The Yanti by Christopher Pike Page A

the elemental kingdom, she had bumped into an odd customer sitting in Harry Idaho’s place of business. At the time, Harry had been asleep in one of his chairs—which was strange since Harry was not known for sleeping on the job—and the customer had been sitting in the rear of the place waiting for Harry to wake up and give him a haircut.
    The old guy certainly needed one. His hair and beard were so long and white, he looked like a wizard. Extremely thin, almost to the point of emaciation, he had cold blue eyes that appeared to see right through her—once they started talking. Plus he wore long white gloves, which he explained he needed to protect his hands.
    “I don’t wear them to keep warm or cool. No, I hurt my hands some time ago, burned them actually. Now I have to wear these to keep away infections.”
    The man said his name was Shane Bumpston, and they were not talking long when he brought up a gentleman Ali hadhealed from a serious injury not long after she had learned she was a fairy—a certain Ted Wilson. The reference was strange because Ali had healed Ted while he was unconscious—even Ted had not known who had helped him. But Shane Bumpston seemed to know all about her abilities.
    Then, out of the blue, he asked to see her Yanti.
    “I see the string. You must be wearing . . . something. Please, Ali, let me see it.”
    When she said no, and asked for some type of identification, he got angry and vanished—in a blinding flash of light, that literally knocked her to the floor. Later, when she came to understand Sheri Smith’s ability to hide her scarred figure, she assumed the wizard was Ms. Smith in disguise. Yet she was never a hundred percent sure of the fact.
    But as Ali neared the police station, on foot, it reassured her to think that she had survived at least one encounter with the witch. Also, her talk with Hector Wells had given her what she felt was ammunition she could use against the woman. Right now, Hector was fixing Nira breakfast.
    Hector had been everything she hoped for and more.
    It relaxed Ali to know Nira was in safe hands.
    Nevertheless, her heart continued to pound in her chest.
    Only minutes now . . . and she would be face-to-face with the enemy.
    The police station was as tiny as the town. The building housed only three law enforcement officers: Sheriff Terry Mackey, Deputy Brent Houser, and Deputy Mike Garten. Not so long ago the structure had been a meeting place for the Women’s Club, but it had been converted into the station when the aforementioned club’s membership had shrunk to less than five members. Apparently the ladies of Breakwater had better things to do than sit around, play bridge, drink coffee, and gossip.
    Yet the building’s conversion had been poorly executed. It was a local joke that anyone locked in the station’s jail cell could escape by standing on a chair and forcing open a rear window. Walking toward the station, Ali hoped she would not have to leave the place through that same window. There was always the possibility that Garten would try to arrest her for
something
. She really should try to be nicer to him, she told herself. At least for an hour.
    Ali was fifteen minutes early and was surprised to see only one person present, standing outside the station. It was Mike Havor, the most unlikely of all candidates, she thought, to be early. He worked as a software designer for Sheri Smith’s company, and he was totally blind. He stood alone near the south corner of the redbrick building, with his white cane in hand, his dark sunglasses on his pale face, his dark wavy hair badly combed. He couldn’t have been more than thirty.
    Recalling his gentle smile and kind manner, Ali was pleased to see him, although puzzled at his lack of an escort. She could only assume he had arrived on the bus. There was a bus stop ten feet from where he stood.
    Ali had enjoyed the time they had spent talking in his office in Toule, arguing about the different direction