“Latent” has become part of the magical jargon. It used to mean folks who were channeling magic but hadn’t yet realized it. Now everyone from the Unmanifested to the professional military Sorcerer is considered “Latent.” It’s the catchall for anyone touched by the Great Reawakening and a sign of how quickly we’ve adapted to this new reality.
— John Brunk
Staff Research Associate,Oxford English Dictionary
…coming to you live from the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC, where we have just been informed that a Selfer incident has collapsed the memorial with an unknown number of tourists trapped inside. A SOC intervention team is inbound, and we will continue with regular updates as the situation unfolds…
— Alex Brinn, SPY7 News, Washington, DC
Reporting on the Bloch Incident
They want me to kill a child, Lieutenant Oscar Britton thought.
The monitor showed a silent video feed from a high-school security camera. On it, a young boy stood in a school auditorium. A long-sleeved black T-shirt covered his skinny chest. Silver chains connected rings in his ears, nose, and lips. His hair was a spray of mousse and color.
He was wreathed in a bright ball of fire.
Billowing smoke clouded the camera feed, but Britton could see the boy stretch out a hand, flames jetting past the camera’s range, engulfing fleeing students, who rolled away, beating at their hair and clothing. People were running, screaming.
Beside the boy stood a chubby girl, her dyed black hair matching her lipstick and eye makeup. She spread her arms.
The flames around the boy pulsed in time with her motions, forming two man-sized and — shaped peaks of flame. The fire elementals danced among the students, burning as they went. Britton watched as the elementals multiplied — four, then six. Wires sparked as the fire reached the stage. The girl’s magic touched them as well, the electricity forming dancing human shapes, elementals of sizzling energy. They lit among the students, fingertips crackling arcs of dazzling blue lightning.
Britton swallowed as his team shuffled uneasily behind him. He heard them make room for Lieutenant Morgan and his assaulters, who entered the briefing room and clustered around the monitor, still tightening straps on gun slings and slamming rounds into their magazines. They loaded armor-piercing, hollow-point, and incendiary ammunition. Not the standard ball or half charges normally used on a capture mission. Britton swallowed again. These were bullets for taking on a dug-in, professional enemy.
The video went to static, then looped for the fifth time as they waited for the briefing to start. The boy burst into flame yet again, the girl beside him conjuring the man-shaped fire elementals to scatter through the auditorium.
Fear formed a cold knot in Britton’s stomach. He pushed it away, conscious of the stares of his men. A leader who voiced fear instilled it in his subordinates.
The mission briefer finally took up his position beside the monitor. His blue eyes were gray flint under the fluorescent lights. “It’s South Burlington High School, about seven klicks from our position. We sent a Sorcerer to check out a tip on an unreported Latency, and these kids decided to tear the place up once they knew they were caught. The local police are already on the scene, and they’re going to refer to me as Captain Thorsson. I’ll need you to stick to call signs. Call me Harlequin at all times.
“The helos are undergoing final checks outside, and you should be on deck to assault the target in fifteen minutes from jump. South Burlington PD and a company out of the Eighty-sixth have evacuated the civilians. We should have it totally clear now, so the order’s come down to go in and bring order to the chaos.”
“Looks like Pyromancers, sir?” Britton asked.
Harlequin snorted and gave voice to Britton’s fears. “You honestly think a fifteen-year-old girl would have the control it takes to move even one elemental around like that, let alone half a dozen? Those flame-men are self-willed.”
“Just great!” Private First Class Dawes whispered loudly enough to be heard by the whole room. “A Probe! A fucking Elementalist! Jesus fucking Christ!”
Warrant Officer Cheatham turned to his man. “So, she’s a Probe! Prohibited school’s no more dangerous than a legal one to a real soldier!”
“It’s okay, Dan,” Britton said, gesturing to Cheatham. Dawes was the youngest member of their team and prone to the histrionics of youth.
Britton could feel the terror in the room. Morgan shifted uneasily, drawing glances from his team.
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Harlequin said, “but the law is clear. All Supernatural Operations Corps runs inside the United States must be integrated with regular army support. That’s not my call. That’s by presidential decree.
“But you are on perimeter, cordon, and fire-suppression duty. This is a SOC op, and you will let us handle the actual target.”
Target, Britton thought. So that’s what you call a fifteen-year-old girl and her boyfriend.
“What are you going to do, sir?” Britton asked.
“You gonna put a tornado down on ’em, sir?” Dawes asked.
The corner of Harlequin’s mouth lifted slightly. “Something like that.”
If anyone else had said it, the men would have laughed. But Harlequin was a commissioned Sorcerer in the Supernatural Operations Corps.
He meant every word.
“Sir,” Britton said, trying not to let his uncertainty show. “With my bird in the air and my boys on the ground, that’s not an acceptable risk. Copters and tornadoes don’t exactly mix.”
“Your concern for your team is noted,” Harlequin said, “but if you stick to your positions and do as you’re told, you won’t get hit by any stray magic.”
Supporting the SOC and taking on a Probe. Lieutenant Morgan’s voice finally broke, along with his nerve. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Britton felt the fear leap from the lieutenant to his troops. His own team was fracturing before his eyes, the terror eating into their professionalism. He knew he should be holding them together, but he had just seen kids burning to death in the halls of the very high school he used to attend. In a few minutes, he would be landing his team on the roof where he first kissed a girl, supporting a SOC unit turning its magical might against two teenagers.
The boy, they might take alive. Selfers were sometimes pardoned for past crimes if they took the oath and joined the SOC.
But the girl had no chance. She was a Probe, and only one thing happened to those who Manifested in Prohibited magical schools. They were gunned down or carted off, hooded and cuffed, never to be seen again.
“Sir, I just want to confirm that this is a capture mission, right?” Britton asked.
Harlequin shrugged. “Of course. Rules of engagement are clear: If they engage you, escalate to deadly force. Err on the side of protecting your people.”
“They’re scared kids, sir,” Britton continued. “Maybe they’d surrender? Have we gotten in touch with their parents to see if they can talk them down? I know it sounds silly, but…”
“It does sound silly, Lieutenant!” Harlequin cut him off. “And we don’t have time for hand-wringing right now. Those kids had a choice. They could have turned themselves in. They didn’t. They chose to go it on their own. Remember, you’re only a Selfer if you run.
“Now, any other questions?” Harlequin asked, glaring at the assembled teams.
There weren’t any.
“Good,” Harlequin said. “Get geared up and get your asses in the air. I’m jumping now. Morgan! You’re on the ground manning relief. Britton! You jump with me. Co-ords are already in the bird. I’ll meet you on target.”
He leaned in to Britton as he left. “Look, Lieutenant. The law may require me to take you along, but you keep your men out of my way and out of the fight. You’re not trained for this. And if I ever again catch you putting doubt in the minds of an assault force about to go hot, I will personally fry your ass.”
Harlequin threw open the door and leapt skyward, flying quickly out of view.
“Sir.” Dawes tugged Britton’s sleeve. “Can’t they get another team? I don’t wanna work with no Sorcerers.”
“They’re on our side, remember?” Britton forced a smile. Terror curdled in his gut. “SOC’s still army.”
Sergeant Goodman, carrying the support weapon for Britton’s team, snorted and nervously tapped the safety on her light machine gun.
“Sir, it’s a high school,” said Dawes, sounding high-school aged himself through his thick Arkansas accent.
“Selfers or not, they’re just kids,” Goodman added.
They’re reading my mind, Britton thought, but he asked “Why do we call them Selfers, Goodman?”
She hesitated. Britton took a step forward, glaring at her. She might have a point, but she had to believe in this mission if she was going to carry it out. They all had to. “Why?”
“Because they don’t think about how their magic puts others in danger,” she gave the textbook response. “Because they only think about themselves.”
“Absolutely right,” Britton said. “There are thirty-four American corpses buried in the rubble of the Lincoln Memorial because of kids like this! Who knows how many kids, hell, or even some of my former teachers, are down there right now? If you can’t do this, say so now. Once we go dynamic and hit that roof, I need everyone in the game. I give you my word; I won’t hold it against you. If you want out, now’s the time.”
He gave them a moment to respond. No one said a word.
Britton had to get his team moving. The more they stood around, the more the fear would take hold. “Okay, you heard the man, and you know the plan!” he called out. “Let’s show the SOC how the Green Mountain Boys get the job done! We’re going to be up to our assholes in elementals up there, so gear for it. Fire suppression for the pyro. There might be lightning elementals, too, so I want everyone to suit up in as much rubber insulation as the armorer will dispense. Move with a purpose, people!”
As his team hurried to comply, Britton looked back at the looping video and suppressed a shudder.
The world’s gone mad, Britton thought. Magic has changed everything.
Even if he wasn’t required to do the deed personally, he knew what Harlequin and his men intended.
Britton sat behind the helicopter’s controls and looked at the man floating in the sky.
Harlequin stood in midair, flight suit rippling in the breeze. Over a thousand feet below him, South Burlington High School glowed in the party colors of spinning police-car lights.
Behind Britton, four army assaulters looked down between their boots, dangling over the helicopter skids, shifting flame-retardant tanks and body armor out of the way for a better view.
Harlequin swooped down to land on one of the Kiowa’s skids, rocking the helicopter and forcing the assaulters to pull their feet back inside. The rotors beat the air over the Aeromancer’s head, stirring his close-cropped blond hair.
The assaulters looked nervously at Britton, and Warrant Officer Cheatham shifted in the copilot’s seat. Britton, at least twice Harlequin’s size, turned to face him. The Aeromancer was not impressed.
“All right,” he shouted loudly enough to be heard over the Kiowa’s engine, his blue eyes hard. “You’re to hold position here while we do our job.”
Britton’s brown skin concealed an angry flush. Harlequin might be a Sorcerer, but the assault order came down from on high for all of them. But the real rage came from the sense of relief. No matter how badly he didn’t want to do this, he still had to. Holding position would be tantamount to dereliction of duty.
“With all due respect, sir,” he called out over the whine of the rotors, “I have to follow the TOC’s orders. ‘Big army’ has to run shotgun on this raid.”
“That’s crap,” Harlequin responded. “We’re not in the damned briefing room anymore, and I don’t care what Tactical Operations Command says. This is a real fight, with real magic. I don’t need regular pukes fucking it up. You will hold your position here until told otherwise. Is that perfectly clear?”
Britton sympathized with Harlequin’s desire to avoid unnecessary loss of life, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d flown onto Britton’s helicopter and insulted his team.
And it didn’t change the nagging feeling that if there was any chance at all those kids might be saved, Britton had to be there to make sure he saw it through.
“Negative, sir,” Britton said. “My orders are to accompany you to the target and deploy my team. That’s what I intend to do.”
“I’m giving you an order, Lieutenant,” Harlequin said through gritted teeth. He stretched an arm outside the helicopter. The brilliant stars winked out as shreds of cloud unraveled over the rotors, thudding against thickening air.
Britton’s stomach clenched as thunder rumbled, but he did his best to look unimpressed. He toggled the cockpit radio. “TOC, this is support. Can someone put me through to Major Reynolds? I’m being ordered to…”
Harlequin conjured a gust of air that toggled the radio off. “Fucking forget it!”
Britton sighed and listened briefly to the radio static. “Sir, my orders come directly from the colonel, and last time I checked, he outranks you.”
Harlequin paused, his anger palpable. Britton gripped the controls tightly to keep his hands from shaking. He felt the tremble in the rudder pedals as the rotors spun up, slicing through the summoned clouds.
“We’re moving, sir,” Britton said. “Are you riding with us or with your own team?”
Harlequin cursed, dropped backward off the skid, righted himself, and flew off, outpacing the helicopter easily. The cloud cover around the Kiowa instantly wafted apart.
“Holy crap, sir,” Master Sergeant Young leaned in to shout over the Kiowa’s engine. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to a Sorcerer like that.”
“Seriously, sir,” Sergeant Goodman added. “The SOC don’t give a fuck if they get court-martialed. They’ll just zap you.”
“The army’s the army,” Britton said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “Latent or not, we all follow orders.”
“Thank you, sir. Seriously,” Cheatham said, “I wouldn’t want anyone talking to my people that way.”
Britton nodded, uncomfortable with the praise.
The Supernatural Operations Corps bird, another Kiowa, sleek and black, came into view as they descended. Its side was blazoned with the SOC arms — the Stars and Stripes fluttering behind the eye in the pyramid. Symbols of the four elements hovered in the corners representing legal magical schools: Pyromancy, Hydromancy, Aeromancy, and Terramancy. The red cross crowned the display, symbolizing Physiomancy, the most prized of the permitted schools. The banner beneath read: OUR GIFTS, FOR OUR NATION.
The high-school roof materialized below them, a pitted atoll of raised brick sides stretched with black tar paper. A single, brick-housed metal door led into the building.
Britton set the Kiowa hovering and nodded to Cheatham to take the controls. He turned to the assaulters.
