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  Praise for Michael Cadnum

  “Not since the debut of Robert Cormier has such a major talent emerged in adolescent literature.” —The Horn Book

  “A writer who just gets better with every book.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Cadnum is a master.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Blood Gold

  “A gripping adventure set during the 1849 California gold rush. Complementing the historical insight is an expertly crafted, fast-paced, engrossing adventure story full of fascinating characters. This is historical fiction that boys in particular will find irresistible.” —Booklist, starred review

  “This novel is fast paced.… The well-realized settings, which range from remote wildernesses to sprawling cities, create colorful backdrops for Willie’s adventure. An enticing read.” —School Library Journal

  “The prose is lively.… A spirited introduction to the gold rush for older readers.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Breaking the Fall

  Edgar Award Nominee

  “Tension hums beneath the surface.… Riveting.” —Booklist

  “Eerie, suspense-laden prose powerfully depicts the frustrating, overwhelming and often painful process of traveling from youth toward adulthood.” —Publishers Weekly

  Calling Home

  An Edgar Award Nominee

  “An exquisitely crafted work … of devastating impact.” —The Horn Book

  “Probably the truest portrait of a teenaged alcoholic we’ve had in young adult fiction.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  “Readers … will never forget the experience.” —Wilson Library Bulletin

  “[Readers] will relate to the teen problems that lead to Peter’s substance abuse and the death of his best friend.” —Children’s Book Review Service

  “Through the prism of descriptive poetic images, Peter reveals the dark details of his sleepwalking life.… An intriguing novel.” —School Library Journal

  Daughter of the Wind

  “Readers will enjoy the sensation of being swept to another time and place in this thrill-a-minute historical drama.” —Publishers Weekly

  Edge

  “Mesmerizing … This haunting, life-affirming novel further burnishes Cadnum’s reputation as an outstanding novelist.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “A thought-provoking story full of rich, well-developed characters.” —School Library Journal

  “Devastating.” —Booklist

  “A psychologically intense tale of inner struggle in the face of tragedy.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Forbidden Forest

  “Cadnum succeeds admirably in capturing the squalor and casual brutality of the times.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Heat

  “In this gripping look at family relationships Cadnum finds painful shades of gray for Bonnie to face for the first time; in her will to grasp the manner and timing of her healing is evidence that she is one of Cadnum’s most complex and enigmatic characters.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Compelling. Adopting the laconic style that gives so much of his writing its tough edge and adult flavor, Cadnum challenges readers with hard questions about the nature of fear and of betrayal.” —Publishers Weekly

  In a Dark Wood

  Los Angeles Times Book Prize Finalist

  “A beautiful evocation of a dangerous age … Readers who lose themselves in medieval Sherwood Forest with Cadnum will have found a treasure.” —San Francisco Chronicle

  “In a Dark Wood is a stunning tour de force, beautifully written, in which Michael Cadnum turns the legend of Robin Hood inside out. Cadnum’s shimmering prose is poetry with muscle, capturing both the beauty and brutality of life in Nottinghamshire. In a Dark Wood may well become that rare thing—an enduring piece of literature.” —Robert Cormier, author of The Chocolate War

  “[T]his imaginative reexamination of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham is not only beautifully written but is also thematically rich and peopled with memorable multidimensional characters.” —Booklist

  “Cadnum’s blend of dry humor, human conflict and historical details proves a winning combination in this refreshing twist on the Robin Hood tale.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “A complex, many-layered novel that does not shirk in its description of [the period], and offers an unusually subtle character study and a plot full of surprises.” —The Horn Book

  The King’s Arrow

  “The King’s Arrow is an adventure story full of color and romance, as resonant as a fable, told in clear, clean, swift prose. A wonderful read.” —Dean Koontz

  Nightsong: The Legend of Orpheus and Eurydice

  “Cadnum (Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun) once again breathes life into classic mythological figures.… Skillfully creating a complex, multidimensional portrait of Orpheus (as well as of other members of the supporting cast, including Persephone and Sisyphus), Cadnum brings new meaning to an ancient romance.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Another excellent retelling of one of Ovid’s mythical tales. This well-written version is a much fuller retelling than that found either in Mary Pope Osborne’s Favorite Greek Myths or Jacqueline Morley’s Greek Myths. The story is a powerful one, delivered in comprehensible yet elevated language, and is sure to resonate with adolescents and give them fodder for discussion.” —School Library Journal

  Raven of the Waves

  “[A] swashbuckling … adventure set in the eighth century, Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) shows how a clash of cultures profoundly affects two distant enemies: a young Viking warrior and a monk’s apprentice.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Convey[s] a sense of what life might have been like in a world where danger and mystery lurked in the nearest woods; where cruelty was as casual as it was pervasive; where mercy was real but rare; and where the ability to sing, or joke—or even just express a coherent thought—was regarded as a rare and valuable quality … Valuable historical insight, but it’s definitely not for the squeamish.” —Booklist

  “Hard to read because of the gruesome scenes and hard to put down, this book provokes strong emotions and raises many fascinating questions.” —School Library Journal

