LOGAN Tom took a few minutes more to look around the rubble where he had told Panther to wait, and then gave up. He didn't know what had happened to the boy, but he couldn't take the time to find out. He had to get back to the other street kids and hope that Panther would find his own way. Maybe something had scared him. That didn't seem like Panther, but you never knew. Whatever the case, he wasn't here now.
Unless he was, but couldn't answer.
Logan didn't want to dwell on that possibility, but he couldn't quite put it aside, either. He hated the thought that he might have somehow failed the boy, that he might have brought him along only to get him killed. He had lived for years with the guilt of never being able to do quite enough for the children in the slave camps. He didn't need an–other name added to that list. Funny. He had known Panther for less than twenty–four hours, but it felt a lot longer. He liked the dark–humored, moody boy–liked his aggressiveness and readiness to take on anything. Maybe it was because he admired the toughness in street kids that he liked Panther so much.
Or maybe it was because he reminded him of himself
He started back up the street into Pioneer Square, chased by the sounds of the drums on the bay and the marching of the compound de–fenders to the docks. He hated the thought of taking on this new re–sponsibility, looking after the Ghosts, shepherding them to wherever it was he was supposed to go. Losing the gypsy morph was a major breach of his duty to protect it. Pretty hard to protect something that had been swallowed up by a ball of light and was now who–knew–where. But being left with the morph's family …
He stopped himself, rethinking his choice of language.
Being left with Hawk's family, with a pack of street kids to look after, was galling. It limited his freedom of movement. What was he supposed to do with these kids and the old man and that wolf dog while he was trying to figure out how to find Hawk?
He realized that until he had come face–to–face with the morph, he had never thought of it as a child. Even though it had started out as one in the time of John Ross and Nest Freemark, even though it had never been seen as anything else after those first few weeks, he had never thought of it that way. He hadn't really given it any thought at all. When Two Bears had asked him to find the morph, he had seen it as an escape from what he had been doing for so many years: attacking the camps, killing the defenders, setting free the prisoners, and–he hesi–tated before finishing the thought–destroying the experiments that someday would become demons. The children. He had thought he would be leaving all that behind. He had thought himself free of it.
He had never imagined that he would find himself tied up with a bunch of street kids.
But as with so many things in his life, it appeared he had been wrong about this, too.
He moved ahead into the shadow of the buildings and the dark canyon of Pioneer Square and tried not to look back.
OWL HEARD THE DRUMMING first and looked back over her shoul–der past River, who was manning the wheelchair, toward the dark stain of the bay waters. Hundreds of lights dotted their smooth surface for as far as the eye could see.
"Turn me around," she ordered the dark–haired girl.
River wheeled her about obediently. The other Ghosts saw what was happening and stopped to look with her. Bear slowed the heavy cart that was filled with their possessions, and Candle, who was leading the way, walked back. Fixit and Chalk, carrying the Weatherman on his makeshift litter, set him down, stretching aching backs and rubbing weary arms.
"For an old man, he weighs an awful lot," Chalk muttered.
Owl didn't hear him, her attention focused on the lights. Torches, she decided. More than she could count. They would be burning from the decks of boats, which meant a huge fleet had come to the city. But not for anything good.
In her lap, Squirrel stirred and lifted his sleepy face from her shoul–der. "Are we there, Mama?"
"Not yet," she whispered.
He snuffled and rubbed his eyes. "What's that noise?"
"Nothing to worry about." She stroked his fine hair. "Go back to sleep."
She was worried about him. He should have been better by now, the sickness defeated. But he couldn't seem to shake it, and he was growing weaker despite the medications and care. He had only been able to walk three blocks from their home when they left for the free–way before tiring and climbing into her lap. She didn't mind holding him; he didn't weigh hardly anything.
She glanced down at his wan face. She wished Tessa were there to offer advice. Tessa knew more about medications and sicknesses than anyone.
Candle was standing at her shoulder, young face intense and wor–ried. "We have to run away," she said.
"It's an attack," Bear declared. His big frame blocked the heavy cart so that it could not roll. "Those are war drums. That many boats means an invading force, probably come up from the south."
"It is the thing that comes to kill us," Candle said quickly. She was shivering, hugging herself as she stared out at the lights. "It is the thing from my vision."
Owl reached out for her and turned her around so that she was no longer looking at the lights. "Just look at me, Candle," she said softly. She waited until the little girl stopped shaking. "Can you do that?"
Candle nodded. "I won't look anymore."
"Good." Owl glanced around at the others. "Whatever it is, Candle is right. We need to get as far away from it as we can. Has anyone seen any sign of Sparrow or Panther?"
No one had. Chalk and Fixit were arguing about who should take the front end of the Weatherman's litter. River stalked over angrily, pushed Chalk aside, and picked it up herself
"Owl says we have to go. Fixit, pick up your end." She glared at Chalk. "You can push the wheelchair for a while since you're so tired."
They started off once more, still climbing inland from the water–front, having followed First Avenue to within sight of the Hammering Man before turning uphill toward the freeway entrance. It was there that the Knight of the Word had told them they would find his vehicle and should wait for him to join them. Owl hoped he would hurry. She was growing steadily more worried about being separated from Spar–row and Panther. It was bad enough to lose Hawk and maybe Tessa, but unbearable to think of losing the other two, as well. The Ghosts were a family, and as mother of this family she didn't feel right when the group wasn't together.
"Chalk, are you really too tired for this?" she asked quietly so that the others could not hear. She looked back at him. "Do you need a rest? Maybe Candle can fill in for a few minutes if you need to take a break."
"I'm not tired," the boy said, refusing to admit anything, glancing over at River for just a minute before looking away again. "I can do any–thing that anyone else can and do it better. Especially her."
Even in flight and in danger, they squabbled like the children they were, Owl thought. But they loved and would do anything for one an–other. Wasn't that true of all families, whatever their nature and cir–cumstances? Wasn't that a large part of what defined them as families?
They continued their climb toward the top of the hill and the free–way entrance, following the sidewalk, angling between piles of debris and derelict vehicles. The darkened, mostly empty buildings formed huge walls to either side, leaving them layered in shadows and silence. A cold wind blew up the concrete–and–stone canyons, coming off the water in damp gusts, carrying the smell of pitch from the torches. The drums throbbed in steady rhythm, the sound deep and ominous.
"I'm not scared," Squirrel murmured into Owl's shoulder.
She gave him a quick hug. "Of course you aren't."
They reached the freeway entrance, a long curving concrete ramp littered with rusted–out cars and trucks, some still whole, some in pieces. Owl looked expectantly for Logan Tom's Lightning S-150 AV, having no idea what it was she was seeking, but knowing it wouldn't be like anything else. Her efforts were in vain. Everything appeared the same to her. Nothing but junk and trash.