The Storm Runner (The Storm Runner 1)

“Shouldn’t we be looking for the Sparkstriker?” My insides were in knots.

“You need rest and sustenance, kid,” Jazz said. “Besides, no one finds Old Sparky.” He pulled magically heated pizza pockets and also bags of gummy worms out of his pack and passed them around. Was this all giants ate? I wondered.

“I’ll keep first watch,” Hondo said, chomping his pizza pocket. “Hey, speaking of watch, does yours have Wi-Fi?”

Jazz shook his head sadly like he was bummed he hadn’t thought of that. “But I’ve got a log that burns for eighteen hours!” He fished it out of his bag. “Oh, and we might need these.” He passed each of us a demon-tormenting flashlight. So he was Brooks’s supplier.

“What are we watching for?” Brooks wiped some crumbs from her mouth. “We’ll smell Ah-Puch before we ever see him.”

“Have to look out for other gods, too, just in case,” Jazz said. “Gotta make sure your boy here gets to Ah-Puch first.”

Brooks’s cheeks reddened. “He’s not my boy,” she muttered.

I needed to change the subject, fast. “Anyone have any leftover pizza pockets?” I said, polishing off the last of my own cardboard-like meal. “This stuff’s great, Jazz. Good thinking to bring it.”

Brooks lay back and covered her face with her arms. “How about you all stop talking so loud? We might as well put up a neon sign telling the gods where we are.”

For the next couple of hours, my mind reeled. It reeled while we sat around the fire, and it reeled while Jazz thunder-snored and Brooks and Hondo slept. PS, Hondo was supposed to keep first watch, but I guess the guy was still getting over the whole poison-meatball thing. I changed out of my suit and into my jeans and T-shirt (definitely better for god-fighting) and stared up at the twin moons inching across the starless sky, wondering if I’d ever get to see Hurakan again now that I’d lost the jade. My wrist burned, my short leg throbbed, and I couldn’t help wondering how a skinny kid with one good arm and one good leg was ever going to beat the god of death, darkness, and destruction. But Hurakan had sent me here for a reason. Find the White Sparkstriker. Except Jazz had said that wasn’t possible. So what was I supposed to do, sit around and wait for the lightning pounder to invite me to dinner?

Images of ancient wars, supernatural creatures, angry gods, and old magic spun through my mind, and all the while I kept thinking, Is this real? How could it all be real? The night dragged on, heavy and dark. I tried to psych myself up, convince myself that I was braver than I really was. But to be honest, I was scared. Scared and outmatched. I wished Rosie were here, so I could scratch her head and listen to her soft breathing. But I knew she was somewhere she didn’t want to be, either, and it tore me up to think she was scared, too.

Somehow I drifted to sleep.

I was jostled awake by a scratching sound. Rosie? I thought sleepily. I turned over on the hard ground, my sweatshirt balled under my head for a pillow.

There it was again, like a very light foot stepping on twigs at the edge of the tree line a mere fifteen feet away. I sat up and peered into the dark.

A masked figure stood in the shadows. Staring at me.

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The figure wore a long red robe, and its matching mask was smooth and flat with only slits for eyes and a mouth. And at its side was a stone ax. Replace the red with black, and the ax with a scythe, and you’d have the Grim Reaper.

Crap!

Slowly, carefully, I rolled to my feet. My chest was as tight as dry leather. I wasn’t sure what to do. Walk over casually and start a conversation? Hey, creepy red mask, are you the

Sparkstriker? What brings you out this time of night? Okay, bad option. So I waited, unmoving and staring. But definitely trembling.

The sky was as black as Ah-Puch’s eyes, which made everything dark except for the fire. The figure lifted the ax and, with a single thrust, slammed it into a tree. I recoiled as the blow rang out through the forest. Jazz, Hondo, and Brooks kept sleeping like hibernating turtles, which was pretty amazing considering it had sounded like someone had taken a giant sledgehammer to church bells.

The tree vibrated and hummed like a guitar string. Its cobwebs trembled, falling from the branches and trunk to reveal… I blinked. It was like in my dream—a metallic tree, and in it I saw my warped reflection. Tall kid with a left lean, messy dark hair, square shoulders, and wide-set eyes that looked afraid. Definitely not the guy you’d bet on to take down the god of death. But you want to know the weird thing? My reflection had something in his hand—not a cane, but something else. I couldn’t quite make it out.

Flakes began to fall from the sky, slowly twisting to the ground. I caught some and smudged them between my finger and thumb. Ash. I looked up. There was a hairline crack running across the black sky. What did that mean? Was this world going to fall apart like the twins’ world had?

I took a step closer to the masked figure and just as I did, it darted away. I went after it. And you know what I was thinking the whole time? I really shouldn’t be chasing this thing. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t.

He, she—it—was quick. I tried my best not to fall behind. Every once in a while my short leg would make me stumble and I’d fall, landing on sticky cobwebbed leaves.

Then the figure slowed and looked over its shoulder like it wanted to make sure I was following. Was this some kind of trap? “Hey!” I called, getting to my feet for the third time. “Who are you?”

A girl’s voice bounced off the trees: “Pick up the pace, Obispo.”

How did she know who I was? I already didn’t like her.

We came to a small glade. She stopped about ten feet away, keeping her back to me. I was glad for the chance to catch my breath. “Are you… are you the Sparkstriker?” I huffed, bent over with my hands on my knees. Fortunately, I remembered in time something Jazz had told me while we were walking to Puksí’ikal: No one can look at her face without their eyes burning out of their head.

I heard a grunt-sigh, then she turned and asked, “Do I look like the Sparkstriker?”