  Rundown

  “Deep, dark, and moving, this is a model tale of adolescent uneasiness set amid the roiling emotions of modern life.” —Kirkus Review

  “Cadnum demonstrates his usual mastery of mood and characterization in this acutely observed portrait.” —Booklist

  Ship of Fire

  “Brimming with historical detail and ambience, this fact-paced maritime adventure will surely please devotees of the genre.” —School Library Journal

  Starfall: Phaeton and the Chariot of the Sun

  “Cadnum (In a Dark Wood) once again displays his expertise as a storyteller as he refashions sections of Ovid’s Metamorphoses into a trilogy of enchanting tales. Readers will feel Phaeton’s trepidation as he journeys to meet his father for the first time, and they will understand the hero’s mixture of excitement and dread as he loses control of the horses. [Cadnum] humanize[es] classical figures and transform[s] lofty language into accessible, lyrical prose; he may well prompt enthusiasts to seek the original source.” —Publishers Weekly

  Taking It

  “Cadnum keeps readers on the edge of their seats.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Cadnum stretches the literary boundaries of the YA problem novel. This one should not be missed.” —Booklist, starred review

  Zero at the Bone

  “Riveting … [an] intense psychological drama.” —Pub
lishers Weekly, starred review

  “Much more frightening than a generic horror tale.” —Booklist, starred review

  “A painful subject, mercilessly explored.” —Kirkus Reviews

  Edge

  Michael Cadnum

  For Sherina:

  Spring so early

  swallows are a dream

  ONE

  A bottle spun out of a car, a bright, beautiful burst against the pavement. It was dark, none of us had faces, and none of them either, headlights off, voices challenging us to come out into the street.

  Earl was the one who changed everything, hopping out on one foot like a man with a peg leg, but it was only because he was getting ready to give a kick, his right leg cocked. He was dancing out there to kick a car, making a joke of it.

  Everyone laughed. Even some of the refinery kids hooted, hanging out for once so we could see, faces like ours but strangers, people we would never know. But most of us didn’t even know each other, kids from all over Oakland, a mix of races and attitudes. I hated all this, typical high school summer, none of us with anything better to do. I thought I had left this sort of thing behind.

  When Earl went down it was because he was clumsy, kicking the rear end of a Chevy pickup and missing. He sat there afterward, looking around the way you do when you are hurt more than you expect. Or maybe he was milking the laughs.

  “They hit him!”

  What a thing to shout, a ragged lie, a big red headline in everybody’s mind. It was me. I said it. I was sick of everyone standing around.

  “Earl is hurt!” I cried. Earl did look badly hurt, once you looked at him that way, dumb with pain, his mouth slack, his head trying to look back, legs squished into place.

  Look at him, I wanted to cry out.

  Look at him, he’s dying.

  I glanced around at my feet for something to throw and lunged at the curb for a chunk of broken concrete. It was not as broken as it looked, stuck into the curb.

  I dug my heel into the concrete, and it broke. I took a few running steps, brushing past people just standing there, unsure what to do. I threw the chunk as hard as I could. It punched into a car door, fragmenting.

  For a moment it was all over. The concrete had burst, the car was dented. That was all. Nothing else was necessary, and we could all go home.

  Then bodies poured from cars. Some of the drivers wrestled steering wheels around, deciding maybe it was time to head east along Lakeshore and take the freeway back north to the Chevron towns they came from, already having seen enough excitement. Driving a car—especially if it’s your own car, even a hulk with the chassis rusted through—sometimes makes a person feel like playing it safe.

  But half the passengers were already at us, fists swinging and hitting nothing, teeth gleaming. The police were swamped, helmeted heads in a tide of grabbing, punching bodies. A helicopter pounded the air overhead, licked us all with a searchlight, and then lurched upward, gaining altitude. Sirens sang, jagged high-low notes. It was one of the reasons I had quit school, tired of the violence.

  The city of Oakland chains the trash cans around Lake Merritt. You pick them up and shake them and trash tumbles out, but you can’t roll the cans away or hurl them out into the street; a heavy length of chain anchors them to a tree or a light pole. Freelance recycling collectors had been there ahead of us, and only garbage was left, but I found an empty orange juice bottle, a smiling fruit wearing sunglasses on the label.

  I elbowed out into the crowd with a sour, dry taste in my mouth, because things were about to get really bad, people breathing hard, faces shining with blood. It took only a few moments before people were tired and scared, not fighting now so much as shoving, and the real trouble was about to start. I didn’t know what I had in mind. Maybe I was going to break the bottle and use the broken edge on someone.

  At the same time, I knew this was the kind of thing I hated, caught up with a bunch of kids I didn’t respect, just as crazy as they were.

  “I think I’m going to meet you up by the Mini Mart,” Bea was saying, as loud as she could. I had to read her lips, Bea’s voice lost in all the yelling and swearing, more cop cars approaching the edge of the crowd, amplified electronic commands.

  She had a knit cap tugged down over her ears. “Wouldn’t you like some ice cream?” she was saying: you come, too. It was just like her to state things indirectly. Bea has one of those crinkly voices. It sounds like she has to clear her throat half the time, but it’s just her natural way of speaking.