“Okay. You all got the brief,” he shouted. “Two targets barricaded inside. Keep the perimeter secure and the fires under control. Remember, one Pyromancer and one Probe Elementalist.”
“They’re Selfers, sir,” Goodman said. “Why can’t we just bomb the building? Why’s it worth risking our lives?”
“Our orders are to take them down and bring them in for justice,” Britton replied. “If the rules of engagement change, and we have to kill them, then we will. Until then, we’re on a capture mission. Everybody square?”
It’s a damned lie, he thought. Those kids are dead. Harlequin has no intention of capturing anybody.
He made eye contact with each member of his team. None looked away.
Satisfied, he nodded. “Okay, double-check your gear and let’s do this.”
He barely had time to retake the Kiowa’s controls before the commlink crackled to life with Major Reynolds’s voice in the TOC trailer on the ground below. “Full element heads up! Support element, this is TOC. Go hot. I say again, go hot and prep for entry on target.”
“Acknowledged. Support element is hot,” Britton said into the commlink. “You heard the man!” he called to his team. “Weapons free and eyes on target!” He heard the click of safeties coming off on Dawes’s carbine and Goodman’s machine gun. Hertzog and Young hefted their flame suppressors. A quick glance confirmed the assaulters’ sighting down their barrels at the roof.
Oh God, he thought. I didn’t sign up to fight children. He tried to push his doubts away. The law was the law. You didn’t negotiate with unregulated magic users.
“SOC Element,” came Reynolds’s voice over the commlink. “This is TOC. Aero-1, sweep perimeter. Pyro-1, go hot.”
Harlequin dove from the SOC helicopter and rocketed around the school. A figure leaned out of the SOC Kiowa, pumping his fist. His arm erupted in bright orange fire.
Harlequin’s voice came over the commlink, “Aero-1 pass complete. All’s quiet. South Burlington police have the perimeter secure.” A pause, then, “Pyro-1 is hot and ready. SOC Assault-1 and -2 are good to go.”
“Roger that,” Reynolds said. “South Burlington SWAT has been kind enough to provide perimeter and entry from the ground. I’m patching them through now.”
A short crackle was followed by a thick New-England-accented voice. “This is Captain Rutledge with South Burlington PD tactical. Perimeter is secure. Students and faculty are clear, fires are out, and we’ve got the first two floors locked down. Your Selfers are above there somewhere. My men are withdrawn under sniper cover. You’re good to go when ready.”
“Roger that,” said Reynolds. “Okay, Aero-1. Your show. Call ’em out.”
Harlequin streaked over the roof and lit gracefully on the SOC helicopter’s skid. He reached inside and produced a microphone.
“This is Captain Thorsson of the US Army Supernatural Operations Corps,” his voice blared over a bullhorn mounted beneath the Kiowa. “You are accused of unlawful magic use in violation of the McGauer-Linden Act. You have thirty seconds to surrender yourselves. This is your first and only warning.”
The only sounds that followed were the roaring engines of the Kiowas.
“Christ,” Cheatham whispered. He had two high-school-aged girls of his own.
“We have to do this,” Britton said, his voice hollow in his own ears. “They’re walking bombs.”
Cheatham set his jaw, “They’re probably hiding down there, scared as hell.”
Dawes was scared as hell, too. Britton put his hand on Cheatham’s shoulder. “Dan. I need you focused.”
Cheatham didn’t look at Britton. “I’ll do my job, sir.”
“‘You’re only a Selfer if you run,’ Dan,” Britton parroted Harlequin’s words. “They could have turned themselves in. They had a choice.”
Cheatham framed a reply, but was cut off by Reynolds’s voice blazing over the commlink. “All right! That’s it! Element! Go dynamic!”
“To arms, Pyro-1. Let’s smoke ’em out,” Harlequin’s voice crackled over the channel. “Spare the good Captain Rutledge’s men and light her up, stories three and higher.”
The Pyromancer stepped onto the helicopter’s skid, the bright fire extending to engulf his entire body. He raised his arms, and the flames curled in on themselves, shifting from red to orange to white. The air shimmered around them, then folded in on itself as the Pyromancer thrust his arms forward. The flames rocketed outward with a roar that competed with the helicopter engines.
The fire struck the building just above the second floor, punching through the windows. A moment later, the remaining glass burst outward. Flames arced upward to paint the night sky. The SOC Kiowa circled the building as the Pyromancer continued his strike until the entire floor burned brightly.
Britton shuddered. If the kids weren’t burned alive, they’d have the choice of fleeing downstairs, under the guns of the police snipers, or out to the roof, where the Kiowas waited.
“Reel her back a bit,” Harlequin’s voice came over the commlink, amused. “We want to give them a chance to surrender. Okay, Support! It’s your big day! Let’s get on that roof. There’s one egress. Think you can cover that?”
Britton pushed the rotors as hard as he dared. He cleared the roof sides with inches to spare and felt his bones jar as the helicopter made a textbook hard landing. The four assaulters leapt off — Goodman and Dawes covering the entrance. Young and Hertzog were already coating the roof with foam to keep the fire from spreading. The rotor wash peeled the tar paper back, sending the thick gravel beneath skittering across the rooftop.
The metal door flew open, and the boy and girl from the video raced out, coughing and beating at their smoldering hair.
“Contact front!” Young called, then screamed at the kids to get down.
Britton pulled hard on the collective, adjusting the rotor pitch to get the Kiowa airborne. The girl broke from the doorway, reaching out toward the helicopter. The dancing gravel shuddered, spun, and coalesced into a humanoid shape, the stone stretching and flowing together into a man-shaped stone creature, eight feet tall. The tar paper lowered as the gravel beneath drew up into the giant form, its huge shoulders reflecting the flickering firelight from veins of quartz. The rock elemental gripped one of the helicopter skids with a gravelly fist, yanking down hard. There was a roar, a whine of metal, and the Kiowa lurched to one side. Britton heard successive bangs as the rotors collided with the rooftop, breaking into pieces. The helo’s body grounded against the roof, shielding the team from the splintering blades, which sounded against its metal cabin with sharp reports.
Cheatham sagged in his safety harness, punching at the release. “I’m stuck, sir.”
Britton could see the girl continuing to gesture. The wind, whipped into dusty funnels by the breaking rotors, coalesced into human shapes, plunging among the assaulters, who cried out, firing as they fell back to the roof’s edge. The air elementals spun among them, their flexing tornado forms spinning shreds of tar paper, broken gravel, and spent ammunition casings. Dawes squeezed off two shots that punched through one of the creatures harmlessly before it swatted him with a gale that knocked him flat against the roof’s lip. He slammed against it hard, the thickness of his body armor protecting his spine and saving him from going over the edge.
They had landed to take on two Selfers. Within moments, they faced a small army.
Britton knew that to stop the elementals, they’d have to take out the girl. Whether Harlequin wants it or not, he thought, we’re in the fight now.
“TOC! We’ve got sentient elemental conjuration up here! We’re pinned down!” Britton shouted into the microphone, yanking his pistol from its holster.
“Goddamn it!” Harlequin said. “I knew this would happen!” Britton heard more gunfire, then a deafening explosion from the direction of the shooting. He looked over Cheatham’s shoulder to see the boy wreathed in a tornado of flame. Bullets pocked the wall around the Selfer, tore holes in his chest and legs as he thrust his hands forward and arced the burning funnel towards Dawes with such force that bricks went flying. The blast flew wild, but the edge caught Dawes as he dove to the side. The intense heat ignited the helicopter’s side, the metal sparking white as it burned away in patches, mixing with the dripping remnants of the windscreen. The fuel tank kicked outward with a bang, the blast catching Dawes as he sprawled on the roof. Cheatham’s flight suit smoldered, but the Kiowa’s shell shielded him from the blast. The tar paper vaporized, the gravel beneath heated white-hot, the stones exploding like gunshots.
One of the SOC assaulters had rappelled to the roof and leveled his carbine at the girl. She glanced at him, and the lingering flames erupted, spawning three man-shaped figures. They launched themselves at him, pounding with flickering fists. He screamed as his helmet melted, the covering of his armor burning away, ceramic plates beneath turning white-hot. Young and Hertzog turned the fire suppressors on them, drowning the elementals in foam. The creatures stayed on the assaulter, burning him even as they diminished under the flame-retardant chemicals.
Dear God, Britton thought. It’s the girl. If I don’t stop her, she’ll fry the whole team.
Britton finally punched out of the restraints and fell out of the helicopter, his shoulder striking the roof hard enough to jar his teeth. He aimed his pistol at the girl, squeezing the trigger as a rock elemental stepped between them, the bullet whining off the shifting stone.
The misshapen head drove forward. Britton dodged, but it only moved him into the elemental’s arms, which pinned his own, squeezing hard. Britton dropped the pistol and gasped for breath, his ribs flexing. His vision began to gray.
Harlequin’s boots landed on the roof with a thud.
The Aeromancer lifted his arms, and dark clouds spun around his hands, pulsing with angry electricity. Lightning burst forth in a dazzling arc, tearing off the elemental’s head and missing Britton by inches. Electricity pulsed through the thing’s shoulders, grounding through the gravel so that Britton only felt a slight twinge of electric current. Rock flowed up to form a new head as the elemental turned to face the new threat, releasing Britton, who sucked down air, cradling his battered ribs.
One of the air elementals, its vaguely human outline marked by swirling dust, leapt over the helo toward them. Harlequin extended a hand, and a gale swept into it, its shape blurring as it was blown apart, scattering dozens of bullet casings swept up in its funneling form.
“That’s one you owe me, Lieutenant,” Harlequin said, as Britton scrambled to his feet and retrieved his gun. “I told you you’d just get in the damn way.” He leapt into the sky, turning toward the girl, only to be caught by another air elemental that had formed itself into a spinning funnel. Harlequin spun into its recesses, cursing, battered by gravel caught in the funnel’s center. The air elemental contracted on itself, spinning the Aeromancer dizzy, and both swept over the side of the roof.
The rock elemental, its head restored, stormed toward the rest of the assault team, who battled the small army of elementals. Goodman turned the machine gun on the creature, funneling the heavy-caliber rounds until they ripped a sizeable hole in its torso, almost tearing it in half. The elemental stumbled, then paused, head inclined as the rock flowed to seal the gap. Goodman cursed and fell back.
The SOC bird descended toward them. The Pyromancer, a blazing human torch, balanced on one skid. The other SOC assaulter stood on the opposite side of the helicopter, sheltering from the magical flames in the cool night air. Britton could see him trying to sight the girl, but the running fight between assaulter and elemental obscured his target.
I can do this, Britton thought. She’s not a girl, she’s a monster.
But when Britton rolled out around the helicopter’s nose, leading with his pistol, all he could see was a teenager, tears tracking through her makeup. Even as she concentrated on sustaining her magic, she looked terrified.
The SOC assaulter lay dead in his melted armor. The boy sat against the metal door, he thrashed, spouting random gouts of flame. His chest and gut were a ragged collection of entry wounds. The girl stood beside him, sobbing.
Britton knelt, sighting down his pistol, blowing out his breath and taking his time.
You can do this, he told himself. You have to do this.
He fired by the book, easing the trigger backward, not anticipating the recoil, letting the gun go off.
But he couldn’t. He pulled his shot at the last minute. The bullet broke low and left, clipping the girl’s side, sending her spinning in a circle.
He felt a hammerblow to his shoulder and pitched forward, skinning his nose. He rolled over onto his back, firing two more shots into another rock elemental that had one fist raised. The bullets sparked as they ricocheted off the thing’s chest. Britton tried to roll to one side, knowing it wouldn’t matter, waiting for the crushing impact of the blow that would smash his skull.
But the blow never came. When Britton opened his eyes, the elemental had collapsed into a pile of gravel, cascading over his boots. He kicked out from under it and got to his feet in time to see the remaining assaulters blinking in amazement as the elemental onslaught suddenly broke off.
Then the screaming reached them.
Dawes, burning brightly, clawed the air. His carbine was a melted mass. Young doused him with foam, cursed, and dragged him by one boot toward a puddle of rainwater. Britton ran to his Kiowa for the medkit. He was intercepted by Cheatham, who had freed himself from his restraints and carried it. In a moment, the fire was out, and Britton and Cheatham were kneeling beside Dawes, spreading burn gel over his wounds.
Harlequin, recovered from his battle with the air elemental, returned to the roof and landed beside them. He reached out toward the boy, and the flames vanished as the Pyromancer’s magic rolled back.
Britton stared at Dawes. He was wounded, but he would make it.
“What happened to the girl?” Britton called to Young. The master sergeant pointed at the bullet-riddled metal door leading into the school.
Maybe she’s still alive, he thought. I’ve got to get to her before Harlequin does.
“Come with me,” Britton said, racing to the door. “The rest of you get Dawes stabilized.”
