The Storm Runner (The Storm Runner 1)

“Define ‘unpleasant.’”

“When the spirit has jumped, it’s vulnerable to other forces, dark forces.”

“But I was fine coming here….”

“The journey forward is always easier than the journey back.”

“But…” Even though I was angry at Hurakan, I wasn’t ready to leave. Not the jaguar’s power, not this place. Not yet. “I ha

ve more questions. I just got here!”

“You aren’t meant to stay in this state, Zane. It’s dangerous.”

Dangerous? Was he kidding? Like my whole life wasn’t dangerous now?

His eyes narrowed and he lowered his head, drawing closer. “You want answers? You want to defeat Ah-Puch? Then you must go to the Old World.”

“What’s the Old World?” Heat bloomed in me. I could feel the threads holding me here breaking, separating me from the jaguar’s form.

“A place not marked by time. When you get there, look for Saqik’oxol… the White Sparkstriker. Do you understand?” There was a sudden urgency to Hurakan’s voice.

“Old World, Sparkstriker. Got it.” What the heck was a sparkstriker? I wondered.

“Forget about the twins,” he said.

“How am I supposed to get to this Old World?” I asked, ignoring his advice about the twins. I’d already come all this way to see them. Besides, I wasn’t his puppet. I had my own ideas.

“Let me work on that….And, Zane?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about the blood.”

22

Hurakan was right. The journey back to Venice Beach was the opposite of the journey to the Empty. It was dark and cold, and filled with sharp, invisible whispers:

Weak.

Pathetic.

I tumbled across the red-streaked sky.

Doomed.

Fool.

Through the whispers, I heard Rosie’s soft cry and my heart split in two. Then Ms. Cab: “You’re wasting time.”

There was no net to catch me. I slammed back into my body. It was like belly-flopping into a pool. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t move or talk or do anything but listen and try to suck air into my lungs.

“Has he stopped bleeding?” That was Brooks.

“Stuff more tissue into his nose,” Hondo said.

“Don’t get any blood on the pillows,” said Jazz. “They’re all the way from Marrakech!”

Thankfully, my body was on a soft bed or couch. As I lay there, I could practically feel my blood coming alive, pulsing through me as though it was only now remembering how to do its job. I held on to the image of Hurakan and the words that were now burned into me like a hot branding iron: blood of a creator. I knew about the creator gods, the ones who had gotten together to make the world… more than once. But if I remembered right, they were also the ones who had destroyed it. And if that was true, then that meant…