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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 psychologi
cal drama.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

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

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

  Redhanded

  Michael Cadnum

  for Sherina

  brick tower field

  laugh lake sky

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the beginning he was too fast for me.

  I tried to hit Del Toro, trudging after him with an unsteady, dancing bear gait while he shuffled and shimmied all over the boxing ring, flicking out his red-leather fists now and then, like he was warming up all by himself and I wasn’t even there.

  Then he started to hurt me. He jabbed hard, but I slipped some of his left-handed lightning. Several times I jerked my head to one side, so I caught the power on my ear, but after about a minute of this he started to time my head bobs.

  He faked a punch and paused as I ducked to my left. I met the glove with my face and saw a vicious flare of light.

  I almost dropped my hands right then, turned to Coach Loquesto, and said, I can’t do this.

  I was breathing hard, with that used-up, sour feeling in my lungs that comes from tense fatigue. Del Toro jabbed and then hooked to the body with the same smooth series of movements, without having to back off and set his feet. His left glove pounded all of Coach Loquesto’s box-by-the-book lessons out of my head.

  I shot a look to my corner, Raymond watching the fight sideways, like he couldn’t stand to see it straight on. I had spent hours sparring with Raymond in his dad’s garage, and he was the friend who had encouraged me to spend the last half year on punches and footwork.

  I tried a technique I had picked up after hours, listening to the veteran amateurs, the postal clerks and carpenters who liked to box for the same reason some guys like to drink. They traded stories, half joking, half serious, how to cheat. I stepped on my opponent’s white, pristine boxing shoes. I planted my right foot on his left, and leaned hard. I could feel his foot bones flatten out under the sudden weight. I heaved my left glove into his ribs and plowed forward like a football lineman, catching him in the chin with my shoulder.

  He gave a little grunt, a likable, animal noise, like a very large dog lying down full of weariness. He gunned a combination up into my mouth, two staccato uppercuts, and danced away—far away, his legs a blur. He gave himself a little tap with one glove, adjusting the compact Everlast headgear and also showing me how to hit him in the head.

  It’s easy, he was saying. He flicked himself again with the oversized sixteen-ounce glove, daring me to plant a punch right there in the middle of his forehead.

  Raymond was leaning into the ring, both arms on the canvas. His hands lifted in a classic beseeching pose, be careful.

  I was gulping air, not even remotely in physical shape for this kind of workout. “I’m going to let you go three rounds with someone good,” Loquesto had said, marking in my name with the squeaky black felt-tip he used, the Magic Marker ink smelling like rubbing alcohol.

  I slogged after Del Toro, and he did a cute sashay to glide way out of the reach of my glove. So I pumped my fist at him, not bothering to close my glove, trying to stick my thumb in his eye. He whipped a right cross at the side of my head. It landed, a punch I saw coming, and which my head rose to meet as though drawn to it by hypnotic suggestion. The blow momentarily paralyzed the right side of my face.

  I continued to try to fight dirty, my body angled so Mr. Monday couldn’t see what I was doing. Not because I disliked Lorenzo Del Toro, but because it seemed like all I could do, ashamed to be losing so badly. I dug my glove laces into his cheek, forcing them hard into his skin, and then when he recoiled, I trudged after him and gripped the ropes. I hung on with determination, using the ropes to pull myself toward him, into him, bearing against him with my whole body, ashamed that I had to fight like this.

  By now the gym was going quiet, the echoing voices and the drumroll speed bag all falling still as people wandered over, aware that Del Toro was feeding me combinations, fast and mad.

  Not out-of-control angry, but cold-pissed, his right hand cocked and ready to finish me while he painted me with his left. My mouthpiece got that raw-steak flavor you get when you’re bleeding from the lips.

  When the timekeeper called out, “Thirty seconds,” I head-butted Del Toro in a style that belonged in a book of its own, a classic illegal maneuver, head down, bulling into his chest, and then up with a snap.

  Even cushioned with the headpiece, the blow hurt me, the point of his jaw outlined in the nerves of my scalp. I knew it did him harm. I then threw a classic cheat, one that it’s impossible for a referee to fault you on, even when he sees it happen.

  I feinted with my left just to set the foul up properly and make it look like an honest bit of boxing strategy, and I put all my strength into a straight right.

  The straight right is a dream punch, one you rarely get to land because most opponents see you set it up. You get your feet just the way you want them, and stride into the punch, driving your gloved knuckles through your opponent’s guard.

  But in this case, I never really intended to hit him with the glove.

