Chapter 1
Not a morning person.
Reagan landed with a thump at the foot of the stairs and rushed into the hall. He hated mornings. One hand struggled into his shirt sleeve and the other snatched his house keys from the table as he passed. He stopped at the front door. Here, he could hear the ferocity of the weather outside. Very wet. He needed a coat.
“Shit,” he said. “I’m gonna be late.”
Reagan swore aloud, but not above a whisper. His dad was upstairs, asleep, but the rules of politeness still applied while he was in the house. He checked his watch and hurried back down the hall, into the kitchen.
The door swung open and Reagan flicked on the lights. The laminate flooring was cold on his feet, and Reagan reminded himself to find some warmer socks. The first thing he saw on the sideboard was an unfinished Snickers bar. He sniffed it, folded over the opening of the packet, and stuffed it into his pocket. Breakfast.
Another quick glance picked out nothing of interest, just a mass of letters and utility bills. Scattered around the sheets were empty cans of lager. Dead-ones, as his father called them. Judging by the number of dead-ones, the bills weren’t good this month.
Reagan stepped round the table and opened the cupboard door. It was dark inside. The light that was meant to illuminate it had long since broken, and neither Reagan or his dad had thought to fix it. As his eyes got used to the gloom, Reagan caught sight of his coat hanging up in the cupboard, beside the boiler.
It was too high to reach. He had thrown it onto the hook to dry after yesterday’s downpour. There was no time to fetch a chair now, but he couldn’t go without it.
“C’mon,” he muttered, “I need you. Now.”
Reagan reached upwards as if he was going to tug it down, but his hand formed a hook in the air, fingers bent.
He bit his lip. It was best just to do it.
“C’mon!”
He flicked his wrist and the coat jumped up, lifted by the collar. Exhilaration ran through Reagan like fire. The coat hovered for a moment, almost unwilling to return to the ground, but Reagan held out his arms and it plunged down into them.
He smiled and pulled it on over his head, not waiting to undo the zip. As soon as it was on, he left the kitchen, pausing only to grab an apple from the fruit bowl and cram it into his pocket. Lunch.
Back in the hall, Reagan looked at his hands. As usual, they were surrounded by a pale white glow.
“Gloves.”
He turned and ran back into the kitchen, his hands trailing lines of faint light, like sparklers. As he rummaged around the cupboard for a pair of gloves, he made the same observation of his palms as he always did after his magic.
“They don’t give off light,” he said as if to assure himself. “It just seems to gather around them.”
Reagan found two gloves and pulled them on, and the streams of white that had chased his hands were extinguished. When his hands were covered, it snuffed out the light they had left behind too. He didn’t understand why, only that it worked.
His watched beeped. 7 o’clock. He was going to be very late. The rehearsal started at half past, and it was at least 45 minutes to the concert hall. Damn.
Reagan slammed shut the cupboard and ran to the front door, cursing at his inability to set an alarm or get organised. His bag lay waiting by his shoes, the sheets of music and his instrument still inside from yesterday. He picked it up and groaned. He’d forgotten to practice.
“Alex is gonna go nuts!”
Whether his last comment had been too loud, or the noise he’d been making downstairs had finally reached the upstairs bedroom, a series of stomps echoed from above. Reagan’s eyes opened wide. Dad was awake.
Without hesitation he wrenched open the door, shoved on his shoes and stepped out into the storm outside.
