of bilateral relations between our two great countries. A veritable lovefest. Until now.”
The men in suits shook their heads, said something in Russian, and pushed past him, around the gate, and out of the room.
“And the clock starts ticking,” Fitzy drawled. He spun back to the police officers, still ostensibly talking to Britton. He stabbed a finger at the chest of one of the cops with subdued captain’s bars on his collar. “You see, Keystone, New York City does things differently. They’ve got their own budget, bigger’n lots of federal agencies, so they figure they can handle things on their own. These fellows are the Emergency Services Unit. They’re the finest of New York’s Finest. Security clearances, military cross training, all the bells and whistles. They know how to keep their mouths shut. Which is why they’ve been assisting the Russians in tracking down an illegal immigrant Selfer who fled here from Russia. They figured they could handle getting the Spetznaz where they needed to go, setting up a perimeter to keep anyone from getting out. Looks like they may have overestimated their capabilities. Never send a cop to do a soldier’s job.”
“Now wait just a fucking min…” the NYPD captain began, but Fitzy shouted over him.
“New York’s efforts at polis-style autonomy have resulted in a truly embarrassing mess for our vodka-swilling allies, and they want it dealt with quickly. And what they want done quickly, the president wants done quickly, and we all know who does things quickly where magic is concerned.”
“The magic behind the magic, sir,” Britton said.
Fitzy nodded, finally turning to face Britton. “Those fuckers who just stormed out of here are on the way to the UN. We had damn well better have something to give them by the time they get a message to the White House. And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘you.’”
“So, what are we up against here?” Britton asked, as he turned to take in Downer, Truelove, and Richards. All three looked steel-eyed and ready, but Britton knew their stomachs must have been doing the same somersaults as his own.
“A Render,” Fitzy said, motioning toward the back of the room, where a couple of the NYPD cops were dragging the barriers out of the way, revealing a sizeable breach in the tile wall, with the sound of rushing water coming from beyond. “Our little immigrant is possessed of a particularly nasty bit of Probe Physiomancy.” He motioned at the corpses. “I don’t need to remind you that what you’re looking at are three of Russia’s best magical operators and a sizeable squad of New York’s Finest.
“One Probe did this, just one.”
Therese froze beside him, and Fitzy turned to her. “You raised the flag, little lady. You drank the Kool-Aid. Time to make good on it. I’m afraid you’re the positive to the negative we’re taking down.”
He turned back to Shadow Coven. “Rampart’s in charge of this op. I’ve got to go play public-relations jockey. Seems when Coven Four deploys, important folks want to talk to the program head. You all set, sir?”
Rampart nodded, smiling. “We’ve got the magic behind the magic, Chief Warrant Officer. What could possibly go wrong?”
Fitzy frowned.
“Enough already, let’s get it done,” Downer muttered.
A light sheen of sweat had broken out on Therese’s forehead. “What about Hayes? I’m not the only Healer on the FOB.”
“Oh, right,” Fitzy said, motioning them toward the break in the wall. “I almost forgot. Hayes asked that you bring tissue samples back for the Special Projects Activity. You know, for science. He was rather insistent on that point.”
“Tissue samples?” Britton asked.
Fitzy shrugged. “Just slice off some chunks.”
“Let’s go, sir!” one of the ESU cops shouted to Rampart, already disappearing through the opening behind his captain.
“And you’re on. NYPD needs a chance to redeem themselves, so they’re your fire support for this run. Besides, they know the sewers under this city better than any SOF operators we’ve got.” He leaned in close, his voice urgent. “Get it done, Oscar. Get it done right.”
“Roger that, sir.” Britton nodded and stepped into the aperture.
Darkness swallowed them. Britton struggled with panic in the smothering blackness before it burst into illumination from tactical lights suspended from the barrels of the ESU officers’ weapons. “Jesus!” Rampart hissed. “There goes our night vision! Shut those off!”
“We don’t have time for this,” the ESU captain whispered as the lights went out amid muttered curses. “She’s got a fifteen-minute head start at least. We need to get on her, or we’re going to lose her!”
“Settle down, Captain,” Rampart answered, his voice disembodied in the darkness. “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
“I’ve got it,” Richards said.
Britton felt Richards’s current rise and billow outward. A soft, green glow began to spread across the walls and ceiling, from beneath the wide, rushing stream of water beside them. “Some of the lichen here are phosphorescent,” Richards said. “They just need a little coaxing.”
The light from the plants didn’t blind them, but it cast all in a creepy green, raising dancing shadows off the water’s surface. They stood on the catwalk of an old sewer tunnel. The vaulted ceiling arched away from them, old, pitted bricks slick with calcified plant growth. Rats squeaked in the distance, shadowed by the darkness farther down the catwalk, beckoning to them like some monster’s gaping maw.
The captain snorted and gestured with the barrel of his submachine gun. “She went that way.”
“Better take point then,” Richards answered. “Spell casting is a rear-echelon occupation.”
The captain swore and motioned to his men, who advanced into the darkness, weapons at the ready. Richards lit the lichen as they passed, keeping them in a bubble of the sickly green light, darkness pressing at its edges. Downer motioned at the water. An elemental sprang from its rippling surface, a spined dog made of shimmering green liquid, loping alongside them.
“Nice,” whispered Truelove. “All I’ve got to work with is dead rats.”
“I can feel something,” Therese said, her voice trembling.
“Stay cool,” Rampart whispered. “Everybody keep it on lockdown until I get her magic Suppressed.”
Britton could sense it, too, a magical current, the eddying of it foreign beside the familiar touch of the rest of the Coven, distant but getting closer with each step they took. He glanced across the water. The sloping brick wall of the sewer tunnel was unbroken as far as he could see, the vaulted ceiling a pool of shadows. Long cracks ran through the old brick but nothing nearly big enough for a person to fit through.
Britton looked to Rampart, who shrugged. It was clear he could feel the current, too, but there was no one there.
“Captain, is there anywhere this Selfer could hide?” Britton asked.
The captain shook his head. “Not unless she can crawl through walls. She’s dead ahead.”
They advanced, the pulse of the foreign current getting stronger, until Britton felt it suffused him, so strong that it tickled his taste buds and buzzed in the back of his throat. There was nothing. The glowing lichen showed an empty corridor. They pushed on, and the current began to recede.
“Wait,” Truelove said, “we’ve gone past her.”
“That’s impossible,” the captain said. “The water’s not deep enough for anyone to hide in. She has to be up ahead.”
Rampart cursed. “No, he’s right.”
Britton shook his head. “She’s behind us.”
“How the hell can you know that?”
“We can feel her current, you moron!” Downer groused, her elemental scampering back the way they had come, nosing at the water’s edge.
The captain gave a hand signal, and three of the police officers crouched back down the catwalk, flicking their lights on despite Rampart’s complaints. The harsh white beams swept the dirty concrete and spoiled brick, scattering clusters of frightened roaches but revealing little else. One of them stood and adjusted his helmet. “Sir, there’s nothing here, it’s only…”
His voice ended in a choked gurgle, his head twisting backwards, the black balaclava suddenly dripping and
