I'm still worried about mom finding out about me beating on those three assholes. So far Squire hasn't said a thing about that night, but you never can tell with hobgoblins. I asked him what he was doing there. He told me he just happened to see me from the shadows. He is so full of shit. I know that Mr. Doyle has Squire keeping an eye on me. Imagine being babysat by a hobgoblin. That's just freaking weird.

I don't even feel safe writing this all down. Part of the deal I made with mom about this blog was that she'd never read it, but you know about parents and prying. Parents snoop. That's just what they do. I think it's got something to do with getting old. You get old and you want to see what everyone else is up to. No matter your what mom and dad tell you, they're watching.

I'm getting pretty good at keeping my own secrets. When you're little, you just open your mouth and words fall out, but being a teenager is a little like hiding in a foxhole. You keep as much of your butt covered as you can.

That street goes both ways, you know? I've got to wonder about all of those things my mother doesn't tell me. Why I'm like this, why I'm changing.

It's kind of scary to think about how many lies your parents tell you.

I sometimes get the feeling that somebody is watching me. Reading my every move, just like this blog.

Who are you out there, reading this?

Who are you really?

Mom hasn't said a thing about that night with the assholes who tried to jump me in an alley, and it's been a couple of weeks, so I'm guessing that Squire kept quiet. He probably told Mr. Doyle, but Mr. Doyle doesn't tell mom any more than he has to. He's kind of like a teenager that way.

But he's old. Not as old as Clay or Eve, but pretty damn old. Old people scare me sometimes, because they've seen things teenagers haven't. You look in their eyes and you can see the memories of wars and death and things rotting away slowly. At least I can. I think it's the horns. They let me look a little deeper, especially when it comes to things like death.

My horns are little pointy psychopaths. You know in those cartoons, when they show the little angel and the devil arguing on the good guy's shoulder? That's me, only I've got two devils. And they're not arguing, they're shouting.

Sometimes they scream.

I'm looking out of the window now and I'm staring at that woman and her dog. I'm not thinking about punting the dog like a football any more. I'm thinking worse things.

Things that scare even me, and between ghosts and hobgoblins and clay men, I've seen a lot of scary things.

Do it, the horns tell me. You could climb down there and do it.

I could, too.

Maybe later I will.

Sorry for the delay in telling the tale of my back-alley skirmish. Would've gotten back to this blog a little sooner, but I've been busy. Mr. Doyle had me and Eve checking into something. He keeps us pretty busy these days. It's fun, not like school. You get to fight things, kind of like living in the middle of a comic book. Except this is no comic book. People bleed. They die. They scream and cry. There's always something bigger out there, just waiting for us.

I won't make you wait any longer. Let me tell you about the fight in the alley (see last post). They were coming at me, the big pimple-faced guy with the knife, and three of his buddies. Two of them had hair that looked as if they dyed it in a water color box. The third had enough hooks and rings and bolts in his face to set off a whole airport full of metal detectors. He was carrying a bottle of booze and puffing on a half burned cigarette.

I went for the guy with the knife, first. He thought I was just some kid, easy pickings. I let him cut me. It made it easier to reach him. I caught him by the arm and twisted, and I heard something snap. While I was twisting I fired a kick into his ribs. I'd seen Jackie Chan do this in a movie, and it worked really well for him. Seemed to do all right for me, too.

The guy with the metal in his face broke a bottle over my back. It tore the shoulder of my hoodie and I smelled the booze. Whiskey or something, I don't know.

I pulled metal-face up close and showed him my teeth. His cigarette mashed up against me and the booze caught fire. Bad move. I'm fire proof. Comes with the horns, I guess. I stood there, flames roaring around me, looking like something out of hell's last nightmare. The clowns with the dyed hair took off running.

All of a sudden Squire showed up. Squire's a hobgoblin who walks through shadows. It's like he can step into one shadow and out of another, halfway across the world. He's carrying a big-assed shotgun that sort of looked like he might have crossbred it with a cannon. He pumped it and pointed it at metal-face and the guy with the crater scars.

"Come on, kid," he says. "Time to go home."

But I wasn't done. I grabbed the guy with the scars-the one who'd originally come on like he was a homeless guy, looking for spare change. He tried to get away-why wouldn't he? With my face, and with my sweatshirt still smoldering, I'd have run from me too.

I wanted to break his neck. I was imagining hurting him in ways I shouldn't have been able to imagine. I settled for dropping him on his ass.

I turned and stared at Squire.

"If you're gonna tell Mom and Mr. Doyle, make sure you tell 'em I could've taken the guy apart, and I didn't."

Then I took off for home.

But ever since that night, I've been itching to have another shot at that guy, wondering what I would have done if Squire hadn't shown up. I know I shouldn't be thinking that way, but I can't help it.