Red Plaid Shirt muscled in like a bull seal on a beach, all weight and noise. The black-haired boy defended himself with
knees and elbows. The lad had height, Morgan thought disparagingly, but no real training. His stance was all wrong, his hands
open like a child‟s.
The ensuing scuffle was too vicious to be called horse-play, too lacking in technique to be termed a fight. The two
principals exchanged pushes, jabs, and jibes, while the third boy circled like a runt in a dogfight.
Red Shirt threw a shoulder into the dark boy‟s ribs. He staggered back a step, raised both hands, and shoved. Hard.
His attacker flew five feet through the air and crashed on the grassy strip beside the dreaming churchyard.
Well.
The black-haired boy stood breathing hard, spots of color burning in his pale face.
Morgan raised his eyebrows. He had not guessed the skinny lad had such strength in him.
Neither had his assailant, apparently. Red Shirt sprawled on his ass in the weeds, expression stunned, belligerence
temporarily knocked out of him. His companion hurried to extend a hand.
Red Shirt waved him off.
The smaller boy frowned. “Todd? Aren‟t you gonna . . .”
Todd climbed painfully to his feet.
The black-haired boy braced.
“Nah. He‟s not worth it,” Todd declared and spat on the ground. “Pussy.”
They slouched off in the direction they came from. The boy stood and watched them go before resuming his climb, his
shoulders hunched, his boots scuffing the road.
Morgan frowned as the lad drew even with the porch. He did not walk like a victor.
“Not bad.” Morgan spoke from the shadows. “But when you fight, you should fight to finish.”
The boy‟s shoulders jerked in a defensive shrug. “Whatever. It‟s over.”
“Over, but not done.” Morgan strolled to the top of the steps, once more in command of his body, the sea song in his head
fading to a manageable roar. “The one you fought will try again.”
“What do you care?” The boy raised his chin, his gaze blazing. His eyes were the color of tarnished gold.
Recognition hit Morgan like a rock.
Finfolk eyes. Iestyn‟s eyes. Morgan‟s eyes, in a mortal‟s face.
His breath hissed between his teeth. “Who are you?”
3
THE STRANGER‟S GAZE PINNED ZACK TO THE sidewalk. “Who are you?”
Zack swallowed, taking in the hard jaw, the hard eyes, the long, black leather jacket. The guy was tall, taller even than
Zack, and his arms were as big around as Emily‟s head. No way was Zack going to be able to outrun him. “Who wants to
know?”
The man didn‟t seem to register his rudeness, which set off all kinds of alarm bells in Zack‟s head. “My name is Morgan.”
No last name.
When grown-ups did that, they were usually trying to be friendly. This dude didn‟t look friendly. He looked seriously
badass.
“Zack. Zachary,” he mumbled, the extra syllables dragged out of him by the man‟s hard stare.
His hair was really blond, Zack saw. Almost white, like his own hair before he dyed it. The thought gave him a funny
feeling in his stomach.
“You live here,” the man said.
“Um . . .” Zack‟s mom was always going on about giving out personal information to strangers. For once, her warnings
made sense. “Yeah.”
“Where?”
The uh-oh feeling spread. “None of your business.”
The man‟s mouth compressed. “What is your family?”