“Don’t you even care who it’s from?” asked Pinfeathers. He slipped through the fence ahead of her, his body gliding past the metal chain-work easily, muddling, then reforming whole on the other side. He lifted two clawed fingers, between which he held a folded slip of white paper.
Isobel stopped, her heart catching in her throat when she thought she saw the silhouette of violet lines, showing like dark veins through pale skin. She snatched the note and in her hand it felt solid and real.
Pinfeathers smiled coyly. Then, as though her acceptance of the message somehow acted as a release, the angles of his porcelain face began to change. His form loosened, and he slipped into the same thick smoke-curls of violet she had seen the other Nocs emerge from. His body, taking on the jagged black edges of feathers, seemed to dissolve and condense at the same time, his face at last sharpening into the wicked spike of a black beak. He croaked at her hoarsely, flapped his wings, then spiraled away.
Her eyes followed him until a separate flying object caught her attention. The ball. It soared from kickoff through the air in a wide arc. It spun toward the open receiver, his knees bent, arms held open. Isobel watched as number twenty-one caught the ball. Clutching it hard to himself, Brad bent forward in a charging run toward the opposite end of the field, his teammates covering the wide space before him, felling tackles. Brad streaked through the opened pathway, the four dark forms slinking alongside him. They grinned like piranhas, gracefully following his every move, almost dancing. Then they closed in on him tighter, steering him at fullforce into an oncoming player. The ball hit the ground. Brad followed, disappearing for a moment into a jumbled mix of blue, gold, green, white—and black.
It happened so quickly, in less time than it took to blink. Even amid the shouts from the stands, the clatter and grunts of battling players, Isobel still heard the sharp, merciless snap.
A gasp of shock rose from the stands, a unanimous moan of grief. Isobel could not stop her own hands from flying to cover her mouth. Brad lay still on the turf, his leg bent at far too unnatural an angle. Hissing at their victory, the Nocs vanished into wisps.
Somewhere, a referee’s whistle screamed.
Isobel leaped the fence in one easy motion, her hand clutching the note as though she feared it would evaporate. Someone sprang to stop her, but she sprinted around them, running the length of the field to where Brad lay surrounded by teammates and opposing players alike. She shoved her way through, dropping to her knees at his side, trying not to look at the white sliver of bone sticking out below the knee, at the blood soaking through the metallic gold of his uniform pants. Isobel yanked off his helmet. His head rolled and fell to one side. Wet coppery curls clung to his temples and forehead, and his too-handsome face was drained of color.
“Brad!” She pressed one hand to his cool cheek.
His eyes fluttered open, and Isobel felt her breath catch. Only a narrow slice of sharp electric blue showed; the rest of his irises were consumed, blanketed under discs of purest black.
Two coin-size holes locked on her. “They’re coming closer,” he muttered. The muscles of his pallid face twitched beneath her fingertips. His entire body trembled.
“Brad, it’s okay.” She smoothed her hand across his brow.
“No, no,” he mumbled, “stay back.” His quivering intensified.
She felt someone take her arms then. Saying her name, they pulled her back and brought her to her feet. She went, unable to struggle.
“Back up, everybody,” someone called, pushing through—a medic. Placing a red case beside him, he knelt next to Brad, who lay on the grass, his eyes rolling into his head, his lids falling shut once more.
“Isobel!”
Someone gripped her by the shoulders, shook her. “Isobel,” Coach Anne repeated. Isobel blinked and focused. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
She shook her head. No. She was wide, wide awake.
“Go on, back to the sidelines and wait,” she said. “It’s a bad injury, but he’s going to be okay. Okay?”
Isobel nodded numbly as Coach turned her away from the scene. Slowly her legs moved her forward, and her body followed the orders without her mind’s consent. As she moved toward the sidelines, she saw Stevie and Nikki. They stood pressed up against the fence, watching, each of their faces a mask of disbelief.
Isobel stopped in the middle of the field. She ran her thumb over the smooth surface of the paper still clutched in her fist. She unfolded it. Under the white glare of stark stadium lights, she read the elegant lines of purple ink.
Isobel,