“Wait,” Harlequin said. “I can’t help you while I’m Suppressing this little shit. Let me get this secure, and I’ll smoke her out.”
No way, Britton thought. I’m not letting you kill her.
“She took a round in her gut, sir. Her elemental army has disbanded,” Britton said, moving to the door opposite Young. “If she’s not dead already, she’s in no shape to fight us.” If they had any hope of bringing her out alive, they had to move quickly. “Go with a flash-bang,” he said to Young, “just in case.”
Young nodded. Britton tried the door handle. The knob turned easily, still cool. Young yanked the flash-bang from his vest and threw it through the door. It thumped and clattered down the stairwell as both men turned away from the blinding flash that followed.
“Go! Go! Go!” Britton shouted, kicking open the door and covering with his pistol as Young rolled around the door frame, leading with his carbine.
Blood, turning tacky on the concrete, trailed down the stairwell. The girl sprawled against the white cinder-block wall, panting. She clutched her hip where the bullet had bitten a sizeable chunk out of her. Her black skirt adhered wetly to her thigh. Britton had never seen so much blood in his life.
“Cover her,” Britton said as he went to her. She moaned weakly, half-conscious. “Dan!” he shouted into the commlink. “She’s hurt bad. I’m bringing her out. I’m going to need a trauma bandage and a ton of gauze. Clotting powder if you’ve got it.”
The SOC bird landed as he burst onto the roof, setting the girl down. Goodman and Cheatham went to her as Britton raced to Dawes. The SOC assaulter ran to the helo and returned with an emergency blanket. Young helped Britton to lift Dawes as gently as they could. “It’s going to be all right, man,” Britton said. “You’re going to be fine.” Dawes whined from the clear side of his mouth. The other half of his face was a melted ruin.
The teenaged Pyromancer had expired from his wounds. His eyes stared sightlessly from his pale face.
Britton swallowed hard and helped to lay Dawes in the Kiowa. He turned back to the wounded Elementalist. “Dan, how’s she do—”
A gunshot cut him off.
By the time he had turned, the assaulter had already thrown the blanket over her, covering her face. Harlequin’s pistol smoked.
“You son of a bitch!” Britton screamed, hurling himself at Harlequin. The SOC assaulter leapt between them, pushing him back.
“ROE are clear, Lieutenant,” Harlequin said. “She’s a Probe. She attacked a government agent. She’s dead. End of story. We can discuss your attempted assault of a superior officer later.”
“You bastard!” Britton screamed. “She was wounded! She wasn’t a threat!”
“She’s a Probe,” Harlequin repeated, “and now she’s a dead Probe. Calm the hell down, Lieutenant, your men are watching.”
Britton whirled, taking in his team. All were covered in burns and cuts. Goodman looked sick. Young was pale. “Sir,” Cheatham said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Dawes needs help now. We’ve got to get him out of here.”
Britton nodded. The girl was dead, Dawes was alive. First things first.
“TOC,” Harlequin spoke into his microphone. “This is Aero-1. Element has brought order to chaos. Two enemy KIA. I’m leaving one for mop-up. The other was a confirmed Probe, and SOC will take custody of the remains.”
“Negative, Harlequin. We’re going to need all the bodies for our after-action,” came the commander’s voice.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Harlequin said, not sounding sorry at all. “Regs are clear. We’re to take custody of any Probe remains. If you have any objections, feel free to take it up the chain. For now, I have my orders.”
There was a pause. “Roger that,” the commander finally replied, sounding furious. “Element status?”
“SOC Element has one KIA,” Harlequin said. “Support Element has one WIA, and one busted chopper. You also might want to get the fire department up here before what’s left of your Kiowa gets cooked. They might still be able to save the school.”
Harlequin looked around at the rising flames. The fight had been finished quickly, but the flames were spreading in spite of the fire retardant soaking the roof. “Not to worry, sir,” he said, reaching for the girl, “the SOC bird will exfiltrate full element and get the wounded to the cash right away.”
Harlequin gathered the girl’s shrouded body in his arms. “I’ll meet you on the ground.” He leapt skyward.
They squeezed ten into a helicopter meant for six, stacking themselves in the open bay, Dawes resting on top. Britton shuddered at the cooked-meat stench. He was under my command. It’s my responsibility. Harlequin warned us to stay away. Why had he even bothered to come? He hadn’t been able to save either kid. It had been useless.
The Kiowa lumbered under the extra weight, circling the burning building and descending toward the Combat Support Hospital among the trailers.
“Fucking Elementalist,” the Pyromancer said. His uniform was perfect, not a strand of his jet-black hair out of place. There was no sign of the blaze that had raged over his body beyond a faint smell of smoke. “Fucking Probe.”
“She was just a kid,” Britton said.
“Then she should have turned herself in. She ran. She went Selfer.”
Britton shuddered as a he recalled the sound of that single gunshot. “Yeah, I just saw how you treat Probes when they’re subdued. Would it have been any different if she’d turned herself in?”
The Pyromancer looked at Britton as if noticing a bug. “With all due respect, sir.” He spit out the word. “Selfers like her hurt a hell of a lot more kids than we just did. She knew the law. She had a choice. She deserved what she got. She killed one of ours and hurt one of yours.”
“The boy hurt my man, not her. Jesus. Anyone can come up Latent at any time. It’s not like she chose this. But Harlequin still shot her in the head while she was lying helpless on the ground. What the hell is wrong with you people?”
The Pyromancer shrugged. “Rules of engagement. That’s lifeblood in this business. Maybe you should memorize them, seeing how it’s your job to carry them out.”
Britton didn’t want him to have the last word. “Still, those kids did pretty good, considering they haven’t had a day of training, and you do this for a living.”
He shrugged. “It’s easy to display great magical power when you’ve got no control, sir. But theatrics don’t win battles. Skill beats will, every time.”
The Combat Surgical Hospital, or “cash,” as the soldiers called it, was assembled in a trailer beside the high school. The firelight danced on its sheer white surface, washed red by the flashing sirens of the South Burlington Fire Department.
A crowd of protestors chanted outside the police cordon, too far for Britton to determine if it was anarchists, Christian conservatives, or environmentalists this time. He could see signs over the police cruisers. MAGIC = SATAN! PRESIDENT WALSH AND ZIONISTS TRAIN TROOPS IN FORBIDDEN SCHOOLS! CLOSE THE SECRET BASE! GOBLINS ARE REAL! WHY WON’T THE GOVERNMENT TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT MAGIC CREATURES?
An army nurse arrived from the Combat Surgical Hospital trailer with a gurney. Britton and Young hefted Dawes onto it, cringing as he cried out.
“What happened?” asked the nurse.
“Selfer Pyromancer cooked him,” Britton answered.
“It’s his lucky day,” the nurse said. “We’ve got SOC burn-trauma with us.” He motioned to a SOC captain emerging from the trailer. The captain ran his hands over Dawes’s wounds. Water droplets formed around him, misting the burned skin. The angry red color began to subside.
Dawes’s eyes opened, fixing on the Hydromancer’s lapel pin. “No!” he shrieked. “Don’t let him hurt me, sir!” he struggled against Young and Britton. “Don’t let him cast no spells on me, sir! I want a real doctor!”
The Hydromancer’s jaw tightened, but he continued to work. Puffs of steam carried the smell of cooked flesh into the air. “That’s all I can do without a Physiomancer, and we don’t have one detailed here. You have to take him inside.”
An orderly helped the nurse lift the gurney and race up the trailer steps, slamming through the door.
The Hydromancer turned to follow, but Britton caught his sleeve. “How’s he doing?”
He looked at Britton with the same contempt the Pyromancer had shown inside the helicopter. “Please, sir,” Britton said. “I can’t lose him.” I lost two kids already tonight.
The Hydromancer’s eyes softened. “The burns dried him dangerously. I moisturized the affected areas and was able to drop the temperature of the burned flesh a few layers down. That should give him a head start. But he’s still going to have to heal normally, and I don’t need to tell you how hard burns are to treat.”
He turned to go, but Britton held his sleeve. “Thanks, sir.”
The Hydromancer nodded and shook his arm free. “Let me get back in there, Lieutenant. Might be there’s more I can do for him after all.”
Britton turned back to his team, but Harlequin, back from dropping off the girl’s corpse, strode in front of them, blocking his view.
“How’s your boy?” the Aeromancer asked.
“He’ll be okay, sir.” Britton bit off the words, not trusting himself to speak.
“He’ll be better than okay, Lieutenant. He’s got a SOC burn-trauma expert on the case. He’s very lucky. Just like you were very lucky to have an Aeromancer between you and that elemental back there.”
Britton felt his temper rise, but his men were watching; it wouldn’t do any good to teach them to be proud. Harlequin was arrogant, but he was also right. The issue of the murder would be for a court-martial to decide.
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying not to sound bitter. “It’s much appreciated.”
“You can show your appreciation by writing the after-action report,” Harlequin said, handing him a packet of papers. “I’ve got to get with public affairs to deal with the press.”
It was too much. “Where do I fill in the information about you killing a helpless captive?”
Harlequin’s smile went vulpine. “Anywhere you damn well please. I can counter with a report of a Probe dealt with according to authorized ROE. I can also put you down for assaulting a superior officer and conduct unbecoming.”
Britton took a step forward, his chest touching Harlequin’s. “Go right ahead. Nothing will make me happier than to tell a court-martial the truth. You better put the rest of my men down while you’re at it, because they saw everything, too.”
“Not too bright, are you? You’ll get your day in court. But there isn’t one in all five armed services who is going to rule against a SOC officer for killing a Probe. You might as well campaign for cockroach rights, you damned idiot. She resisted. If she’d turned herself in, she’d still be alive.”
“As a Probe?”
Harlequin sighed and slammed the paperwork into Britton’s chest. “Just don’t forget; two Selfers employing Black Magic during a lawful SOC assault. They were given ample opportunity to surrender.”
“They were given thirty seconds. And I saw one Elementalist and one Pyromancer. Heck, you just told the TOC that only one was a confirmed Probe, and you only took one corpse.”
“It’s all Black Magic when they run, Lieutenant. You write that report any way you want, but I guarantee you that public affairs will have a different perspective.”
“I’ll make copies. People will know what happened up there.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, they will. They also won’t give a damn. That’s because they, unlike you, know who the good guys are.”
Britton watched Harlequin’s departing back, biting back a retort. He turned to his team. “Dan, take the guys in there and get everyone checked out. I’ll report to the TOC and get started on this damned report. I’m going to write it as I saw it, no matter what that asshole says. I want to get everyone’s signature. No pressure, you only sign it if you agree.”
Cheatham nodded. “He’s right, sir. It won’t mean a damn thing, you know that.”
Britton shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Yes, Dan. I know that.”
“Dawes’ll be okay,” Cheatham said. “Hightide is the best burn-trauma specialist I’ve ever seen. He was out at our field cash in Baghdad before the pullout.”
“We both know Hightide’s only here in case one of their own gets zapped.”
Cheatham shrugged. “Same difference, sir.”
“If the SOC really wanted to help, they’d send a Physiomancer to fix his face. That’s going to be tough on him.”
“No doubt, but Physiomancers are a rare breed, sir. I haven’t seen a Healer on detail to the 158th in a dog’s age.”
“I’ll put in for him to get Physiomantic treatment later.”
Cheatham shook his head. “That’s a long line to wait on, sir.”
Britton knew Cheatham wasn’t kidding. Physiomancy was a rare talent. Britton shook his head, adrenaline giving way to helpless exhaustion. A girl’s murdered, and the world just keeps on turning, Britton thought. Dawes’s plight added to the load.
“I know you did your best up there, sir,” Cheatham said. “I’ve run with a lot of officers in my day, and even the best lose men sometimes. Dawes signed up for air assault, same as the rest of us. He knew the risks.”
Britton was silent. He knew the warrant officer was right, but it was too much just then.
“That girl, Dan,” he finally said. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
Cheatham nodded. “I know it’s rough, sir. I’m not saying it isn’t. But Probes are Probes, and the ROE’s clear. You know I’ve got your back, and I admire you for what you did and what you’re doing, but she was dead the moment she pulled our Kiowa down.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not an ass.” Cheatham jerked his thumb at Harlequin, standing beside the Kiowa and berating his assaulter, a Rump Latency whose magic had never Manifested powerfully enough to actually use. By law he still served in the Corps, but would never make Sorcerer, and instead toiled among the SOC’s cadre of gunslingers, administrators, and auxiliaries.
“Poor guy,” Britton said. “Shame he’s stuck working for a bastard like Harlequin. He’s got the infantryman’s job without the infantryman’s badge.”
“Or the infantryman’s brotherhood,” Cheatham said.
Britton nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right, Dan.”
“Course I am, sir, that’s why they assigned me to you. Somebody on the team has to know what the hell is going on.”
