He meant it good-naturedly, hoping to coax a smile from her, but Downer flushed. “That was a long time ago.”
“That was a day ago,” Britton said, “maybe two.”
“Harlequin said you might talk like this,” Downer retorted. “Sticking to the regs is what makes us different from Selfers.”
Britton knew better than to argue with the patronizing certainty in her voice. What teenagers didn’t think they knew everything?
Unable to think of a way to recover from the rising tension, he took a swallow of his beer and turned to Truelove instead. “So, Shadow Coven?”
The small man nodded. “Each Coven gets a name and number. We’re Shadow Coven. Entertech contractors, all. Welcome to the company. We’re the one Probe Coven in the whole SOC.”
Prohibited schools. Britton suddenly realized the significance of Harlequin’s comment about Chris’s grandmother. “You’re a Necromancer,” he said to Truelove.
Downer brightened, grateful for the change of subject. She pointed to the floor beside the bar. “Come on, Simon, show him.”
Truelove’s pale cheeks went crimson. He looked uncomfortably at Downer from beneath his narrow brow, and Britton thought he caught of glimpse of the same smitten look Downer had showed to Harlequin.
Pushing the thoughts away, Britton followed Downer’s finger to the floor. A largish roach lay there, crushed flat by an uncompromising combat boot.
Truelove shrugged again and stared at it. Britton felt his tide ratchet up. The broken, flat insect peeled itself away from the ground and stood, one broken leg remaining in the dirt and another dangling by a thread of chitin. It bowed to Britton, shedding the broken leg in the process, then turned a graceful pirouette on the bottom of its abdomen before flopping over on its back.
“Impressive,” Britton said.
“It’s just Physiomancy in reverse,” Truelove said. “They do live flesh. I do the dead stuff.”
“How about you?” Britton asked Downer, trying again. “You’re an Elementalist.”
She didn’t give him a chance. “How about you?”
Britton barked a nervous laugh. “Portamancy.”
Downer worked to keep from looking impressed and failed. “Fitzy said as much,” she said. “We didn’t believe him.”
“Fitzy?” Britton said.
“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Truelove said. “Don’t mess with him. He’s not a nice man.”
“Fitzy is asshole!” Marty chirped proudly. Downer and Britton laughed, but Truelove looked embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to stop him from doing that …It just makes things harder on him.”
“Is he an asshole?” Britton asked.
Truelove shrugged uncomfortably. “He’s a good instructor, he’ll help you get a handle on your magic.” His eyes brightened behind his thick glasses.
“Gate magic,” Truelove said. “That’s amazing.”
Britton sighed. “Believe me, I’d rather be flying helicopters. That’s what I joined the army to do.”
Truelove’s eyes widened farther. “You were a helo pilot? That’s awesome! What’d you fly?”
“They had me in Kiowas. I wanted Apaches, but I didn’t have enough time in. I Manifested before I could get re-assigned.”
As Truelove interrogated Britton about flying, Downer eyed him intensely. Britton did his best to pretend he didn’t notice and focused on answering Truelove’s enthusiastic questions — covering everything from training to flight mechanics — but the line of conversation frustrated him. He wanted to talk about magic and the Coven and was grateful when Downer cut in.
“You can’t control it, can you?” she asked.
“No,” Britton admitted, “not yet.”
“We go to the SASS tomorrow. Fitzy says we’ll learn there.”
“Suitability assessment,” Truelove offered. “They test your loyalty and teach you to get control of your magic. They enrolled me when I first got here. Since you’re a contractor, you don’t have to raise the flag.”
“Raise the flag? What the hell are you talking…?” Britton asked.
A crackle sounded outside, followed by a boom that shook the flimsy plywood walls, resulting in a minor avalanche of license plates.
“Medic!” a voice screamed from outside. “Medic!”
By the time they raced outside, two more booms had sounded, each farther away than the last.
The line out of the chow hall was gone. The front of the tent smoldered gently, melted canvas and plastic sending up wisps of foul-smelling smoke. Dark clouds drifted apart above them, far lower than any cloud should have been. The ground was rent and smoking, a deep, charred groove that ran the length of where the line had been.
Two twisted, man-sized masses lay in the trench, burning brightly. Just beyond them lay a young soldier. Two of his comrades were already stripping off his smoldering camouflage trousers. The bottoms of his boots had been blown off. The soles of his feet were burned an angry red dotted with black.
Marty let out a high-pitched squeak and ran to the man’s side. He muttered to himself in his own language, his long fingers moving over the wounds. The men kneeling at the wounded man’s side paused in shock before the larger one — a navy Seabee with hulking shoulders, reached out and belted Marty across the face, sending the Goblin sprawling.
“Get the hell away from him!” he shrieked. “You trying to finish him off?”
The other soldier cursed and returned to the wounded man’s side. He continued stripping off the burning trousers, revealing the charred and bubbling flesh that had once been a pelvis. “Medic!” he cried again. “Somebody get a fucking medic!”
“He is a damned medic,” Britton said, helping the Goblin to his feet and pushing him forward. “He works in the cash, for chrissakes.”
The kneeling soldier ignored him, but the Seabee took a step forward. Britton saw the anchor pinned on his white hard hat — marking him as a chief, senior enlisted, and not to be trifled with. “He’s a fucking Goblin, and he’s going to kill him! Hell, he probably called the strike!”
Britton stabbed a finger into the man’s chest, pushing him backward and sending his hard hat tumbling. “He’s not even fucking Latent, you jackass.”
The Seabee surged forward, fist cocked. Britton stepped into the punch, letting it collide with his shoulder and catching the smaller man by the throat. The magic surged along the current of his rage. It came to him wildly, pulsing and erratic. Instinctively, Britton reached for it.
Truelove stumbled backward as a gate snapped opened inches from his face.
“I, on the other hand, am Latent,” Britton seethed. “And I don’t have time to compare dicks with you. This man is dying, and that Goblin can help him. You’re going to let him help or you and I are going to enter into a rather dynamic disagreement.”
The man reached up to wrench at Britton’s wrist, then saw Downer and Truelove standing at his side. His eyes flicked to the ghosted star and moon over their chests, to the shimmering gate, and back. He ceased struggling.
Britton released him and let the Dampener take control. The gate rolled shut, and Truelove exhaled loudly.
Marty scrambled back to the wounded man’s side. He reached beneath his hospital scrubs and produced a worn leather pouch, divided into several pockets. He grumbled to himself, poking his fingers into its depths and sniffing them before he settled on a fine green powder, which he poured out into his palm. He spat in his palm and rolled the liquid in the powder until it formed a vile paste that stank so badly Britton wrinkled his nose. He leaned forward, and the Seabee jerked his chin toward Marty’s hand. “What the hell is that shit?”
Britton looked doubtfully at Truelove, but the Necromancer nodded. “Trust him. Marty’s very good at his work.” The Seabee looked daggers at Marty but let the Goblin apply the paste around the wounded man’s nostrils. He writhed, swatting weakly at the air, and moaning.
