Use this in an excerpt: "You just don't get it do you?" His eyes burned with fire as he came closer. "It's too dangerous—" his voice softened to a whisper as he reached out for me. "It's too late," I said. And ran.
For the first time in my life, my hands looked old.
"Dan, stop staring at your hands and get over here," Michael ordered.
The five of them were gathered in the kitchen around a scruffy little card table. I slid off the couch and squeezed in beside Susan and Lily, who straightened the my blue hair-bow in her motherly fashion.
Michael had his hands splayed out over the ragged papers covering the table. "Look at the map, Danielle, and tell me what you see."
"Lines. And dots."
"Danielle—" Michael warned.
"Relax, Mike, she just woke up from her nap," Lily commanded, placing a pacifying hand on my brother's arm.
I hadn't actually been sleeping, but I appreciated Lily's protection.
Michael exhaled and stared at me impatiently, but said nothing.
I tried harder. "A mountain? Uh. . . a river. . . towns. . . and— wait!"
"What is it?" Michael demanded.
The red misty ink that no one else could see blossomed suddenly on the map. It curled itself in an ominous coil around the little black star, then proceeded to slither around the mountain and weave through the small towns of the central valley.
"They're coming," I breathed.
Gregory and Micheal exchanged a look.
"Where are they now?" Michael questioned.
"Dixon."
Susan's hand flew to her mouth. She looked about ready to cry. But she always looked like that, these days.
"What do we do?" Peter asked Michael, his hand already sitting on the sword at his hip. Peter had his older brother Gregory's blue eyes and his older sister Lily's curly blonde hair, but the similarities stopped there. Peter had none of his sibling's rationality or tranquility. He was reckless, headstrong, and constantly itching for a fight.
Everyone looked to Michael, the leader of our underage refugee gang. Even though Gregory was already 17 and Michael wouldn't turn 17 for another month, my brother had inevitably assumed the position of leader. He was always leading things— president of his high school's student council, captain of his soccer team, and dictator of the house when Mom and Dad (private detectives) left on a case.
Michael said nothing for a long time, staring intently at the map, as though he could see what I could see, even though I knew he couldn't.
"We'll have to stay here, barricade the house. We covered our tracks pretty thoroughly once we got into town, plus Gregory and I can keep them busy for a while to throw them off. If we're lucky, we'll get a window of time to escape unnoticed, and let them waste their time sniffing around here."
"And if not?" Gregory wondered. Michael gave him that look and Gregory's gaze fell down on the maps.
* * * * *
Lily, Susan, and I worked on homemade grenades in the kitchen while the boys moved furniture to block the windows and doors. It was the first time in a while I hadn't been assigned some nasty task by myself. Michael had arranged an age hierarchy to designate tasks. Being the youngest, I always landed the worst jobs: taking out the trash, peeling the potatoes, and being used as bait in our trap to catch the mondrankons on our tail (that was no party). I was glad for the company, and glad to be making makeshift bombs. But my hands hurt and I told them so.
"Let me see," said Lily, taking my hand in hers. She frowned in concern. "Danny, what happened?"
"I got cut," I told her, though it was perfectly obvious, "And burned."
"How?"
"Fighting the mondrankons yesterday."
"Has this happened before?"
I pressed my lips together and avoided her intent eyes.
"Danielle—"
"Yes. But it's never been this bad. That was the most I'd ever fought."
She squinted her eyes at me, thinking hard. "You did this to yourself, didn't you. Your own powers burned your hands."
I said nothing.
"You can't fight again," she decided firmly.
"What?" I cried, a thousand protests lining up at once, "But you can't—"
Lily was already gone. I hopped off my creaking chair and scampered after her into the living room old the abandoned house we had commandeered, where she was beginning to speak earnestly with Michael.
"Don't listen to her!" I cried, racing toward them, "I can fight!"
"She's not ready, Mike," Lily was insisting, "She can't control her own power, and it's hurting her. Look." Lily caught my hand gently but firmly, and showed it to Michael.
Michael took my hands and examined them. My tiny white hands that had always seemed so babyish to me, looked old now— reddened and scarred with burns, worse than any of the light burns I'd ever gotten before.
"You're not going out to fight again—"
"But—"
"And that's final. Gregory, can you take care of Dan?"
Gregory sat me down on the couch and looked over my hands while the others went back to work. Closing his eyes, he rested his hands very gently on my palms. The familiar blue light began to envelop my hands, and the cool, tingling sensation of healing spread through them. I watched as the bumpy red sores on my palms began to recede, then at last, fade away entirely. I thanked Gregory and he sent me back to the kitchen to work.
* * * * *
I sat moodily on the broken kitchen chair, pouting over the fact I had been forbidden to fight with the others. So what if my hands always started to burn when I used my powers? I didn't see why it mattered. We needed every fighter we could get. I'd rather have hurt hands and still be alive to run from the evil Master Drakus's minions (called mondrankons) one more day.
It wasn't fair.
We all had powers. Gregory could heal. Susan could disappear. Michael could bend water. Lily could create light between her bare palms. Peter could make it snow, make paper cranes fly, and talk to koalas (don't ask how we figured all that out— it's a long story). But I was the only one who could fight with my powers: I could exploded things, and make them burn. And this somehow related to being able to see a red mist representing danger on maps when nobody else could.
That was when I saw it.
"Danny, if you keep fighting and burning yourself, you'll only make things worse. It drains Gregory to heal, you know," Susan was pointing out in her soft-spoken way. Sometimes I wondered whether Susan's real power wasn't reading minds.
I didn't have time to comprehend Susan's words, because at that moment, my gaze had randomly settled on the big map on the table. Red was swirling around an unfortunate black dot.
I gasped.
"What is it?" Lily asked.
"They're here."
Lily dropped the bomb she was had just started constructing and ran to the living room, shouting, "They're here!", and total chaos broke loose.
Amidst the commotion of last minute preparations and scrambling for weapons, I managed to weave my way to the front door, and opened it. I was going to fight, no matter what anyone said. I didn't need a sword, a bomb, or a gun. I was the weapon. They were all wrong. I was ready.
A strong hand caught my arm. It was Michael. I wrenched my arm free.
"You just don't get it do you?" His eyes burned with fire as he came closer. "It's too dangerous—" his voice softened to a whisper as he reached out for me. "It's too late," I said. And ran.
