Tracers by J. J. Howard Read Free Book Online

momentum as he practiced: vaulting, leaping, sprinting. He still lost his footing occasionally, and had a few falls. But every day he got stronger, more precise.
    He started showing up at Washington Square Park too, working out with the kids who trained there. It wasn’t an official jam—a meet-up of tracers—but he saw the same people every day, started learning a few new tricks.
    For six days, he spent every spare moment practicing. On Sunday, he had the whole day free to train, and he spent most of it at the park. By the time dusk rolled around, Cam had already put in a long day, but he kept at it. Everyone else had probably gone home to eat dinner, but Cam kept vaulting over the high stone railing at the edge of the park, over and down, then sprinting back up again. When he finally nailed a perfect landing, he grinned and sat down on the steps, replaying the jump in his mind. Except in the imaginary version,
she
was there watching him. Acting impressed. Maybe showing some appreciation for his new skills . . .
    A motorcycle revved, catching Cam’s attention. The rider was stopped, pulled over at the edge of the park, his features indistinct, silhouetted with the setting sun behind him.
    The guy was watching him, though. Cam could feel it. There was something about him—something familiar. The stranger had noticed that Cam was looking at him; that much was clear. But he held his ground for another full minute before revving the bike again and tearing away.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The next day at work, Cam pedaled so fast he thought the loaner might not make it through the day; he wanted to get through with the boring stuff because he had a destination. As soon as he delivered his last package, Cam was planning to return to the parking garage where Nikki had led him.
    It was a good place to train. And, of course, there was a chance she might show up again. That would qualify as a bonus.
    When the workday was finally done, Cam rode the loaner out to the garage. He locked it up against a concrete pillar, then took off running, psyching himself up for the jump, his muscles humming, his mind clear. The mantra Nikki had taught him echoed in his head. He wasn’t looking at the line of cars, he was looking beyond them—where the cars
weren’t
—to the empty space where he would land. He pushed off hard, held his breath. And vaulted clear over the cars. The only sound was his breathing. No alarms. He’d cleared it, just like she had.
    Feeling a rush of something like joy, he kept running, didn’t slow down . . . and failed to see the gap between the levels. For a few seconds he was flying—though headed down, not up. He tensed his muscles, then relaxed, timing it all exactly right; again, he stuck the landing. Cam was grinning, his adrenaline pumping. He heard the word “nice” escape his lips, even though no one was around to appreciate what he’d just pulled off. He hopped on top of the elevator car, remembering Dylan’s trick, but then he heard a voice.
    â€œSomebody’s been practicing.”
    Cam let out an undignified squeak. Sure, he could jump over a line of cars, down two levels, and stick the landing, but Dylan saying three words,
that
turned him into a freaking mouse.
    Dylan was standing on the same level, on the other side of the garage. If he had heard the mouse squeak, he didn’t show it. He called over to Cam: “You should come work out with us.”
    Cam stared at him.
Us.
As in a group of people that included Nikki.
    â€œI never see you guys around,” he told Dylan, keeping his voice casual (and squeak free).
    Of course, it was completely
not
for lack of trying that he hadn’t seen them, but he wasn’t going to volunteer that information.
    Dylan shrugged. “We’re a tight group. Like to keep to ourselves.”
    Cam waited for him to continue, pretending he didn’t care whether or not he got