Odds Are Good Read Online Free Page A

him.
    That was why he had come here so willingly, despite his fear of his uncle. Like the pigeons, he was making his way home.
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    Jamie listened to the big clock downstairs as it marked off the quarter hours. When the house had been quiet for seventy-five minutes he took the flashlight from under his pillow, climbed out of bed, and slipped on his robe. Walking softly, he made his way down the hall, enjoying the feel of the thick carpet like moss beneath his feet.
    He paused at the door of the study. Despite his feelings, he hesitated. What would his uncle say, or do, if he woke and caught him here?
    The truth was, it didn’t matter. He had no choice. He had to see the horn again.
    Turning the knob of the door, he held his breath against the inevitable click. But when it came, it was mercifully soft. He stepped inside and flicked on his flashlight.
    His heart lurched as the beam struck the opposite wall and showed an empty place where the horn had once hung. A little cry slipped through his lips before he remembered how important it was to remain silent.
    He swung the light around the room, and breathed a sigh of relief. The horn—the alicorn, as his reading had told him it was called—lay across his uncle’s desk.
    He stepped forward, almost unable to believe that the moment he had dreamed of all these years was finally at hand.
    He took another step, and another.
    He was beside the desk now, close enough to reach out and touch the horn.
    And still he hesitated.
    Part of that hesitation came from wonder, for the horn was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Another part of it came from a desire to make this moment last as long as he possibly could. It was something he had been living toward for five years now, and he wanted to savor it. But the biggest part of his hesitation came from fear. He had a sense that once he had touched the horn, his life might never be the same again.
    That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it.
    But he needed to prepare himself. So for a while he simply stood in the darkness, gazing at the horn. Light seemed to play beneath its surface, as if there was something alive inside it—though how that could be after all this time he didn’t know.
    Finally he reached out to stroke the horn. Just stroke it. He wasn’t ready, yet, to truly embrace whatever mystery was waiting for him. Just a hint, just a teasing glimpse, was all he wanted.
    His fingertip grazed the horn and he cried out in terror as the room lights blazed on, and his uncle’s powerful voice thundered over him, demanding to know what was going on.
    Jamie collapsed beside the desk. His uncle scooped him up and carried him back to his room.
    A fever set in, and it was three days before Jamie got out of bed again.
    He had vague memories of people coming to see him during that time—of a doctor who took his pulse and temperature; of an older woman who hovered beside him, spooning a thin broth between his lips and wiping his forehead with a cool cloth; and most of all of his uncle, who loomed over his bed like a thundercloud, glowering down at him.
    His only other memories were of the strange dream that gripped him over and over again, causing him to thrash and cry out in terror. In the dream he was running through a deep forest. Something was behind him, pursuing him. He leaped over mossy logs, splashed through cold streams, crashed through brambles and thickets. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t escape the fierce thing that was after him—a thing that wore his uncle’s face.
    More than once Jamie sat up in bed, gasping and covered with sweat. Then the old woman, or the doctor, would speak soothing words and try to calm his fears.
    Once he woke quietly. He could hear doves cooing outside his window. Looking up, he saw his uncle standing beside the bed, staring down at him angrily.
    Why?
wondered Jamie.
Why doesn’t he want me to touch the horn?
    But he was tired, and the