Britton nodded, trying to accept Cheatham’s attempt to cheer him and failing. “Well, let’s go show some of that brotherhood. I’m camping out by Dawes’s bed.”
Cheatham nodded. “And that means we all are.”
…that’s crap! What choice do you really have if you don’t want to join the army? Life as a Suppressed Marine is scarcely better than a prison inmate, and the civilian monitoring program at NIH spawns pariahs — broke and ostracized. A choice between bad and worse is no choice at all!
— Loretta Kiwan, Vice President
Council on Latent-American Rights
Appearing on WorldSpan Networks Counterpoint
Dawes stabilized enough to be moved to the proper infirmary at the 158th Fighter Wing. The entire team wanted to join Britton in his vigil beside Dawes’s bed. He had to force them to stow their gear, shower, and change first. Britton skipped the shower and sat in his dirty flight suit, pistol still on his thigh, brooding, as Dawes stirred in drugged sleep.
He permitted himself the luxury of kicking off his boots as he reflected on the girl’s death, too rattled to concentrate on the after-action report. A newspaper lay on the stand beside his chair, the front page reading MESCALERO INSURGENCY FLARES. TWO SOLDIERS KILLED IN SELFER AMBUSH. The article featured a picture of an Apache Selfer, his long hair whipped by a summoned storm cloud. Lightning arced from his fingers.
He looked at the headline. They may send me there someday. How can I go after this?
Eventually, exhaustion overcame grief, and Britton’s head drooped to the windowsill. He was only dimly aware of Cheatham entering with a sleeping bag. “Sent the rest off to bed,” the warrant officer said. “No sense in all of us crowding in here.”
Britton mumbled thanks and drifted off to sleep.
A breeze washed over his face, and the low rumble of the salvage truck woke him. He opened his eyes, looking out the window to the flight line for his battered Kiowa, but there was no sign of the truck. His eyes swept over the digital billboard at the center of the tree-lined swath of lawn abutting the flight line. SOUTH BURLINGTON AIR NATIONAL GUARD, the sign read. 158TH FIGHTER WING. GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. The readout reported 0200 hours and 33 degrees Fahrenheit. A narrow concrete path led toward a set of trailers. U.S. ARMY SUPERNATURAL OPERATIONS CORPS (SOC), the sign above them read, LIAISON OFFICE.
The rumble that wasn’t a truck engine and the breeze continued. Was Dawes snoring? Britton looked at the bed. Moonlight dusted through the window, outlining all in silver. Dawes slept; Cheatham was stretched in his sleeping bag on the floor.
The rumble pulsed. The gust of air hit him again, warm and foul.
Britton turned and stared into a black shape blocking the moonlight. Behind it, a vague rectangle hovered, its edges indistinct. Light wavered across its surface, dancing like television static. Through it he could see a vast plain, patchy with scrub grass.
Adrenaline bullied sleep aside. He jolted in his chair, and the black shape reared, snorting. Long horns corkscrewed toward him.
His mind recoiled, his skin going cold with shock. This can’t be real.
An instant later, his training bulled the shock aside. Later. Deal with the threat. Go.
He punched the creature hard on the snout, knuckles cracking against a plate of solid bone. The thing grunted and reeled away, stumbling into the corner. It vaguely resembled a bull, bunched shoulders hulking with muscle. Its slick hide shimmered and blended with the shadows, forcing Britton to squint to see it. Its broad snout snuffled, rumbling like the salvage truck.
He heard Cheatham shout, and called out “Give me a damn hand here!” as he pursued the thing, hammering it with his fists. It crouched, curling under the rain of blows. Reality shivered up his arm with each connecting punch. He wasn’t dreaming.
Cheatham rushed to his side, seizing one of the horns. The thing heaved, tossing its head and sending the warrant officer sprawling across Dawes, who awoke with a yell. It stormed toward the flickering portal, which snapped shut, vanishing and plunging the room into darkness.
The creature turned, blinking in confusion. It lowed, a throaty mix of a moo and a growl. Britton drew his pistol and thumbed off the safety as it lowered its head and charged.
He twisted, avoiding the horns and catching the bony plate of the creature’s forehead against his bruised ribs. They howled anew as the thing drove him to the floor. Britton couldn’t see Cheatham or Dawes, and, not wanting to risk shooting them, he pounded its head with the pistol butt, jarring uselessly against the hard bone. He pivoted on his hips, unable to throw the creature off. It drew back its head, jaws opening to reveal rows of dark teeth.
Britton saw Cheatham rising beside Dawes’s bed, well clear. He jammed the pistol into the thing’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Its head whipped back and it fell over on its side, vomiting black blood. It lashed its tufted tail, kicked outward, and went still.
He leapt to his feet, training his pistol on it. His vision grayed out, and he awakened to a sense of drowning. An invisible tide suffocated him with its intensity. He felt his veins bulge with the force of the flow, penetrating his muscles, trilling in his nerves, saturating the pores of his skin. His legs went weak, and Cheatham gripped his elbow.
“You okay?” Cheatham asked.
Britton closed his eyes and cursed, feeling the tide pulse through him. He recalled the videos the army had made him watch, films with titles like Basic Magical Indoctrination and Facing the Arcane. A drowning sensation was the first thing they stressed. Britton knew the invisible current he was feeling had a name.
Magic.
My God, he thought, that was my gate. I brought that thing here.
His stomach heaved. I’m Latent. This can’t be happening, not to me. Not now.
He made for the chair. Cheatham’s hand tightened on his elbow, holding him fast.
“Give me the gun, sir.” The warrant officer’s voice was hard.
A gate snapped open just below the ceiling, hovered for a moment, then disappeared. Britton’s shoulders spasmed as the current surged through him.
“It’s you, sir, isn’t it?” Cheatham asked.
Britton nodded. “I can’t control it. I feel sick…”
He heard shouting. People were coming.
“Just give me the gun, sir,” Cheatham said, “and I’ll help you sit down. You can rest for a minute, then we’ll go get Harlequin.”
Britton recoiled. “No, Dan! Portamancy’s a prohibited school! They’ll kill me!”
The door opened, and a sleepy-looking orderly in blue scrubs appeared. “What the hell’s…” He trailed off as he noticed the corpse that was not quite a bull, then fled.
“Jesus, sir,” Dawes said weakly from his bed, propped on his elbows. “You’re a fuckin’ Probe? Warrant Officer Cheatham, you gotta—”
“Shut the hell up, Dawes,” Cheatham said. “I’ve got this.”
“Let me go, Dan,” Britton said. “You saw what they did to that girl. They’ll kill me.”
“You don’t know that, sir. You haven’t attacked anyone with it.” Cheatham sounded lighthearted, but he held Britton’s arm like a vise. He moved to block the door. “Maybe they’ll ship you off to one of those Marine Suppression Lances, or you can go into the monitoring program at NIH…Maybe they’ll take you to that secret base and train you.”
“There is no secret base! You don’t believe that conspiracy-theory crap! Probes don’t get a break! They disappear!” Britton shouted. “Christ, Dan! How long have we worked together? You’ve got to help me!”
Boots pounded in the hallway. Dawes sat up, wincing in pain, and shouted, “In here! Help!”
Britton leveled the pistol at Cheatham’s face. “Let me go, Dan. Christ as my witness, I will shoot you.”
Cheatham didn’t budge. “Go ahead, sir. How far do you think you’ll get? You give me the gun and turn yourself in now, and you have a chance. You run, you’re already dead.”
Two Military Police officers appeared in the doorway, pistols drawn. One gasped at the sight of the creature. The other leveled his gun at Britton, “Drop your weapon, sir! Get down on the ground! Right now!”
Another gate slid open to Britton’s side. Beyond it, he could see the plain again, rough grasses rustling in the wind.
Britton’s eyes flicked to the MPs, then to Cheatham. It was his chance to turn himself in, to lean on the system he’d faithfully served to protect him.
But his mind’s eye was blotted out by the image of the dead girl’s face. His ears rang with the sound of the single shot that cut off her life, echoing off the school’s rooftop.
Cheatham grasped the pistol barrel, still pointed at his face, “So, sir. You gonna shoot me?”
“Hell, Dan,” Britton said, “you know I wouldn’t shoot you.”
Britton let go of the pistol, slamming his knee into the warrant officer’s groin, hauling Cheatham’s body between himself and the MPs.
“Sorry, Dan,” Britton said, and shoved him hard into the MPs, then turned and ran for the gate.
Britton heard the sharp report of a pistol and felt a burning in his calf. He struck the gate, rippling edges breaking apart to admit him.
Oscar Britton landed hard on rough grass, pitching forward under an unfamiliar sky.
…factors play into Manifestation. Sex and physique have a bearing. Calm males of larger size tend toward Terramancy. Women Manifest in Hydromancy or Physiomancy more frequently than men. Dreamers and mavericks wind up as Aeromancers. Caustic, passionate types show up as Pyromancers. The National Institute of Health continues with the famed Sierra Twenty-Six study group…
— Avery Whiting
Modern Arcana: Theory and Practice
Britton fell, skinning his hands.
He paused, breathing hard. All was silent and dark, a cool wind gently rippling over his back. He closed his eyes. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. The gunshot still rang in his ears, the shouts of the MPs, Cheatham’s grip on his arm.
Breathe, he told himself, just breathe.
His heartbeat finally slowed, and he stood.
The gate was gone. The landscape was washed in bright light from a full moon, massive and close. The light mostly blotted out the weird stars, but he could make out a few, shining bigger than any he’d ever seen. He shivered as the breeze picked up. To one side, the plain ended at a line of smooth-trunked, straight evergreen trees stretching past his vision. On the other, it extended into darkness and the faint sound of rushing water. From somewhere in the forest, a bird called — a mournful sound, haunting and alien.
The magical tide still coursed through him. He could feel it bleeding into the air, mixing with the flow surrounding him, currents within currents.
Raw magic, heady and powerful.
It’s all around me, he thought. This is where it comes from.
He sucked in air, the sweetest he’d ever tasted. It washed away his weariness. He blinked at the giant moon, marveling at its brightness. The ground glowed with vibrant color despite the dark.
One thing was clear. Wherever he was, it was not earth.
They’d talked about it in training, vague hints of the space where magic came from, but they’d also been clear that it was like the surface of the sun. No human could ever survive there, not for an instant.
But Britton was very much alive. And judging from the birdsong, so were others. What else was over here?
Enough. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. He inspected his injuries. The bullet had grazed his calf, digging a shallow furrow in the muscle. The wound bled slow and steady. His hands were badly abraded. His landing had shredded his socks, skinning his feet. Even pain was a newly heightened experience here; the intensity of feeling overwhelmed him.
He limped toward the sound of running water.
After a few minutes, the sound grew louder, chiming like bells. Moonlight sparkled on a rushing stream. The grass grew shorter and softer as the ground dipped to form banks dotted with smooth pebbles, shining like diamonds under the moon’s glow. Fireflies darted above the water, bright with flashing patterns — purple, red, bright blue. He stared, amazed at the clarity of his vision in the strange air. After a moment, he realized that the fireflies were actually tiny birds, jeweled feathers dancing with inner light, pointed crystal beaks opening and closing silently. Their wings blurred in tiny circles, sounding faintly like clinking glasses.
Hard rocks ground into his feet as he picked his way to the streambed. The glowing birds scattered at his approach.
He thrust his hands into the cool water, the touch of the liquid as amazing as it was painful. He sat, hypnotized by the sensation, for a full minute before he brought his hands together, washing them clean. He took a double handful of water and drank, thrilling at the sharp, metallic flavor.
He turned to the slowly bleeding wound in his calf. He washed it, the water simultaneously agonizing and thrilling the wound. He took off one tattered sock, rinsed it as best he could, then tied it tightly around the calf. The fabric went tacky with blood, but the fibers sank into the furrow, sealing it temporarily.
He stood, the wind whipping over him, his mind going over the events of the past few hours. “I don’t believe this,” he said, his words carrying on the air.
“Dun beleeve thass…” a high-pitched keening answered, mocking his words. Across the stream, the moonlight silhouetted a cluster of horselike shapes. Each snout terminated in a single pointed spike-shaped tooth. Long catlike tails lashed as they sniffed the air.
“Dun beleeve thass?” the creatures crooned. One bent to lap the water.
The rest jogged forward, pausing and sniffing the water’s surface before splashing across.
Britton took a step backward, his calf reminding him of the wound. “Oh, God.”
“Aw gud aw gud aw gud…” the things keened excitedly, advancing to a trot. The two closest lowered their long necks and put on speed.
Britton turned and ran.
He ignored his calf, running for all he was worth. The rough edges of the grass sawed at his feet. He could hear the pack behind him, gaining steadily.
He risked a look over his shoulder. They were on his heels, necks straining, wind coursing through tufts of spotted hair. Their hooves pounded the ground, nostrils flaring, wicked distortions somewhere between demon and horse. The single spike tooth on each snout jutted toward his back.