  My punch missed on purpose, went straight by him. My elbow slammed into his nose, and I felt the gristle buckle. Guys watching called out a half-admiring, half-protesting, “Oh, man!” The man stretched out, the single word taking on the meaning: did you see that?

  Del Toro put the heel of his glove on my face in the clinch—a little dirty combat of his own—and Mr. Monday, assistant coach and referee, was suddenly a presence in our fight, like a man who had just arrived. He pulled us apart, his hands slipping off our sweaty arms as the timekeeper rang the bell.

  I wanted to enjoy this moment.

  The round was over and I could stay as I was, expending no effort, except to disguise my weariness. I even gave that little wave that means this guy is nothing, a gesture wasted on Del Toro, whose back was turned.

  I waddled, heavy and stiff-legged from the exertion, and leaned against the ropes in my corner while Raymond squirted water on my mouthpiece, washing off the pink glue all over it.

  “Well, you’re still alive,” said Raymond.

  The small crowd around the ring parted as Loquesto made his way up to the ring apron, some of the spectators, with white towels on their shoulders or baseball caps on backward, acting out my head butt, my elbow punch, all of them eager to see if Loquesto would keep the fight from continuing, disqualifying me for fighting dirty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This practice bout was scheduled to go two more rounds, but you could see Mr. Monday stroll over to the ropes, awaiting instructions from Loquesto to tell me to go take a shower.

  Loquesto came over to me in his black sweater and his black, sharp-creased pants, looked over Raymond’s shoulder right into my eyes and asked, “Holding up okay, Steven?”

  “Great,” I said, all I could manage, I was breathing so hard. I didn’t want to meet his eyes.

  He shouldered Raymond to one side and took my headpiece in his hands, forcing me eye to eye. “You’re better than this,” he said.

  I shrugged one shoulder.

  “If you don’t show some class, you’ll never make it to San Diego.”

  The Golden Gloves West Coast tournament was a month away, at the San Diego fairgrounds. If I could muscle up my boxing skills and get the registration fees and traveling money together, I had a chance at something big.

  I let my gaze slide off his. But I gave a nod.

  Loquesto sauntered across the canvas, and you could see him engaging in a silent laugh with Del Toro and his handlers, two older brothers with experience in the Junior Olympics, muscular middleweights. Loquesto gave a nod to Mr. Monday, a gray-haired, ebony-skinned man who always looked like he was listening to a ball game in his head, a playoff, his team way ahead.

  Raymond is a short, thin guy, not quick enough on his feet to be much of a boxer. Raymon
d is the sort of person who might talk the two of us into climbing into the grizzly bear habitat at the zoo, and then cringe at the edge of the lair in real horror. He has a crave/disgust relationship with risk.

  The rest period between rounds is always over before you know it. Andy, the timekeeper, hit the brass bell with the little wooden hammer that had been used for that very purpose since they began boxing in Franklin Gym sixty years ago. I rose to my feet off the wooden stool feeling that some mistake had been made—a minute could not have passed so quickly.

  Maybe Del Toro wanted to buy a few seconds, too. He did that funny little hitch some boxers do, pulling up his boxing trunks even though with your hands wrapped and encased in padding you can’t get much of a grip. His trunks still sagged a little, his pads exposed, bright pink kidney guards peeking out.

  Mr. Monday called time-out. Del Toro glanced down, hitched at his belt, stopped and wrestled with his shiny blue trunks. Mr. Monday shook his head and stepped in front of him, grabbed his trunks, and gave them a tug upward, a valet adjusting a gentleman’s suit. The crowd was patient, a couple of hand claps.

  The entire gym wanted to know what would happen next.

  So did I, and I didn’t necessarily like the feeling.

  Del Toro was adjusting his mouthpiece, giving himself a preparatory tap on the headpiece, the guy suddenly a mess of nervous tics. I walked across the ring. I dangled my arms, shrugged my shoulders, worked my head from side to side. Everything that happens in the ring is a contest, and I was intent on winning this beauty pageant, which of us looked most at ease.

  Del Toro circled and was saying something around his mouthpiece, scuffing the flat, treadless surface of his boxing shoes on some water droplets Raymond had left on the canvas in front of my corner.

  Mr. Monday observed this, and he called time-out again while Raymond leaped into the ring and wiped the canvas with a Bay Linen Supply towel.

  The next few mental snapshots passed too quickly.

  Raymond took a month blotting up the water, powder-puffing the dark patches on the canvas with a resin bag. He looked up and smiled hopefully, letting me know he was stalling, giving me a few more seconds of respite.