stick up your ass painlessly.”

The woman looked up from her laptop in distaste. Bryce stepped back, coming into Everett’s line of sight. Everett chuckled at the apologetic smile Bryce gave her—and the urge struck like lightning.

The dog-leash spirits were back, but this time they pulled at Everett as if they were trying to yank him out of his body.

His fingers sought out his salt bag.
Show me the spirits that pull on me.

Pink jellyfish spirits covered the front of his body. They moved as one, sucking and pulling with their skinny tentacles.

He tried to expel them, but only succeeded in removing the few covering his knee. They froze, as if stunned into a stupor, and then drifted into the air. They became transparent until they reached the ceiling and faded away. The rest pulled on him with stronger fervor. It pained him not to give in. He moved his arm in the direction they tugged, and the comfort fell over him in a soothing wave.

He surrendered to the spirits.

As soon as he took the first step down the linoleum walkway, the spirits gentled their pulls. He was like a dog on a walk with an impatient owner. If he heeled when the owner wanted to move, the leash strained. If he obediently followed, the leash sagged.

The spirits led him to the back door. He stepped onto a path surrounded by dirt that led to a nearby sidewalk of a public parking lot. The door shut with a click.

“Where now?” he asked.

The spirits didn’t do anything for a few seconds, and then as one, they pushed off his body. They swam through the air as if they really were jellyfish. They faded into nothing. Had they gone elsewhere or simply become invisible?

There wasn’t any paranormal residue hanging around. Either the jellyfish were weak spirits, or they defied the spiritual laws Everett knew.

He circled the parking lot two times and cast exposure spells until he was positive there was nothing to find. The students were lining up to bow out when Everett returned. The next class—green, purple, and blue belts—sat on the spectator chairs and stretched along the edge of the mat. Everett wouldn’t be able to get across without drawing attention to himself, and he loathed attention in small, crowded places, so he stayed in the back. A black belt who looked like an older version of the girl Bryce had been with before entered the class. She put her duffel bag against the wall next to the front doors and smiled at Everett. He smiled back.

Ann and Bryce stood in front of the four rows of students, hands held loosely behind their backs.

“
Soo Guh Heet Sahm Nee Dah
,” said Ann.

The class shifted glances at each other.

“Have you already forgotten?” asked Ann.

“Yes, sir,” someone said.

“From now on, classes will end with ‘Soo Guh Heet Sahm Nee Dah’ and you will answer with ‘
Kahm sa hahmnida
, sir.’”

“She says ‘You worked hard,’ and you say ‘Thank you,’” explained Bryce.

“Understood?” asked Ann.

“Yes, sir!” the class shouted.

“
Soo Ryuhn Geut.
Class dismissed.”

The students bowed first and the instructors second. The beginner class bowed off the floor.

“Intermediates, you’re up!” Bryce said and bowed off the floor. He untied his belt and slung it over a shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Kwang Jang-nim
.
”

“Take care,” Ann said.

Ann and the newcomer led the next class through warm-ups. Bryce’s eyes automatically sought out Everett’s. Everett stood in front of the alcove where the back door was located, as if he were waiting for someone to meet him off the floor. Maybe he also looked lost, his hand in his messenger bag as if it were an additional pants pocket, and his eyes wildly roving the dojang as he looked for spirit traces.

“Did you like the class?” Bryce asked.

Everett tried to smile naturally, which made his smile feel even more unnatural.

“It was interesting.”

“Just interesting? I was hoping it’d be jaw-dropping so you’d think of joining.”

He was more than flattered until he thought of the dojang’s profit motivation. Martial arts schools were heavily profit driven. Everett wasn’t able to tell how well off the dojang was, but if it needed a larger student base, Bryce would be one of the silver-tongued salesmen.

“I probably won’t join either way. My grandfather wouldn’t approve.”

Bryce tilted his head and scrunched his face as if it was the most ridiculous excuse. “Why not? Does he think it’s too dangerous or something?”

“That and he doesn’t want to spend unnecessary money. We’re trying to reduce our spending.” Everett hated to bring in the financial excuses.

“You can’t really do much about the danger except learn how to train safely, but if you have financial issues, Kwang Jang-nim
Ann can help you out. We give scholarships to needy students.”

“Needy students?” Everett whispered, having too much self-control to snap back.