He put on a burst of speed, his calf screaming. He felt the magical tide surge with his mounting terror. The tree line remained far away. He’d never make it.
He heard a snort. Hot breath gusted against his neck.
He cried out, and the pack answered him with keening howls. His magical tide answered as well, exploding and rippling out from him through the interlocking streams all around, opening a gate a few yards to his left.
He pivoted sharply, running for it. He felt one of the spike teeth slice through the air behind him. The pack keened in frustration, sliding as they turned to follow.
The change in direction bought him a few moments. He closed the distance, shouting as he leapt through a gate for the second time that night.
Legal Schools: Prohibited Schools:Pyromancy — Fire Magic Negramancy — Black Magic/ Hydromancy — Water Magic Witching Terramancy — Earth Magic Necromancy — Death Magic Aeromancy — Air Magic Portamancy — Gate Magic Physiomancy — Body Magic Sentient Elemental Conjuration
Prohibited Practices (please see applicable Geneva Convention Amendments):
Terramantic Animal Control (Whispering)
Offensive Physiomancy (Rending)
— Magical School Reference Wallet Card
Publication of the Supernatural Operations Corps
Britton’s feet slapped tarmac, and he jogged to a stop, wincing at scattered sharp rocks.
He recognized Route 7, snaking south between the base and his parents’ home in Shelburne, a few miles down the rural Vermont road. The sky was still dark, the road empty. He ran off the road to crouch in the bushes. Sharp branches tore at his flight suit, and the early frost blasted his feet. The gate shimmered a few feet off the road. The demon-horses sniffed tentatively from the other side, moving toward it, darting away. A moment later, the portal snapped shut. It reappeared to his left, bathing the bushes in flickering light, then vanished again.
It’s responding to my fear, he thought. I have to calm myself.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and failed to relax.
Enough, he thought, focus on what you can control. You’re injured and cold. You might make it through the night, but you’ll be caught in the daylight. You need shoes, and you need cover. They’re on the lookout for a soldier, so you need to get out of this uniform. Go.
He followed the road toward his parents’ home. If he made good enough time, he could use the spare key and grab clothing before they woke.
He had to dive for cover twice at the sound of approaching cars. He moved quickly, to warm himself as much as to cover distance. The flight suit kept him relatively warm, but after twenty minutes, he could no longer feel his hands or feet. It was a mixed blessing; his numb feet let him move faster, no longer reporting the pain of stepping on twigs and roots.
The numbness and rhythm of his movement freed his mind to reflect on how, in just a few hours, magic had taken him from army officer to fugitive.
Stop it, he told himself. If you think about this crap, it’ll slow you down. If you slow down, they’ll catch you. If they catch you, you know what they’ll do.
You’re running. So run, damn you. Run.
He forced all he had lost from his mind and moved as fast as the cover allowed. By the time Route 7 arrived in Shelburne, orange streaked the sky, and he could feel the rising sun on his back.
Route 7 gave out onto an unpaved rural route, and minutes later he stood exhausted in the driveway of his family home. As the numbness abated in the warming air, his feet reminded him of hours running across frozen grass and rocks. He looked up at the cracking paint and patched screening of the house and felt the tides of magic ebb, lulled by the familiar surroundings.
Familiar, but never a real home.
The reason for that crouched before the steps leading to the wraparound porch. Britton felt his pulse quicken, and the tide of magic surged anew.
It couldn’t have been later than six, but his father was awake and gardening despite the early fall frost. Stanley Britton’s pastel clothing flapped off his skinny body. Cheatham had once told him that there were two kinds of Marines: big and mean, or skinny and mean.
Old age had cemented his father in the skinny-and-mean variety. The retired colonel had a blade of a nose, sunken eyes, and a hard jaw, clenched to show that he still considered himself on duty. A small gold cross gleamed from his neck, refracting the growing sunlight.
Stanley moved away from the steps, attacking a line of withered dandelions. He brandished a spade like a weapon, knifing into the cold ground. Britton crept up the porch behind him.
Stanley stiffened. “Jesus withers the fig tree and leaves me with all these damned weeds. Holy Christ, give me the strength to put up with this crap.”
Britton froze, then realized his father was talking to himself. Stanley continued to follow the dandelions around the porch. Britton slipped inside, ran past the kitchen, and took the worn stairs two at a time up to his old room.
His father had converted it to storage the day Britton shipped out; the floor was heaped with cardboard boxes. A yellowing army promotional poster depicting an Apache attack helicopter was the only hint that Britton had ever lived here.
He rummaged through a box at the base of his mother’s wardrobe, packed with clothing intended for Goodwill that she’d never gotten around to giving up. He shrugged out of his flight suit and into a pair of jeans and paint-stained T-shirt. It was inadequate to the cold outside, but it was clean. More importantly, he was out of uniform and would attract no more attention than any black man in Vermont. He kicked the flight suit behind a pile of boxes and grabbed a pair of his father’s shoes and old wool socks. The shoes were a half size too large and without tread, but he was grateful to have something covering his ragged feet.
He returned to the stairs, stumbling in the oversized shoes. He bent to take them off when he heard his mother’s familiar hum.
Get moving! his mind screamed at him. You have to get out of here! But Britton drowned in the nostalgia evoked by the smell of baking and his mother’s contented hum. His legs refused to move.
Desda appeared in the hallway and froze. He recognized her apron from his youngest days: a washed-out heart with the words KISS THE COOK! in letters so faded that he read them from memory. Her gray hair was pinned into an untidy bun, her body still strong and thin despite her years.
He composed himself and descended the rest of the steps.
“Oscar!” she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. Her nose only came up to his chest, and he grinned in spite of his misery.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asked.
He paused, trying to fix the smell of her in his memory: perfume, sugar, and folded egg yolks.
He crushed her to him. “I love you, Mom.”
“I know, sweetie. I love you, too. Oscar, I can’t breathe.”
No time for good-byes! his mind yelled. Every second you stay here brings you closer to getting caught! Run, you damned fool! But he didn’t. He held his mother, even when the screen-door hinges announced Stanley’s entrance.
He kept his eyes closed but felt his father’s disapproving presence and the rage boiling in response.
“What’s going on, Oscar?” Stanley asked, coming to stand beside his wife. He kept his voice mild, but Britton could feel the judgment just below the surface. “You get yourself into some kind of trouble?”
“Stop it, Stanley!” she scolded.
Stanley waved his hand as if brushing away a fly. “What are you doing here?”
“Dad, can’t I just come home? Can’t a son visit his family?” Oscar asked.
“That’s crap. You never come home unless you want something,” Stanley replied.
“No, Dad, that’s crap. I never come home because it’s like walking into a freezer.”
“Come on, you two.” Desda intervened. “Oscar’s home for five minutes, and…”
But by now the familiar pattern was already playing out; both of the Britton men had their dander up.
“You’ve had a standing invitation!” Stanley said through gritted teeth. “I invite you to First Baptist every Sunday, and…”
“Oh, that’s a great idea! I can sit next to you while you pretend to be Christian.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stanley asked, the cords on his neck standing out.
Britton held his mother close. Years and bruises had taught him that just about anything could set Stanley off. Better not to risk opening his mouth. But the events of the last few hours, and his one hope of refuge evaporating, made him careless.
“Where in the Bible does it tell you to hit your wife? Where does it tell you to hit your son?” Oscar asked.
“Oscar, please!” Desda’s voice was pleading.
But the magical tide didn’t care. It surged with Britton’s fury and sadness. He pushed against it, but it was useless. The air in the kitchen archway shimmered, folded in on itself, and resolved into the static light of an open gate.
Stanley’s eyes shot wide, but Desda continued to look at her son.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said quickly.
“Sweet Jesus,” Stanley said, backing away.
“What’s wrong?” Desda asked, turning. She froze as she saw the gate.
“Oh my God,” Stanley breathed. “You’re one of those…one of those damned Selfers. This is un-friggin-believable!” He invoked his single response to all unexpected events — anger, but still moved backward, bumping the front door. He fumbled for the handle.
“My God, Oscar,” Desda whispered, “are you doing that?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Oscar said, his eyes wet. “I love you.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “This isn’t right. I’m your mother, Oscar, I would have known.”
Stanley tore his eyes off the gate. “For Christ’s sake, Dez! Get the hell away from him!” he shouted, reaching for her but not daring to come closer.
Oscar could hear faint keening from the gate. The demon-horses were not far away.
Desda didn’t move. “No, no. This isn’t right. Not right.”
“It’s just a thing, like acne or chicken pox,” Oscar said with a certainty he didn’t feel. “I don’t have a choice. It’s going to be okay.”
She continued to shake her head.
The gate flickered, snapped shut, reopened deeper into the kitchen, then disappeared.
With the gate gone, Stanley found his fight at last.
“Get your damned hands off her!” he shouted, leaping forward and grabbing Oscar’s arms, shouldering Desda out of the way and knocking her to the floor. For all the strength in Stanley’s callused hands, he might as well have grabbed an oak.
Oscar ignored his father, reaching for his mother. Stanley snarled, pounding against his son’s massive chest. Oscar stepped back, raising his hands. “Stop, Dad. This is stupid.”
Desda pulled at her husband. “No! No! No!”
“Shut up!” Stanley screamed. “Get out of here! Leave us alone!”
Oscar tried to move to the door, but Stanley blocked his way.
Oscar backpedaled. Was Desda screaming at him or Stanley? He tried to see her face, but Stanley punched him in his mouth, rocking his head back. He took another step backward, caught his heel on the staircase, and went down hard, bruising his back. Stanley followed, punches raining down.
Desda screamed, the sound merging with the roaring blood in Oscar’s ears. The magical tide drowned him. His skin began to burn. Am I going nova? he wondered. He had heard that Selfers, unable to control their magic, sometimes succumbed to its power, burning themselves to a crisp. A gate half opened above him and vanished. He saw through the window as it reappeared on the lawn, grew, and disappeared.
“Dad! Get off! You’re hurting me!” he shouted. “I’m trying to leave!”
“Fucker!” Spittle landed on his shaved head.
Stanley punctuated his cursing with punches. Somewhere the buzz that wasn’t quite a scream droned on. The magic pulsed.
“Dad! No!”
Oscar lunged forward, throwing an elbow into what he hoped was his father’s chest. The blow struck Stanley’s nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed from his father’s face. Stanley’s eyes crossed as he staggered backward, arms pinwheeling.
A gate opened wide behind him.
Oscar reached for his father’s wrist. “Dad, look out!”
His fingers brushed the tips of Stanley’s fingers as his father half stepped, half fell into the gate, tumbling onto the grass beyond and sliding to a halt.
Oscar watched through the portal’s static sheen as his father looked around, his eyes huge. Suddenly, they shot wide and Stanley scrambled to his feet. “Oscar…” he said.
Oscar could hear keening voices approaching fast. “Uskar …Uskar…”
“Oscar!” Stanley shrieked, then the gate snapped shut, and his father was gone.
Oscar stood staring at empty air.
Desda reached one hand to her mouth. Her other hand reached out to the empty air. “Oscar?” she whispered, “Where did he go? Where did Stanley go?”
Britton wrestled to reopen the gate. “Come on,” he muttered. “Open, damn you.” He pried with his fingers at the empty air. Somewhere beyond it, his father was trapped, possibly dying.
“Open!” he shrieked. “Open the fuck back up!”
Nothing. The tide churned within him, eddying uselessly. A gate opened beside his mother, but vanished before he could turn to face it.
“Where is he?” Desda repeated.
Britton shook his head, choking back a sob. “I don’t know, Mom.”
Her knees wobbled, and she sat down hard, her hands still not moving — one on her mouth, the other pointing. “You have to…you have to bring him back,” she whispered. A tear escaped from a corner of her eye. “Bring him back!”
“I can’t.” His voice sounded flat in his own ears.
“What do you mean?” she asked, finally lowering her hands. “Open it up and get him back!”
He shook his head, his hands making useless circles at his sides. “I don’t know how. I can’t control it.”
She sat in silence for a moment. Then she made a sound between a scream and a growl.
“Mom?” he asked, kneeling and reaching for her. She blinked at the empty space where the gate had closed, her head shaking slowly, her mouth wide.
He stood and took a step toward her. “Mom?”
Her head jerked toward him, her expression blank. Then her eyes registered shocked recognition, and she scrambled backward, kicking out at him. “You get away from me!”
His father had vanished. Britton couldn’t save him.
His mother shrieked.
The need to run overcame all else. He surrendered to it and let his legs carry him away from his mother’s accusing eyes.
…Latency presents a challenge to the American people and the world as unique and as dangerous as the atom bomb. It represents the greatest opportunity, but also the greatest threat we have faced as a nation since the first atomic weapon was tested in 1945. Like it or not — Magic is the new nuke.
