Read Online Brightly Burning by Mercedes Lackey - Free Book Online
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
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before he finally felt satisfied.
As he turned away from the tray, his eye fell on his book bag. He weighed the ache in his head against the promise to study.
If I keep up, maybe I can get a bad headache again. No one would be angry at him for being sick, and Tyron and his gang of bullies couldnât touch him here. He didnât know what had caused the headache and fever, but it could happen again.
And if it happens often enough, maybe theyâll think thereâs something at school thatâs making me sick, he thought, with a tinge of hope.
In a sense, perhaps that was the cause. I didnât get that headache until I got so angry. . . .
If rage was the cause, heâd be getting headaches and fevers as long as he went to school.
Well, the only way Iâll be able to stay home is to prove I can keep up without actually being in the classes. With a sigh, he pulled his book bag onto the bed, and took out the textbook for his first class of the day.
Without the distraction of knowing that the Sixth Form was waiting for him at lunch, he got through the work for the first four classes in half the time it usually took him. He got out of bed a time or two to feed his fire and take care of necessary things. He was very pleased that this house had indoor facilities; it was the one improvement over the home in Alderscroft. It was still early afternoon when he finished, and heartened by his progress, he tackled the next four subjects. By the time Kelsie appeared with his supper, he was able to put his last book aside with a feeling that he had accomplished something.
âBringing your supper early, or Cook says youâre like to be forgot in the bustle,â the maid told him brightly. She whisked off, and Lan got up to stretch and light his candles, replacing the stubs in his candlesticks.
Once again, the increasing traffic sounds outside and the smells and noise of cooking told him that suppertime for the family was nearing. He took a third dose of the medicine, and went back to bed, this time with the euphoria of having spent a peaceful and productive day added to the euphoria of the medicine.
Last night he had slept dreamlessly; this night was the same. Given that he fought the Sixth Formers virtually every night in his dreams, this, too, was a welcome relief.
His second day as a âpatientâ was similar to the first, although a different servant brought him meals, but his third night was different. His headache was almost gone, so he hadnât bothered to take the medicine.
In the middle of the night, he woke, unable to move, feeling that there was something, some heavy weight, sitting on his chest and smothering him, and something else standing at the foot of his bed, watching him with amusement. He didnât so much think as feelâand his feeling of helpless anger made him label the presence at his feet as his worst enemy.
Tyron!
Terror and rage drove out any coherent thought, filling Lanâs mind with an explosion of white heat. He tried to scream, but nothing came out; tried to flail at the unseen weight, but couldnât move so much as a finger.
Then, suddenly, the fire in his fireplace flared up with a roar.
The room lit up, as if the noon sun shone at midnight; a flare of heat washed over him, snapping the paralysis hold-ing him.
The weight left his chest; he sat bolt upright as the flames died down to mere flickers and coals again. He took a shocked breathâand the headache knocked him flat on his back, spasming in pain and near-blindness.
For a very long time he couldnât even move, and hardly dared breathe. Where a moment before, his entire universe had been terror and rage, now it was filled with pain. A solid bar of agony ran between his temples and, from the base of his neck to his eyes, his head throbbed.
Finally, between one breath and another, it ebbed just enough that he could grope his hand to the bedside table. He didnât trust himself enough
As he turned away from the tray, his eye fell on his book bag. He weighed the ache in his head against the promise to study.
If I keep up, maybe I can get a bad headache again. No one would be angry at him for being sick, and Tyron and his gang of bullies couldnât touch him here. He didnât know what had caused the headache and fever, but it could happen again.
And if it happens often enough, maybe theyâll think thereâs something at school thatâs making me sick, he thought, with a tinge of hope.
In a sense, perhaps that was the cause. I didnât get that headache until I got so angry. . . .
If rage was the cause, heâd be getting headaches and fevers as long as he went to school.
Well, the only way Iâll be able to stay home is to prove I can keep up without actually being in the classes. With a sigh, he pulled his book bag onto the bed, and took out the textbook for his first class of the day.
Without the distraction of knowing that the Sixth Form was waiting for him at lunch, he got through the work for the first four classes in half the time it usually took him. He got out of bed a time or two to feed his fire and take care of necessary things. He was very pleased that this house had indoor facilities; it was the one improvement over the home in Alderscroft. It was still early afternoon when he finished, and heartened by his progress, he tackled the next four subjects. By the time Kelsie appeared with his supper, he was able to put his last book aside with a feeling that he had accomplished something.
âBringing your supper early, or Cook says youâre like to be forgot in the bustle,â the maid told him brightly. She whisked off, and Lan got up to stretch and light his candles, replacing the stubs in his candlesticks.
Once again, the increasing traffic sounds outside and the smells and noise of cooking told him that suppertime for the family was nearing. He took a third dose of the medicine, and went back to bed, this time with the euphoria of having spent a peaceful and productive day added to the euphoria of the medicine.
Last night he had slept dreamlessly; this night was the same. Given that he fought the Sixth Formers virtually every night in his dreams, this, too, was a welcome relief.
His second day as a âpatientâ was similar to the first, although a different servant brought him meals, but his third night was different. His headache was almost gone, so he hadnât bothered to take the medicine.
In the middle of the night, he woke, unable to move, feeling that there was something, some heavy weight, sitting on his chest and smothering him, and something else standing at the foot of his bed, watching him with amusement. He didnât so much think as feelâand his feeling of helpless anger made him label the presence at his feet as his worst enemy.
Tyron!
Terror and rage drove out any coherent thought, filling Lanâs mind with an explosion of white heat. He tried to scream, but nothing came out; tried to flail at the unseen weight, but couldnât move so much as a finger.
Then, suddenly, the fire in his fireplace flared up with a roar.
The room lit up, as if the noon sun shone at midnight; a flare of heat washed over him, snapping the paralysis hold-ing him.
The weight left his chest; he sat bolt upright as the flames died down to mere flickers and coals again. He took a shocked breathâand the headache knocked him flat on his back, spasming in pain and near-blindness.
For a very long time he couldnât even move, and hardly dared breathe. Where a moment before, his entire universe had been terror and rage, now it was filled with pain. A solid bar of agony ran between his temples and, from the base of his neck to his eyes, his head throbbed.
Finally, between one breath and another, it ebbed just enough that he could grope his hand to the bedside table. He didnât trust himself enough
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