The Call Read Free

that horse, facing the horse’s head instead of his tail? He wouldn’t need you to guide him.”
    In less time than it took a rooster to summon the morning sun, Grimluk had lost his job as a horse leader and been forced to switch to a far less lucrative career: fleer.

Three
    S o, back in the present day, Mack was waiting to get his butt kicked. Stefan kept his iron grip on Mack’s shirt and insisted that Mack keep chewing on Stefan’s unpleasant gym clothes.
    They had reached the usual spot. Big green Dumpster. Chain-link fence. Cinder block back wall of the gym. Asphalt underfoot. No teachers, cops, principals, parents, or superheroes anywhere in sight.
    Mack was going to get a beating. Not his first. Butthe first since sixth grade. One month into the new school year, and he was already in the grip of Stefan Marr.
    â€œI’m thirsty,” Stefan said.
    â€œMmm hngh nggg uhh hmmmhng,” Mack offered.
    â€œNah, that’s okay,” Stefan said. “I guess this won’t take long.”
    Sure enough, Matthew and Camaro had been able to quickly assemble the available Richard Gere bullies. Six boys and Camaro were striding toward them with a purposeful, thuggish stride.
    Mack had one and only one possible escape route. There was a fire door in the back of the gym. It had frosted reinforced glass that revealed nothing of what was on the other side, but Mack knew the cheerleaders would be practicing just beyond that door.
    He also knew the door was supposed to be locked at all times. But Coach Jeter sometimes unlocked it and turned off the alarm so that he could sneak out between classes and smoke a cigarette here in the alley.
    Mack had one chance.
    He waited, gathered his strength and focus. Hewent limp, almost collapsing. And in the split second that Stefan took to adjust his stance, Mack lunged.
    His T-shirt ripped away in a single piece, leaving behind only the neck band.
    He broke free.
    Three steps to reach the door. One, two, three! He snatched at the handle and yanked hard.
    The door did not open.
    Mack sensed movement behind him.
    He spun. Stefan’s fist flew and Mack ducked.
    Crash!
    â€œYaaaah!” Stefan cried.
    Mack jerked away, off balance, feet tangled. But he didn’t fall. He backpedaled, needing just to get his feet back under him.
    Then he saw the red spray all over the shattered window.
    Stefan’s fist had gone through the glass. He had a four-inch gash in his arm, like a red mouth, spurting.
    The approaching bullies froze.
    Stefan stared in fascinated horror at his arm.
    The bullies hesitated, almost decided to keep coming, but then, with a sensible assessment of therisks involved, decided it was time to run away.
    They turned tail and bolted, yelling threats over their shoulders.
    Stefan used his left hand to try and stop the blood flow.
    â€œHuh,” he said.
    â€œWhoa,” Mack mumbled with a mouth full of shorts.
    â€œI’m kind of bleeding,” Stefan observed. Then he sat down too fast and landed too hard, and Mack realized that what he was seeing here was not a painful but well-timed minor injury. Way too much blood was coming out of Stefan’s arm. There was already a puddle of it on the ground—a little pool was forming around a discarded candy bar wrapper.
    The king of the bullies tried to stand up, but his body wasn’t working too well it seemed, so he stayed down.
    Mack stared in amazement. In part he was terrified that he was on the verge of acquiring a whole new phobia: hemaphobia—fear of blood.
    Escape would be easy. And Mack definitely considered running.
    Instead he spit out the shorts. He straddled the seated Stefan and said, “Lie back.”
    When Stefan didn’t seem to track on that, Mack pushed him none too gently onto his back.
    Mack then knelt over Stefan and pushed down with the heel of his left hand on the wound. This was deeply unpleasant. The blood flow slowed but did not stop.
    With his