The Paladins Read Online Free Page A

Dane’s mind, his poverty and past next to her middle class status made her as unreachable as a star. That is, until we knocked some sense into his hard head a few months ago. He still gets nervous around Maggie’s parents—especially her dad.
    As for Gideon, his parents passed away when he was young. I never had to face them, but since Dane and I are from the same (wrong) side of the tracks, I can imagine quite a scene if I had.
    “No worries, bro. Meet me at the door, I got your back.”
    I grab my sketchpad, and bounce off the bed. When I get to the front door and swing it open, Dane’s face is riddled with anxiety. I pull him inside and loop his arm through mine with a gentle squeeze to bolster him. Arm in arm, we make our way down the hall, through the living room, and head for the back door. I’m grinning because pretzel-walking in tight spaces with someone is awkward, yet my friend grips me like a life preserver. His skin grows clammy, and his complexion exchanges color—cinnamon for green. He’s stiff as a ruler.
    “Try and relax,” I say. “They’re good people and so are you. Just be yourself.”
    Dane snorts as we push past the screen door and step onto a rambling two-tiered deck.
    The Wilson’s backyard is a fenced quarter-acre of suburban normalcy. Dogs bark, birds sing, and neighbors swear at their burning bratwurst while little kids squeal and play on their swing sets.
    Mags’s father stands in one corner, grilling burgers. He waves his spatula, and I lift my chin in greeting. I’m sorry to say he wears a white chef’s hat and a chartreuse “Kiss the Cook” apron that I plan to burn later. Maggie’s mother sets the picnic table for five. It’s like Norman Rockwell threw up out here, and I love it.
    Dane takes an unsteady step forward. “Sup, Mr. Wilson?”
    Poor guy.
    I wink at Mags as I head for the big maple tree in the center of the yard. Sketching until dinner’s ready will give Dane some time alone with the fam, and Maggie can more than handle his frayed nerves.
    Easing my back against the tree, I sketch a new design for my steampunk timepiece line. The breeze is warm for early June, and I predict a blistering summer. Dandelions dot the yard in need of mowing. Cirrocumulus clouds cover the hazy blue sky. I’m proud I remember that handy tidbit from science class, they are also nicknamed Mackerel because the clouds look like fish scales. So, why can’t we just call them that? Why do scientists always have to name everything such long, stupid names that no one can ever remember for a test?
    Except that I just did. Gah! Shut up, Raven! Sometimes I can’t turn my rambling brain off.
    Maggie giggles, and I watch the foursome on the deck, enjoying the day. Simple gratitude wells up inside me until the feeling spills over. Thankful for the sun, the shade that a faithful, old tree provides in summer, for the strength of its support, the music of fluttering leaves in the breeze.
    The ground jumps and rumbles beneath me.
    Startled, I glance around, but there’s nothing to see.
    Another rumble and energy infuses my nerves, sending a shock through my body.
    I drop my pad and pencil. My palms press the grass on either side of me, fingers digging into the soft soil for balance.
    Then the shaking stops.
    On the deck, Maggie tosses her head back and laughs as her father points the nozzle of the ketchup bottle her direction. She begs Dane for help, but he puts his hands in the air, as if to say this is between her and her dad. Mrs. Wilson frowns, warning her husband to stop his teasing.
    No one seems alarmed by the fact a small earthquake has just taken place. No one seems to notice at all.
    Does a power line run under this tree? Maybe a neighbor dug in the wrong place. Lawn mower run amok? Sink hole? I wait, rooted to the spot, but nothing else happens.
    My muscles relax as another soft breeze floats by. I shake my head at my overactive imagination, and settle against the tree. Slowly, I’m eased