— Senator Nancy Whalen
Chairman, Senate Subcommittee on the Great Reawakening
Oscar Britton’s bloodied feet slid inside his father’s shoes, pounding down the road toward the town where he’d grown up.
If the army had taught him one thing, it was how to run, and he did it well despite the screaming of his wounded calf. Somewhere behind him was a horrible thing, something he didn’t want to think about, and if he could just keep running fast enough, maybe that thing would never catch up to him.
The tides of magic went with him. Gates snapped open, teasing him with the prospect of saving his father, never staying open long enough to admit him.
Sirens sounded, drawing nearer. He threw himself into a ditch, watching over the rise as two police cruisers swept past, heading for his parents’ house. He bolted back to the street, racing onward.
And then he stopped, bathed in the glow of a convenience-store sign. He knew this parking lot. His friend Rob Dausman had introduced him to smoking dope here, hidden behind a bread truck and pretending the drug affected him more than it did.
For Britton, it had been a one-time deal, but Rob had made it a lifestyle. That lifestyle had bound him to this spot though he’d moved into the store and behind the counter. Britton could see him through the window, running a hand through his curly blond hair as he laughed with a customer. Britton felt a wave of relief at that smile. With Rob it had never mattered that Britton was black, or twice his size, or better in school. Britton realized why his footsteps had brought him here. If there was a person in the world who would not judge him, it was Rob.
He felt the blast of heated air strike him as the automatic doors slid aside. Elevator music bleated over the speakers. Fluo-rescent lighting reflected off rows of eyedrops, canned soup, and shampoo.
The customer, a middle-aged woman with short hair and a thick middle, was buying a pint of ice cream and laughing with Rob. Britton marveled at them; the world ticked on, blind to the tectonic shift in his life.
Britton looked up at the TV screen hanging from a corner of the ceiling. The news blared a block-lettered footer: RIOTS IN MONTMARTRE DISTRICT OF PARIS. SELFERS BATTLE EUROPEAN CALIPHATE POLICE.
The strict Sharia Islamic law of the EC forbade the practice of non-Suppressive magic, but that didn’t stop some from trying. The screen cut to shots of “Djinn-Born” Selfers standing atop a burning armored police vehicle, SUPPRESSION MAGIQUE printed on the side. French police in riot gear and Islamic Mutawaeen religious police swarmed around it. The Djinn-Born were bared to the waist and covered in winding tattooed Arabic script. One spit fire over the police. The other froze a Mutawaeen officer with a touch, then kicked his crystalline form to splinters.
When Britton took his eyes off the TV, both Rob and the customer were staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Dude,” Rob breathed.
The woman moved forward. Britton lifted his hands, but she only pushed past him and ran out the sliding doors, catching them with her shoulders in her haste to exit. He heard her car door slam and the engine start, and looked back to the TV as she roared out of the parking lot.
The news had been replaced by a mug shot. Britton recognized the image from his military Common ACCESS CARD. ACTION 6 NEWS ALERT! READ THE SCROLLING TEXT. $100,000 REWARD OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THE CAPTURE OF A SELFER FUGITIVE IN YOUR AREA. OSCAR BRITTON ESCAPED FROM MILITARY CUSTODY AND IS CURRENTLY AT LARGE. IF YOU SEE THIS INDIVIDUAL, PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHORITIES IMMEDIATELY. THIS SELFER’S BLACK MAGIC IS NOT CONTROLLED AND HE SHOULD BE CONSIDERED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND HIM ON YOUR OWN!
A toll-free number followed.
Britton looked back to Rob, who looked away, blushing. “It’s been running all night,” Rob said, then his eyes widened.
Britton followed Rob’s gaze over his shoulder. An open gate glittered just inside the store’s entrance.
“Dude,” Rob said again. “This is not good.”
“Rob,” Britton managed, “please.”
“You’ve got to call somebody. This is some serious shit right here. Man, I had no idea you were …I mean, holy crap.”
Britton took a step and winced as Rob stepped back in perfect synchronicity, fetching up against a shelf and initiating a small avalanche of cigarette cartons. “Rob. It’s me, man. It’s Oscar.”
Rob nodded, forcing a smile. “I know, man, I know. It’s not a big deal. I’m just saying. You have to call somebody.” He pointed a trembling finger at a black pay phone below the TV.
Rob’s hand darted under the counter. Britton thought he might produce the store’s sawed-off, but Rob slapped two quarters on the counter. “There you go, man,” he said eagerly. “Call’s on me. Don’t sweat it.” He looked guilty. “I don’t even want the reward.”
But Britton didn’t hear. Don’t waste any more time, his mind said. You’re alone.
Profound weariness followed. His shoulders sagged. For the first time in his life, Britton wasn’t sure that he wanted to live.
He slapped the quarters up into Rob’s face. Rob threw his arms up and crouched, but Britton had already picked up the pay phone. He stared at the receiver.
Rob was right. Britton did have to make this call. Would they kill him? Probably. But maybe that’s what needed to happen. His father was dead by his hand. He couldn’t control what was clearly a dangerous weapon. Why was he prioritizing his own life over others? What gave him that right? That was why they called them Selfers.
He saw his father’s face as the gate closed, heard his screaming over the keening of the demon-horses. He couldn’t bear to face it, and instead took a deep breath and tried to rebuild his world.
Baby steps, he thought. You’re standing in a convenience store. You’re staring at a pay phone. Even that was too much, so he concentrated on smaller details. The phone receiver smells like stale beer. Weeds grow through cracks in the parking lot outside the window.
But reality would not be denied. You’re Latent. You’re a Probe. You’re not in control of your magic. The army has rejected you. You’ve killed your father. Your mother is terrified of you. Even Rob is scared of you. You’re a fugitive. Your life has changed forever.
And, most importantly, you’re alone.
His knees buckled under the enormity of the realization.
There was a click, and a woman’s grainy voice answered. “Operator.”
“South Burlington ANG base,” Britton replied. “SOC liaison office.” His voice sounded alien through the earpiece. Someone else was talking to the operator, someone far calmer than Oscar Britton — Selfer, Probe, and murderer. The thought steadied him. That someone else could handle the situation. He would just listen.
“South Burlington Air National Guard?” the operator asked. “I have the main switchboard number here.”
“I need the Supernatural Operations Corps liaison office,” he said. “There’s been an incident. This is an emergency.”
The receiver went silent. He was about to ask if the operator was still there when she said, “You should have called nine-one-one.”
“I didn’t,” he answered. “I called you.”
There was a click, and the sound of ring tones.
Another woman’s voice answered, clearer than the last. “SOC, Captain Nereid.”
He paused. Self-preservation cried out to hang up the phone and start running again. But fatigue cloaked him like a thick blanket.
“This is Lieutenant Britton, 158th Ops Support Flight.”
After a pause punctuated by the tapping of a keyboard, the voice answered, coldly professional. “Lieutenant Britton, we’ve been very worried about you. I’m glad you called.”
Stanley Britton’s screams echoed in his ears. Britton’s voice broke as he answered. “Yes.”
Sympathy crept into Nereid’s voice. “We know what’s happened, Oscar. Are you all right?”
He nodded, tears flowing now, not realizing she couldn’t see him.
Her voice grew urgent. “Oscar. All you have to do is stay where you are. It’s going to be all right. Can you hear me? We’re coming to get you, and we’re going to help you. All you have to do is not move, and you’ll be fine. Do you understand me?”
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I’m trying to do the right thing.” He cringed at the pathetic whine in his voice.
Her voice was firm. “I need you to calm down and stick by that phone, okay? Whatever you do, do not surrender yourself to the police. The police may not understand what you’ve done like we do. Should you see police vehicles, hide as best you can until we can get to you. Do you understand? Hello? Hello?”
The kernel of self-preservation blossomed. His mind conjured images of Harlequin descending, lightning crackling from his fingertips; the Probe girl on the roof lying helpless in a spreading pool of blood.
Oscar Britton might have a dangerous, uncontrolled power, but the army murdered little girls.
What the hell are you doing? His mind screamed at him. You damned idiot! Run!
He dropped the receiver, letting it hang.
He turned to see two police cars whip into the parking lot, screeching to a halt. Rob was gone.
Four uniformed officers exited the vehicles, guns drawn, and raced for the door.
Magic? Fuck that. I’ve got 5.56 millimeters of magic right here. Once I pull this trigger, no spell in the world is going to stop your brains from winding up all over the wall behind you. There’s been a reawakening all right. We woke up our warrior hearts. We remembered Guadalcanal. We remembered Fallujah. We remembered what it means to be a United States Marine.
— Lance Corporal Jimmy “Gonzo” Gonzales
Second Marine Expeditionary Force, Thirteenth Suppression Lance
Britton dove over the counter, flipping and landing face-first on the rubber matting. He heard shouts as he crawled to his knees, brushing his nose against a code-locked safe.
Beside it was a sawed-off shotgun. The breech was open, shells loaded into both barrels. All he had to do was snap it closed, stand, and fight.
He couldn’t run forever. Why had Captain Nereid had warned him not to surrender to the police? So Harlequin could have the pleasure of killing him instead or hauling him before a court-martial to do the deed officially?
He glanced over the counter. The police officers advanced at a crouch. Two leveled pistols. The other two followed, with shotguns ready.
Just a few hours ago, he’d been on the same side as the police. Crime needed a motive. All he’d ever wanted to do was the right thing. Rage and terror competed in his gut.
Rage won by a nose. The magic rose. This time he welcomed it.
Screw the gun. I don’t need it.
He closed his eyes and let the tide flow. He could feel the current reaching out toward the cops. He stood, arms spread. The air behind the policemen reverberated. They spun, crying out.
He hesitated at their cries. There had to be a difference between him and what he’d always been taught Selfers were. You didn’t kill your father on purpose, he reminded himself. That was an accident. You don’t hurt innocent people. If you forget that, you really are a Selfer.
He struggled against the magical tide. One of the cops turned back to Britton and fired. The bullet punched a hole in the sliding door and buried itself in the counter.
Britton didn’t flinch, overwhelmed by the magic coursing through him. He felt like his veins would burst, his cells pried apart. He desperately tried to shunt the tide back, but it would not be denied, howling toward the policemen.
Behind the cops, the air pulsed open into a shining gate.
Another cop leveled a black shotgun through the glass display window. “Selfer son of a bitch! Switch it off!”
I’m trying, Britton thought, but now it’s out, and I can’t stop it. He could feel tendrils of magic slide through the gate, reaching beyond.
The shotgun boomed, turning the window into spinning fragments.
The magic found what it sought and hauled it through the gate.
The portal spasmed and pushed something tall and strange into the world. The cops turned, Britton forgotten.
The thing from the gate was at least seven feet tall, covered with feathers so dark they absorbed light, each veined and edged in bright red, glowing bloody. A spade-shaped crest of the same color crowned its head. It took a tentative step on a leathery leg with dark purple skin. One claw hovered in the air. Its head flicked left and right, black eyes regarding the policemen, swinging a dark purple beak as long and sharp as any sword.
“Christ,” one of the cops said, raising his pistol.
The giant bird flicked its head again, the narrow throat ballooning to basketball size, tiny black feathers stretched so far apart that Britton could see purple skin taut beneath.
The swollen throat let go its cargo, emitting a sound so deep that Britton felt, rather than heard it, sending visible ripples through the air. The sonic boom shattered what remained of the windows. The hedges lining the storefront were knocked flat, the doors knocked off their sliding course, dropping slowly inward. The cops were blown off their feet, ears bleeding.
Showered with shattered glass, Britton ducked behind the counter. When he rose, the tide was already building again. The cops lay moaning. The bird paced across the parking lot.
Britton’s ears rang, his eyes dry from the wind gust. He turned and ran, bursting into the stockroom. Wire shelves lined the walls, piled high with cardboard boxes bulging with paper towels, canned food, and over-the-counter medicine.
He hit the back door, bursting it open and running into the warming dawn air.
And straight into Harlequin, emerging from the cargo doors of an unmarked white van.
Harlequin’s digital-camouflage uniform was neatly pressed. His polished boots reflected the sun. A pale-faced Dan Cheatham stood beside him, carrying his carbine.
I was always a friend to you, Britton thought as his eyes bored into Cheatham’s. We were a team.
Cheatham’s gaze broke. “… Sir, …”
“See, here’s the problem,” Harlequin cut him off. “You ran, Oscar. Warrant Officer Cheatham advised you to report to me immediately. You elected not to do that.”
Britton could feel the eddy of Harlequin’s magic. The wind about the Aeromancer whipped into a funnel, swirling dust and pebbles over his head.
The tide of magic overwhelmed Britton’s senses. Help me, he mouthed, his body burning with energy. He sank to his knees. I can’t stop it. It’s killing me.
Harlequin’s brow furrowed, the dust devil collapsed.