Bryce rubbed the back of his neck. “That sounded ruder than I meant. Needy as in low income.”

“It’s only rude if you say it’s rude.” And because Bryce was looking at him strangely, he added, “Perception is everything.”

Bryce tilted his head slightly, just enough to make him look like a puzzled puppy. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You’re an old soul.” Bryce’s eyes crinkled as if he found it endearing.

“I don’t get that a lot, believe it or not.”

Bryce dipped his eyes to Everett’s messenger bag. “What’s in there? Looks like it’s filled with books.”

“Just three. And my laptop.”

“You look pretty protective of them. Your hand’s always inside.” Bryce’s black eyes sparkled like a starry night sky.

Everett became hyperaware of the hand casually stuffed in the front pocket. He withdrew it, salt particles embedded into the surface of his hand.

Bryce whistled lowly. “You really like salt.”

Everett’s cheeks were so hot, his toes could feel the burn. He should have said he forgot to clean it out from yesterday, but his embarrassment stitched his lips together. He could only press them into a tight line and stare at the class lined up on the floor.

Bryce brushed a punch against Everett’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s only embarrassing if you say it’s embarrassing.”

Everett smiled and stepped back. “I have to go… somewhere. I told my grandfather I’d be here for an hour.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” Bryce quickly said. “I have a habit of embarrassing people with jokes, which I know isn’t something I should say, but I’m trying to change that. Sorry. Now I’m being awkward.” Bryce rolled his eyes, and was it Everett’s wishful imagination or was he blushing? “Can you ask your grandfather about the lessons? Tell him we can pay some of the fees. Let me know if he changes his mind and I’ll schedule an appointment with Kwang Jang-nim.”

“I’ll do that.” Everett backpedaled to the backdoor. “See you… later?”

“I’m here every day this week from twelve to two and five to six. Drop by sometime.” Bryce winked.

EVERETT VISITED
the next day, not for Bryce, but for an investigation of the paranormal activity. He brought a large supply of salt and cup of coffee. Sometimes the caffeine gave his spiritual energy a boost along with his mental energy.

He cast a variety of exposure spells he had listed in a small notebook. One was to see any paranormal residues, and another was to study the auras of the students and instructors for any abnormalities. There weren’t any for either. He took sips of coffee between spells, resupplying his energy. The students were sluggish today. Bryce urged them to work harder. Seeing the students slog through their practice, sweating as they struggled to maintain excellent technique, made Everett sluggish himself.

The final and largest spell he cast was a stripping of the human aura. Without it, Everett would see the true forms of the students—human or not. It took several minutes of preparation and mental strengthening. Aura stripping sucked the energy out of him like sap. The last time he had done a spell of this level was several months ago. His grandfather had assisted by offering some of his own energy through a mental connection. Everett had been only mildly light-headed after that casting, so for today’s stripping, he was prepared for a stronger hit, especially since he was casting the spell over a large group of people. However, if everyone was human, his exhaustion would be bearable. If everyone wasn’t human, he would pass out. The chances of finding at least one nonhuman was small, so Everett doubted the spell would drain his energy pool.

The spell swept over the auras of the students, and before any could be stripped, a wave of pure energy smashed into Everett’s focus. He lurched back, his vision black and his thoughts cleared of everything but a pounding throb in his head. His vision came back in pulses of color. He sealed the salt bag and slipped his bag off his lap. He didn’t know his hearing was dulled until he realized he didn’t hear his bag hit the ground. His face dropped into his hands as he tried to come up with something that would alleviate the pain, but he couldn’t think. His thoughts were jelly that slipped through cracks in his head.

He focused on the salt still coating his hand.
Show me the source of the counterattack.

Nothing came to him. He tilted out of his chair and overcorrected his posture. He tipped sideways, pushing the neighboring chair out of the way as he slipped to the ground. It pushed against the other chairs, scraping them against the linoleum. A woman several chairs away got to her feet.

Everett pressed his face to the cold floor and closed his eyes. The sooner his head cleared, the quicker he’d be out of there.

Someone tried to roll him onto his back, and he flailed a weak arm at them. They backed off as if he had swung a fist. He felt the vibrations of chairs dragged away. Someone brushed hair out of his face. He touched the hand, intending to push it away, but he recognized the callused fingers and the rough skin.