  I read the look in her eyes. I put down the glass bottle very carefully, knowing that someone else would knock it over or seize it and hurl it into someone’s face. The cop cars have loudspeakers mounted inside, under the hoods. Cops can speak into a hand mike and the entire car is a loudspeaker announcing, This is an illegal assembly.

  The explosion was soft, sickening, a giant water balloon. The gas was hard to see in the darkness, but the way people panicked surprised me, because I had seen movies where bad guys tie hankies over their faces and keep gunning down cops.

  The teargas hit me, barbed wire across my eyes, and I went down to my hands and knees, ducking all the way under it. Feet trampled each other, and one huge foot ground my hand into the asphalt as I rolled, digging my way through the mob, yelling for Bea.

  That was when I touched the cold steel, wrapping my fingers around it.

  I hunched over my find, kneeling on the pavement. I crouched there, waiting for the avalanche of bodies to pass, people falling over me, the breath slugged from my body.

  I slipped it into my pocket.

  TWO

  Lake Merritt is fresh water, mixed with salt tide from San Francisco Bay. The water has a smell, a room too full of people, or eggs going slightly bad. I took a moment to crouch beside the water as a family of ducks griped, looking over their feathered shoulders.

  Traffic was backed up, the Oil Towners gone now, grass trampled and litter squashed out into the streets from the trash cans. My orange juice bottle was still there, a minor wonder, upright in the street.

  The cops had their gas masks off, little lines on their cheeks from the pressure and the sweat. Talking into radios, writing reports. Flares had been lit on the pavement, dazzling magenta flames leaving ash like bone, and a traffic cop stood in the middle of the street, hands on his hips, watching the traffic.

  I found a pay phone beside the library and got Bea’s mother on the machine, her fake country western twang, “None of us are right here right now, I am very sorry to say,” said Bea’s mom, taking her time explaining what we could do after we heard the beep.

  I hung up without leaving a message. I told myself Bea was too smart to get arrested or trampled to death.

  There was no one home at Bea’s house, just a front porch with bikes chained together and the TV set on a timer, CNN playing to an empty room.

  A car door slammed, and there was Bea’s mom in a full skirt and western boots, clumping up the slope of dried-up crabgrass. For a moment she didn’t know who I was, maybe trouble waiting for her there on the porch.

  “Look at you, Zachary, forlorn and lonely,” she said before I could break my silence. One thing about Bea’s mom, she always sounded happy. It cheered me up, sometimes, to watch her lip-sticky mouth. “Don’t tell me you and Bea had a parting of the ways.” Bea’s mom had insisted I call her Rhonda, but I called her Mrs. Newport or else refrained from using any name at all.

  “I just sort of lost track of her,” I said, working on sounding casual.

  “You look a little funny, Zachary,” she said.

  I made a casual gesture: funny, not-funny, what did it matter?

  “Is Bea all right?” This was asked in a normal voice, for a second no country vanilla in her voice.

  “Of course,” I said. I made it sound macho: of course she’s okay; she was with me.

  Mrs. Newport had a solemn, stubby-looking man in tow in the darkness. She took square dancing lessons and went to Neon Leon’s, a co
untry western bar on San Pablo Avenue. She had been born and raised in South San Francisco but worked hard at her role. Her skirt looked like it had been made out of two or three red checkered tablecloths, but her blouse was pretty, little metal beads in the shape of a bucking bronco, when she turned on the porch light. She had leaned against me in the kitchen last New Year’s Eve, her full weight pinning me to the dishwasher, telling me she could show me how to dance the Silverado two-step.

  When I shook hands with the man I could feel the weight of the steel dragging down one side of my jacket. I didn’t catch the man’s name, and I didn’t ask him to repeat it. Mrs. Newport kept a string of these guys around, phone numbers and business cards held to the fridge with poodle dog magnets.

  Earl strode up the middle of Bella Vista Avenue with a liter bottle of grape soda. He was a perfect example of why I had dropped out of school, as he stopped to take a long drink and then belched almost musically, a clown even when he was alone.

  My eyeballs felt like they had been soaked in Clorox. I liked Earl, in a way, but I didn’t want to talk to him.

  “Were you just in the Mini Mart?” I asked, working up to the subject obliquely, the way Bea does.

  “No, I just found this lying around somewhere,” said Earl, his way of saying: dumb question.

  “You’re not hurt, are you, Earl?” I heard myself ask. Maybe I was trying to wish a little pain on him.

  “Of course I’m hurt,” he said. He handed me the half-empty soda and I took a swig, that ripe, delicious fake grape. “Right here, on my left butt,” he was saying. Hoover High had an entire student body like this. I felt years older than any of them, although I wasn’t.

  “The cops should take down license plates,” said Earl. “Don’t you think?”

  The way he asked showed how my status had changed since I got up out of Junior English one afternoon, in the middle of a test on The Scarlet Letter, an essay exam, the changing role of the scaffold in the novel. I had put the test on Mr. Kann’s desk, not meeting his eyes, turning back to give him a look when I reached the door.