Britton’s tide rolled back, and he fell forward, gasping. He gulped air, feeling his magical flow intersected by Harlequin’s, rolled back. Britton’s training had taught him to expect that as well. They used it on the Marines in Suppression Lances and those civilians who enrolled in NIH’s monitoring program. Magical Suppression.
Cheatham leveled his carbine and advanced a pace.
Britton stood weakly, pointing at the carbine. “You don’t need that.”
“I’m afraid we do,” Harlequin said. “As long as my magic is tied up Suppressing yours, I have to keep you under guard.”
“No,” Britton said. “I called. I turned myself in.”
Harlequin shook his head. “Dan tells me you Manifested at around 0200. It’s now roughly 0800, You’re miles off post. You ran.”
“What the hell did you expect me to do? I’m a Probe. You’re just going to kill me anyway. I needed to see to my parents.”
“Yeah, that worked out well,” Harlequin said. “We now have another incident here, a murder. I know what you did to your father.”
“That wasn’t my fault! He attacked me…I couldn’t control it…”
Harlequin folded his arms over his chest. “That’s why we always follow orders. I guess that’s something you big army guys never understood. Well, in the SOC, we live by our orders. Because, when we don’t, people die. You decided that you knew better. As a direct result, your father is dead. This is what happens when you run, Oscar.”
“I called the SOC at South Burlington!” Britton shouted, inching backward. “I talked to Nereid! I just tried to surrender! Ask her!”
Harlequin reached into a trouser leg pocket and produced a pair of plastic zip cuffs. “She radioed, Oscar. I know you called. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. You Manifested in a prohibited school. You ran. You killed your father. Act like a soldier and man up to it.”
Britton knew he wouldn’t get three steps in any direction before Cheatham put a bullet in his back. “You’re going to kill me,” he said. “Maybe not here, but you’ll do it.”
Harlequin shrugged. “That’s for a court-martial to decide. For now, you go to the stockade. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”
“Freeze!” Two of the cops burst through the door, pistols leveled at Britton’s back. “Hands in the air!”
“Damn it, wave off!” Harlequin shouted. “I’m army Supernatural Ops! I’m taking this man in!”
“He injured a police officer,” one cop said. The other lowered his pistol, confused.
Surprised, Cheatham pointed his carbine at the cops. The one with the raised pistol reacted instinctively, pointing his weapon at Cheatham.
If you go with him, you’re dead, Britton thought. He spelled it out for you — you Manifested in a prohibited school, you ran, you killed your father. No court-martial in the country would let you off for that. He thought of Cheatham’s grip on his elbow, his father’s flailing fists, Rob slapping two shiny quarters on the counter, the girl’s corpse on the roof. The army had been the only home he’d had outside the house in Shelburne. It’s all gone. Move, and quickly.
Britton took a step back alongside the cop with the raised gun and chopped down with both hands, striking the policeman’s wrists, sending the weapon spinning. Then he ducked around the corner of the building.
Harlequin cursed, conjuring up the dust devil. Britton felt the magical current surge back into him as the Suppression dropped away. Britton heard the crack of a bullet tearing into the building’s corner. Britton knew that Dan was a better shot than that.
Britton raced into the front parking lot, surprising the other two cops. One was leaning over the other among the flattened azaleas, bandaging the prone man’s bleeding ears.
His partner spotted Britton and shouted. The other cop turned, dropped the medical tape, and fumbled with his holstered sidearm. The magical tide responded and opened a gate between them as the cop drew and fired, the bullet passing harmlessly into the other world. From behind, the gate was a shimmering rectangle of air. Britton couldn’t see the television static surface or the landscape beyond. The gates apparently had a facing — front and back.
He ran for a cruiser, lights still flashing, engine running, and passenger door open. A computer keyboard and screen covered the center console. An empty shotgun sheath stood beside it, blocking Britton’s plan to throw himself across and reach the driver’s seat. He turned to run around the vehicle.
A crack of thunder stopped him.
“And you told me that you turned yourself in,” Harlequin said. The captain floated above the store’s russet-shingled roof. The wind whipped around him, stripping leaves from the trees. Above Harlequin’s head was a black cloud, out of place in the placid sky. Light churned in its dark recesses.
A sheet of rain shot from the cloud to lash Britton’s face, leaving dry ground just a foot beyond him. The cops stood below Harlequin’s polished boots, looking up in awe.
“Believe me, I’d far rather bring you in,” Harlequin shouted over the gusting wind, “but if you take one more step, I will cook your sorry Probe ass. It’s over, Oscar. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”
Britton backed away from the cruiser, lining up with the driver’s-side door.
The cloud opened like a locket. Boiling light swept out with a deafening crack, shaking the ground. Britton shielded his eyes against the flash and spray of shattered asphalt. When he opened his eyes, the hair on his shins was smoldering. A two-foot crater had rent the parking lot. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.
“Get away from the car, or I won’t miss next time,” Harlequin said. “Knees, damn it. I’m tired of this.”
Britton measured the distance. He couldn’t get to the car, open the door, and get inside in time.
He sank to his knees.
“Smartest thing you’ve done all damn day,” Harlequin said, descending toward him, the cloud trailing. “Hands over your head, Oscar.”
As Britton raised his hands, he caught a flash of black and red in his peripheral vision. He stood and raced for it, clapping his hands and calling. The giant bird-thing froze, its sword beak pointing toward him.
“Damn it, Oscar!” Harlequin yelled. Britton felt the hairs all over his body stand on end as electricity arced around him. He froze, wincing, waiting for his skin to burst into flame.
But the strike never came.
Harlequin blazed in the sky, wreathed in crackling electricity. The cloud expanded, haloing him in gray. “The thing that burns me is that you think I’m the bad guy. You’re the walking time bomb who has already killed one person and now wants a chance to spread more of it around. I’m not the bad guy, Oscar. You are. And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone else.” He spread his hands, electricity shooting from the storm cloud up his arms to buzz along his fingertips.
He dove.
Britton raced toward the bird, motionless on a single purple leg. Its long neck lowered menacingly, the throat puffing out in warning.
Harlequin’s shadow overtook him, the conjured cloud covering the sun. The Aeromancer shot past him, spinning in the air and touching down on the tarmac between Britton and the bird, one hand and knee on the ground, his body coiled to spring, bristling with blue lightning.
Britton stopped short, scraping his feet, flinging himself toward the cruiser. He heard the electric sizzle as Harlequin sprang airborne behind him, closing the distance like a dive-bomber.
A boom sounded. Britton felt as if a giant hand swatted him. He turned in the air, his back slamming against the car door, shattering the window. The rippling air caught Harlequin, spiraling him into the store’s roof, sending shingles flying. The storm cloud dissipated, drifting apart on a suddenly calm breeze.
The bird took a lurching step, its throat smooth once again, stabbing the air with its huge beak.
Britton scrambled to his feet, ears ringing. He fumbled for the door handle, wincing at the pain in his shoulders as he threw himself into the seat and put the car in gear. Harlequin stirred weakly on the store’s roof. One of the cops helped Cheatham scramble up the air-conditioning unit to reach him. The other ran toward Britton, shouting.
He stopped short as a gate opened in front of him, closed, then reappeared a few feet to one side of the cruiser.
Britton gunned the engine, leaving patches of smoking rubber as he drove the car through the gate, the static light washing over the hood.
The convenience store, cops, and soldiers all vanished behind him as the world beyond bumped beneath his tires.
That’s the thing with you leftists. You shed copious tears for the Apache. You bemoan the crushing of “native ways” that have more to do with drinking and gambling than whatever you’re imagining. You want an exemption to the McGauer-Linden Act for them, but you don’t get it. I’ve kicked through barricades of burning tires in Mescalero. I’ve run and gunned against Selfers and their “Mountain Gods” in the Chiricahua passes. You think Apache magic is all horses, scenic vistas, and flowing black hair. It’s not — it’s fire and blood and rending teeth. You want to preserve it, but you wouldn’t last thirty seconds within a mile of it. You’re like people admiring a caged tiger. You ooh and ah over a pretty thing that wants to kill you.
— Major “Icebreaker” (call sign)
Supernatural Operations Corps Liaison Officer (LNO)
Bureau of Indian Affairs, Mescalero Reservation Task Force
Britton could hear shearing metal as the uneven ground ripped off pieces of the undercarriage. The radio hissed static. The cruiser bumped to a halt.
Dawn had come to the other side as well. The plain came alive beneath it, sawtooth grass flecked with tiny red and yellow flowers he had missed in the darkness. It rolled out for miles, ending at a line of rocky foothills. Currents of magical energy eddied all around him. He leaned out the cruiser’s broken window, looking behind him. The gate still shimmered. The cop stared through it, gaping.
“You want magic?” Britton shouted at him. “Come and get it, you bastard!”
If the cop heard, he gave no sign.
“Baztaad …commageddit…?” keened a voice.
Three of the demon-horses sniffed toward the car. One poked at the passenger door with its single tooth, jumping back from the hard surface.
Frustration boiled into anger. “Can I get a damned break?” Britton shouted.
The magic tide swept about him, far more powerful on his side of the gate. Before he knew what had happened, he felt the current snake through the gate to wrap around the cop, hauling him through.
The gate’s light washed over him as he came stumbling, eyes big as dinner plates. The pack streamed around the cruiser toward the easier target.
“Oh, dear God. No,” Britton whispered.
The cop screamed, hauling out his pistol and firing madly, in no danger of hitting anything.
“Hang on!” Britton shouted. “I’m coming!”
He slammed on the accelerator, pulling the steering wheel to run down one of the demon-horses. The thing turned, keening a rumbling imitation of the motor before the grill caught it, its ribs cracking as it slid up the hood to shatter the windshield. Its horselike head lolled toward him, eyeless, the spike tooth leaking blood. Britton punched it hard, jarring it enough to send it back over the hood. The car shuddered as the wheels crunched over it.
The other two demon-horses leapt aside as he guided the cruiser toward the cop. He threw the driver’s-side door open. “Get in!”
The cop backpedaled, his face a mask of terror. He changed magazines mechanically, then raised the pistol.
Britton ducked as a bullet whined through the space where the windshield had been, thudding against the bulletproof divider behind him.
“Damn it, you idiot! I’m trying to help you!”
The cop answered him with another round, slamming into the engine block.
The demon-horses flowed around the car toward the cop. Britton spun the steering wheel and drove away. Another bullet whined off the cruiser’s roof before the cop noticed the pack and turned the gun on them.
Britton spun the wheel again, turning the car back, but another bullet hissed past as the policeman fired blindly at the monsters. Britton heard a coughing bark, the best impression of the gunshot that five more demon-horses, coming at a run, could muster.
You’re no good to him with a bullet in your head, Britton told himself. Get out of here.
He swore and floored the accelerator, bumping the car over the plain until the cop and the demon-horses vanished behind him. Assuming the cop had a seventeen-round magazine, he’d already expended at least ten of them. There was no way he could take out the whole pack, shooting like he was.
He’s as dead as your father.
Another gate opened. Through it, he could see deep forest alongside an overgrown trail.
The devil you know is better than the one you don’t. He drove through.
The cruiser rumbled onto an old logging trail. The car bottomed out over roots and rocks, making it a few feet before the front tires blew out, sending his scraped nose into a half-deployed air bag. He sat with his head against it, numb and exhausted.
He raised his head as the wind wafted steam from the radiator through the shattered windshield. Another gate hovered four feet off the ground. It had opened into an underwater portion of the other world. Shafts of weak sunlight penetrated green depths that stirred with the languid movements of huge bodies. Not a drop spilled through the gate.
“What do you want from me?” he shrieked, pounding the steering wheel. He sank back in the seat, weeping. “I don’t want you…I just want…” I just want to go home.
And where exactly would that be now? his mind asked.
“Stop,” he said. “Just stop. Pull yourself together.”
He searched the interior of the car. He found an unlocked gun case under the passenger seat, but it was empty, as were the backseats. The glove compartment contained a plastic first-aid kit, three chem-lights, a pocketknife, and a pack of tissues. He took them all, stuffed the lot into the gun case, and exited the car in time to watch the gate close on the watery depths and vanish.
What exactly was he planning to do? He’d managed to keep a half step ahead of his pursuers, but that couldn’t last long. And even if he could stay ahead of them, what then?
You’ll just have to figure it out, he answered himself. Maybe you can make your way to New Mexico, join up with the Apache insurgency. Maybe you can find one of those Selfer street crews hiding out in New York City.
And fight the government I’ve served?
The government that murdered a confused girl. The government that’s trying to kill you. Live or die, Oscar, make your choice.
You didn’t want to kill anyone. They’ll never believe that, but you know it. Britton hung on to that thought, repeating it to himself over and over again. It’s the reason you’re not a Selfer, not like they use the word.
So, he thought again, make your choice. What do you deserve?
Britton choked back tears of relief as he realized that he did not deserve to die. His choice was made. He would run.
