Chapter Eleven
The next morning, a tired Peter came out of the bedroom and sank down on the couch beside Micky. “Have you been guarding all night?” he asked.
Micky nodded. “You?”
He nodded. “They’re both resting, finally.”
Micky sighed. “They’re . . . different.”
“I wish it had been me instead,” Peter murmured.
“Why?”
“Because then I wouldn’t have to watch them going through this.”
Micky reached over and hugged him one-armed. “And then Mike would probably be in your shoes right now, worrying.”
Peter sighed. Micky was right—for once. “I know. It’s just hard.”
“I know,” Micky echoed. “It’s been hard on all of us.”
~~~~~
That afternoon, Mike just sat and stared out of the window. His wounds were healing quickly and he was finally able to sit comfortably without constantly flinching. It was Peter who’d finally convinced Mike to come out of the darkened bedroom into the living room, where the Texan sat on the bandstand, making no move to touch his guitar.
Peter sat down beside him. “You’re up.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling better?” Mike just shrugged. Peter looked out the window for a few moments in companionable silence. Then he asked, not looking at Mike, “What’s on your mind?”
“Why you think somethin’s on my mind?”
A small smile touched his lips. “Well, for one thing you’re getting defensive.”
Mike snorted. “Just thinkin’.” After a pause he added, “‘Bout somethin’ Dragonman said.”
“What was that?”
“That we’re not the Winds. And . . . I’m inclined to agree.”
Peter’s head snapped around. “What? But . . . but . . . ”
“Think about it. Does it make any sense to you that an American rock and roll band is chosen as some bastion of good?” The last three words were laden with sarcasm.
“What other explanation is there, Michael? The tattoos, the abilities—”
“Were given to us by mistake.”
“But we have them now.”
“And look what happened,” Mike said, his voice a growl. “We been shot, stabbed, tortured, attacked, we put everyone in danger because of a mistake.”
Peter just stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“So I’m done. I’m not going to keep throwing us into danger because of something that never should have happened. I was stupid for thinking we ever could.”
“Mike . . . ” Peter’s voice was soft, incredulous.
“No. Don’t try to talk me out of it, Peter. My mind’s made up.”
Peter studied his face to see if he meant what he said. Mike face was solemn as usual, but his eyes were hard and fierce.
“If that’s how you really feel . . . then why don’t you go to Mister Liang?” Peter’s voice was gentle. “Talk to him about his mistake and see what he can do to undo it.”
“You heard him before,” Mike said. “‘There is no undo. Is permanent.’”
Peter closed his eyes. “Then at least speak to him about the mistake.”
“Oh, I will.”
The eyes underneath the fringe of blond hair—blazing and cold—opened and locked onto Mike’s. “If you ask me, I think you’re just running scared.”
If he was expecting Mike to react with anger, to lash back or show his old fire, he was disappointed. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Peter. But I think that I’m savin’ us from more heartbreak and pain.”
A slow nod, and Peter stood up. “I’m going to go run. I need to calm down.”
Mike just nodded. “You do that.”
Peter got up and walked outside, pausing for a moment by the door before he disappeared down the steps. As soon as he hit the sand he was running, moving into a sprint that soon left the Pad far behind.
“What’s with him?” Davy asked as Peter raced by. He flinched as Micky righted himself from his handstand and bounced next to him.
“Sorry,” Micky said. “He was talking to Mike, last I knew.”
“I wonder what Mike said to get him so mad.”
“I don’t know. Rare he gets this mad, though.”
Davy watched the retreating form on the beach and then said—without turning—”Go to him.” Micky paused, then followed, his legs kicking up sand as he sprinted after Peter’s retreating form. Davy turned back to the house, wincing as a breeze kicked up.
“Peter . . . Peter, wait!” Micky’s legs churned as he ran faster. For a moment Peter picked up speed, then he slowed, finally coming to a stop. Micky actually overshot him and had to go back a step or two. “What was that all about?”
For a moment it seemed that Peter was going to remain silent, but then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Mike quit.”
Brown eyes widened, then Micky gently slammed the palm of his hand into his own ear. “I think my hearing’s goin’. I thought I heard you say Mike quit.”
“He did. He said he’s had it with the Winds and he’s giving up.”
“Wait a minute . . . this is Mike? The same one who drilled into my head that no Wind can blow alone?”
“No, it’s not Mike. That’s what has me worried. It’s the fear and the pain talking with his voice.”
Micky sighed and dropped into a crouch. “And despair and hopelessness are talking with Davy’s.”
“We have to find some way of snapping them out of this. There has to be a way to reverse the damage Dragonman did.”
“All I can see is dragging Davy out of bed and making Mike spar.”
Peter shook his head. “No, that won’t help. It’ll only make them retreat further. Besides—do you really think we could force Mike into doing something he’s decided not to do?”
Micky shook his head. He ran a hand through his curls and rose to his feet. Lowering his hand, he looked Peter in the eyes. “We need help.”
“Someone who . . . ” Peter struggled with the words. “Someone who understands.”
“Bennett?” Micky asked, the same struggle in his own eyes.
“No. Someone . . . with more authority.” His eyes gleamed with a sudden realization. “Mike told me that our abilities and us being the Four Winds was an accident, something that wasn’t meant to be. Who’s the one person who can prove otherwise?”
Micky’s eyes shone a moment later. “Mister Liang!”
“Exactly. I know we don’t like to bother him a lot but I think this time we can make an exception.”
“I’ll go over there.” He began to smile. “Maybe An-mei will be there!”
“You’re really sweet on her, aren’t you?” Peter said, a smile returning to his face.
“Not one bit!” Micky protested, with a huge grin on his face and a sprightly nod of his head. His eyes gleamed with pure impishness.
“All right, go. I’ll keep an eye on Mike and Davy.”
He nodded and took a moment to squeeze Peter’s shoulder in reassurance before he dashed off. He was halfway to the car before he realized he’d forgotten the keys. When he turned back towards the house he found Peter in the doorway, the keyring dangling from his crooked forefinger.
“Saved by the Than,” he quipped as he took the keyring.
“Saved by the . . . hmm, sounds like a pretty groovy name for an album or something. ‘Saved by the’ . . . I don’t know. Blues or something,” Peter muttered as he went back into the house.
On to Chapter Twelve
Back to Chapter Ten
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
