Free The Last Martin by Jonathan Friesen Page A

my face. I’m exhausted from my work. With Mom coming home soon, Poole’s outdoor bench will be the perfect place to spend the day and prepare the next installment of
The White Knight.
    I lie on the bench and listen to trains. What would it be like to live here? To wait three years for your mom to come?
    Now he’s at school helping me out. Definitely worth more than boots and a lasagna.
    I spend hours wondering what he’ll say when he sees his boxcar thank-you. I think myself to sleep, and I’m still thinking when I wake.
    I stretch and sit up and grab my tablet off the ground.
    “Poole will break zee ice.” I yawn and crack my knuckles. “Martin, zee half-dead love machine, will swoop in with the real continuation of her favorite story.” I grab a pencil from behind my ear and blow on the tip.
    Oh, Martin, your story and my pictures go so well together! It’s like we were made for each other.
    “Okay let’s see. Where were we …”
    Sadly, the White Knight laid hold of the shaft, raised it to heaven, and …
    Crash!
    Shards of clear stone, like daggers of light, exploded into the air. Creatures shrieked and dove for safety, but for many it was too late. Light shattered their armor and they lay in gnarled heaps against dungeon walls.
    But not the jackal. Foam dripped from his mouth as he padded among the carnage.
    The White Knight backed away, glancing from the wild dog to his stunned adversary.
    The Black Knight slowly brought his hand to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Black blood oozed onto his fingers.
    He fell to his knees. “Tas,” he hissed. “Finish him.”
    The jackal’s eyes gleamed as he limped toward his fallen master. He reached him and licked the blood off his chest. “I hate knights. White or Black.”
    The Black Knight reached up and grasped Tas by the neck. “I will not be destroyed by a dog!”
    Tas crumpled in a furry heap beside his master, and the Black Knight released his grip, collapsing breathless onto his back.
    “The prophecy is strong. It has bought you time, young knight.” He coughed. “But unless you finish me now, I will beback. And I will claim what is mine.” The Black Knight closed his eyes. “Look for me in the heat of summer.”
    The heat of summer. We’re almost there.
    The White Knight reached into the rubble and took hold of Alia’s hand. He gently lifted her to his side and pulled her close. Her eyes sparkled.
    “Behind you!” she screamed.
    Tas leaped toward the knight, his jaws clamping around his forearm.
    Crack!
    “Off, foul beast!” The White Knight pried open its mouth and flung him against the wall. Tas yelped and scampered out of the dungeon.
    “Your arm.” Alia gently rubbed her fingers over the wound. “It’s broken.”
    “It will heal.” The knight smiled. “We are together!”
    I set down my pencil. My arm aches from squeezing it so tightly. I rub my forearm and wrist and peek at my watch.
    “The time!” I throw down the pencil, slam shut my pad, and bound off the bench. School’s out.
    I race toward the bus stop, slip behind my pole, and wait. The bus appears and Poole is the first one out. Hedoes another backflip and waves as the bus pulls away. Kids hang halfway out windows and wave back.
    “See ya tomorrow, Poole!”
    “Do another flip!”
    Must’ve gone well. Wait, where’s Charley?
“Well?” I rush up to him. “What did you say about me? What did she say? Did she seem … interested?” I rub my hands together. “You know, did she ask lots of Martiny questions?” I circle him like a yappy terrier. “Say something! You always blab, and now you’ve gone mute? Speak!”
    “Uh, how was your day?” he asks. “Poole!”
    “Oh, right. Our talk. It’s a little tough to recall.” He turns sober. “I’m thinkin’ I should go back tomorrow.” I scratch my head. “So you didn’t talk much.” “Not enough. I mean, not enough to do a thorough job.”
    I grab his arm. “But you did talk?” He nods.
    “A