Step one, find a place to lie low, get your bearings. Step two, find someone who can help you get control of your magic. The Green Mountain National Forest was miles from here, but it was big enough to get lost in. Big enough to go to ground while he figured out a way to head south without being spotted. It was a paper-thin plan, ridiculous in the face of what was sure to be a manhunt conducted by the most powerful military in the world.
But it was life. And, for the moment, it was all he had.
“Got to hide this car,” he said. The police probably had some way to track their vehicles. He wasn’t certain where he was but figured that distance on the other side approximated distance in this world. He couldn’t be too far from where he’d stolen the car. A thick carpet of ochre pine needles blanketed the ground, but that wouldn’t cover the cruiser.
The magical tide rose with his frustration. Another gate flashed open, cutting through the car’s front quarter panel. It shimmered there, then vanished, severing the wheel, bumper, and headlight. Water pooled beneath the sliced radiator. He stared, thinking what a gate would do if it appeared in the middle of a person, and shuddered.
“All right,” he said. “You want to help? Fine, you can help.”
“Magic,” he asked, feeling ridiculous, “you listening? I need you to open up and suck in this car.” He made a pincer motion, sweeping his arms up over his head.
A light breeze gusted over his back, drying his sweat and reminding him of the cold.
“Come on,” he said. “Do it. I command you, swallow the car.”
He motioned again. Nothing. He sighed, looking around at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in their branches, a squirrel chattered.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, God! I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” He laughed again, the sound strange in his ears. But he felt a little better as he moved into the woods.
Once he was out of sight of the trail, he treated his wounds with what he found in the first-aid kit, using up its entire contents. Nearly every inch of him was covered in gauze, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. He had no water to wash his wounds and used the bottle of peroxide instead, wiping with gauze and a miraculously clean corner of his ragged T-shirt.
His ears rang, but the drums felt intact. He looked at his reflection in the plastic case and saw no blood leaking from them. His calf throbbed. The sock had sealed the wound though blood still oozed through the black crust that had formed on the fabric. His shoulders ached from the impact with the car.
Treating his injuries restored a measure of humanity but reminded him of his surroundings and lack of supplies. He shivered in the chill air, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. The blanket of fallen needles was soft enough, but he couldn’t eat them and doubted they’d keep him very warm.
The relative peace calmed him, and the tide of magic receded. He shut his eyes and found it hard to open them again. Exhaustion beat hunger, and he burrowed deeply into the soft pine needles. The trees blocked most of the wind, keeping them from blowing off.
Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
He awoke in the deep of night, filthy, starving, and freezing.
The night air stung him, and his teeth chattered. Got to get moving, only way to keep warm. He broke one of the chem-lights and shook it, wreathing the woods in its neon green glow. He lurched to his feet, wincing, and trudged off into the dark.
He stumbled along in the darkness for hours. When the chem-light eventually failed, he didn’t bother to light another one, moving by touch along tree trunks and kicking over rocks he could no longer feel through frozen feet. The moon was a sliver. What little starlight penetrated the tree cover was inadequate to navigate by. He groped along, conscious that he might be going in circles and long past caring. All that mattered was staying warm.
A sharp burning pulled taut across his chest, bringing him to his senses.
A half-crumbled line of fence posts stretched before him. Strung across the top of two of them was a rusty length of barbed wire, hopelessly tangled in the rags of his T-shirt. Beyond it, the trees gave way to an overgrown, star-dappled field.
A low, wooden tobacco barn dominated the field. The peaked roof was supported by hinged slats, gray-brown with creo-sote, louvered open to admit the air. A small house with dark windows and a beat-up blue pickup parked outside stood farther off.
He blinked, seeing shelter and possibly food and water. He disentangled himself from the barbed wire and trotted toward the barn.
The barn’s massive doors were unlocked. He winced as they groaned on their hinges, but there was nothing for it. It was there or the woods, and he wasn’t sure he would last another night without at least something to drink. A dog began to bark from the vicinity of the house. He ignored it, praying the owner would think it alerted by some animal.
The barn interior wasn’t much warmer, but it kept the wind off better than the trees. The strong smell of tobacco nearly overwhelmed him. He took out another chem-light, cracked and shook it, sending horror-movie shadows dancing. The weird light couldn’t penetrate the shadows in the rafters, but he could barely make out a loft above him. The ground was neatly brushed with straw. Long clutches of drying tobacco hung in orderly rows, marching away from him down the barn’s length. To his right was a tractor, smelling of oil.
He turned to his left and nearly cried out. A wooden barrel bound by rusty hoops and brimming with water stood under a rotted portion of the roof.
He seized the barrel’s sides and thrust his head in, drinking deeply. The water was rank, but he couldn’t stop. He finally tore himself away, feeling the chilly fluid pour down his torso, stinging his wounds. His vision grayed momentarily, and he sank to his knees, resting his cheek on the barrel’s rim.
A fat black Labrador retriever sat before him, head cocked to one side, tongue lolling happily. A frayed collar suspended a bunch of silver tags. The thirst surged again, followed by powerful nausea.
“Nice doggie,” he mumbled. He batted at the dog, trying to scratch its head and missing. Then he was doubled over, vomiting before collapsing facedown in the contents of his stomach.
He lay, dimly aware of the dog licking the back of his head.
“Thank…you. Thanks,” he mumbled.
“On Jake’s behalf, you’re welcome,” a man said in a thick New England accent. “When you’ve recovered, I’ll need you to stand up and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Britton slowly got to his feet, then checked himself as he heard the familiar clack-clack racking of a shotgun’s pump action.
There is absolutely no substance to the rumors of a secret government base. I want to put paid to this crazy notion once and for all. Unauthorized magic users, in particular those practicing prohibited schools of magic, are dealt with according to the provisions clearly laid out in the McGauer-Linden Act, the Geneva Convention, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. We do not cart them off, we do not train them, and there is not, nor has there ever been, a “Shadow Coven.”
— Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
Press conference responding to an article allegedly exposing
a hidden SOC program trafficking in prohibited magic
Jake nuzzled Britton’s elbow as he leaned against the big animal’s neck, balancing between barrel and dog.
A sixtyish man stood in the entrance, wearing bedroom slippers, dirty denim overalls, and a faded cap. He was paunchy, with a wide, jowly face, small eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. He kept the shotgun leveled at Britton’s chest.
“Come on over here, Jake,” the man called. “You get away from him.”
Jake turned toward his owner, panting. He nosed Britton’s hand, his bulk upsetting the barrel, dark water slopping out. The man rolled his eyes. “Useless goddamn dog,” he muttered.
Jake backed away from Britton, bristling as the magic rose in reaction to the gun, opening a gate between them, the back of it to Britton. He couldn’t see the landscape facing the man, but he could hear the keening of the demon-horses clustered beyond.
The man took a lateral step and raised the shotgun, sighting down the barrel at Britton’s face. “You just put it away, now,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, I promise you I can pull this trigger before you can do it.”
Britton struggled against the magic but he still felt its tendrils push into the gate, reaching for the pack beyond. Their keening became frenzied as they resisted, terrified of the flickering portal.
“Come on, you damned fool,” the man said. “Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.” His finger tensed on the trigger.
“I can’t control it,” Britton rasped. “It’s worse when I’m stressed. I’m hurt and I’m hungry and you’re pointing that damned gun at my face.”
The man looked down at his dog, then up at Britton. Slowly, he lowered the gun. “Okay, son. Gun’s down,” he said. “You get a lid on this, and I’ll get you fed and put some Band-Aids on you. Scout’s honor.”
Britton desperately tired to reel in the magic, but how could he pull on something he couldn’t see or touch? The keening grew louder. The gate wavered as one of the demon-horses began to come through.
The man’s eyes widened. He pointed the gun at the gate. “Come on, son. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve gotta trust me. I know it’s hard, but you can do it.”
Britton felt the magic recede slightly at the kind words. He concentrated on the calmness of his surroundings — the roof over his head, Jake’s well-meaning slobber on the back of his neck, the man’s voice.
Jake lowered his hackles and woofed softly as the gate shimmered and closed, sending them back into semidarkness.
The man sighed and wiped the back of his neck with a pudgy, callused hand. “Well, that’s a goddamned relief,” he said.
“I’m Oscar,” Britton said. “My name’s Oscar.”
The man tugged the brim of his cap. “You can call me Nelson.”
They stood for an awkward moment, the silence broken only by the sound of Jake’s panting as he nudged under Britton’s hand again.
“Well, let it never be said I’m not a man of my word,” Nelson said. “You sit tight, and I’ll be back with some food and my first-aid kit.” He looked uncomfortably at his feet and turned to go. Britton’s mind screamed at him to run, but he ignored it. There was nowhere for him to run and nothing else to do. He had to eat, to rest. He had to trust Nelson. The man could have easily shot him and hadn’t. That would have to be enough.
The old farmer made it a few steps, then turned, not meeting Britton’s eyes, and whistled for Jake. The big dog thumped his tail happily and didn’t budge. Nelson called him again, then sighed. “Most goddamn useless guard dog in history.”
Britton sagged to the floor, exhaustion mingling with relief to swamp what little strength remained. Jake licked him enthusiastically, and he batted ineffectually at the dog, scratching its ears and trying to duck its darting tongue.
He was so engrossed in the dog’s affections that he barely noticed Nelson swing the barn doors shut.
Britton started as a light thud from the opposite side indicated that a crossbar had been put in place.
“Nelson?” Britton called, getting slowly to his feet and pushing Jake behind him.
Silence. Sudden panic bullied exhaustion aside. He raced to the doors and pushed.
They gave a few inches, then held fast.
Britton banged on the doors, the grayed wood rattled under his fists. “Damn it, Nelson! You said you’d help me!”
Even through the barn’s walls, the farmer’s voice sounded sheepish. “You just sit tight now, Oscar. I’ve called the SOC, and they’re on their way.”
Britton looked frantically over his shoulder, scanning the barn’s interior in the pale glare of his chem-light. Jake sat, panting patiently, where Britton had left him. Shadows swam across clapboard walls that showed no other exit.
“You fucking lied to me!” Britton shouted. “Let me out of here!”
“Well, I’m no fan of lyin’,” Nelson’s voice came back, “but I reckon I got a wife and a home and a life here. And if a bit of lyin’ is what’s gonna keep it all from burnin’ up, well, the Lord’ll forgive me my trespasses. Now I got a bead on this door here, Oscar. Don’t do nothin’ stupid, or I’ll punch you full of holes.”
Britton turned and raced around the barn’s interior, running his fingertips over the boards, desperately looking for an exit. In his mind, he could already hear the squealing of the white van’s tires, Harlequin crouching inside. Jake padded along behind him, barking enthusiastically.
“I’ve got your fucking dog!” Britton cried. Nelson didn’t respond. Britton looked back down at Jake, who sat and emitted a long stream of barks that almost ran together into a howl. What was he going to do, hurt the animal? He shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered to the dog, trying to master his panic.
He looked up in the loft and saw no exit that way either, and the panic surged, bringing his magic with it. Jake backed away from him, growling low in his throat, hair bristling and ears flat against the ridge of his skull. A gate flashed open just before the dog, sending him whining and running for the wall. It rolled shut and reopened in the middle of the tractor, slicing the machine neatly in half, collapsing it in a cascade of grinding metal.
“Damn it, Oscar!” Nelson bellowed from outside. “I told you to just sit tight! Don’t do nothin’ stupid!”
The gate flashed away from the tractor and appeared lodged diagonally in the barn wall.
When it vanished, it left a clean, angled slash in the wood, the splintered edges clipped as neatly as if they’d been burned by a laser. Through it, Britton could see the light of the stars and feel the cold blast of the air. Without thinking, he launched himself at the rent.
The impact knocked the breath out of him, his shoulder singing out in pain. His head whipped backward, and, for a moment, he thought he had just made the dumbest move of his life. But then the weakened wall exploded, the jagged edges of wood ripping into his skin and sending him spinning into the darkness, feeling as if he had been set alight as the chill air trilled in the rents in his skin.
He staggered, fell to one knee, skidding across the frost-kissed grass of the field, arms pinwheeling for balance. He could hear Jake barking in the background and Nelson panting as he ran from the front of the barn to the side. The lights were on in the house by then, and a small figure, probably a woman, stood on the front porch, a cell phone clutched in her hand.
“Now you just get down, Oscar!” the farmer shouted. “Get right down and keep your hands where I can see them!”
Britton staggered, got to his feet, met the farmer’s eyes levelly.
Nelson leveled the shotgun at Britton’s chest. “You just stop right there. Don’t be a damned fool.”
But the magic had other ideas. It flowed through Britton, borne on his sense of betrayal and desperation.
A gate snapped open in front of Nelson. The farmer stepped around it and thrust the gun’s muzzle forward. “Damn it, son, I warned you.”
The shotgun boomed, and Britton’s chest erupted in agony, followed quickly by merciful darkness.