Wounded Magic

by Megan Crewe

  “There’s no shame in it, you know,” Margo said. “Six Champions out of, what? Sixty or so who tried for it? That’s a lot more in your position than in theirs.”

  It was generous of her to say that when she’d pulled out every stop to convince me to back out of the Exam and I’d refused to listen. She’d warned me it would be brutal. I didn’t think she knew even the half of it.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s okay. You don’t need to try to console me.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

  At least a couple dozen people had asked me that question in the last three weeks, but Margo said it differently. She meant it differently. It wasn’t about whether I could continue being a contributing member of mage society or whether I could navigate the world without having some sort of breakdown, but how I was faring, in and of myself.

  My chest tightened. Her courtesy made me want to be honest in a way I hadn’t really attempted with anyone else. What could I tell her, though?

  I had nightmares every night—one if I was lucky, two or three if I wasn’t. In them, my former classmate Callum shoved Prisha over the edge of a high platform to tumble to her death. Blood streamed over my hands after I left a gaping ruin in Callum’s leg. The panicked eyes of an innocent man stared back at me in the seconds before I struck the target the examiners had painted on him, thinking I was killing him.

  During my waking hours, fear and anger bubbled in tandem beneath the surface of my thoughts. Prisha and the girl—the girl whose name I’d racked my brain for and still hadn’t turned up—were out there somewhere, being thrown into the line of fire with our enemies. The Circle sat by not knowing or not caring… Probably a little of both. The examiners were preparing to push the same horrors on a new crop of novices next year.

  All that was true, and I couldn’t do one bloody thing about it.

  I couldn’t even talk about it—not with Margo, not with anyone. I’d found that out too, within the first minute after I’d climbed into the car with my parents on the way home from the Exam. When the examiners had tried to steal all my memories of the Exam, the memories that woman who’d stopped me in the hall must have helped me retain, they’d also stolen my ability to speak of what had happened there.

  The silencing ’chantment was a failsafe, I assumed, in case any of those memories resurfaced. They wouldn’t want us Burnouts telling anyone they’d taken our memories in the first place.

  Even if I could have talked about the Exam, they’d taken enough that I didn’t have anything all that concrete to say. I’d have sounded like a lunatic babbling about monsters and torture devices. I had impressions, feelings, images, but the pertinent details… What had been the names of the examiners, or that boy in our group who’d been fried to a crisp, or the girl who’d been crushed by the vines? Where was that house we’d stormed, and whose house had it been?

  What thoughts had I shared with that girl, my Dragon-Tamer, and what had she shared with me? I’d held on to moments of her clear voice, her wary gaze warming, the answering warmth of awe wrapping around my heart, but only snippets of our actual conversations remained.

  Everything that should have been sharp was blurred. I’d meant to rally against the entire Exam system in every way I could. The examiners had left me none. They’d been smarter than I’d given them credit for.

  I worked my jaw, turning all that truth over in my head, feeling my throat lock against it. “You weren’t wrong,” I said finally, meeting my sister’s gaze. She’d know what I meant by that. “It’s going to stay with me. But I don’t regret having declared.”

  The corner of Margo’s mouth twitched upward, forming a bittersweet smile. “I suppose that’s the best I could ask for. Have you come up with any ideas for what you’d like to do next?”

  Fates save me, I’d been asked that more than enough too. I must have started to grimace in spite of myself, because Margo gave a quick laugh and said, “If you’d rather not get into that subject—”

  “No,” I said. “It’s fine. I just— Granduncle Raymond came by the day after I got back, insisting Dad find some convenient spot to slot me into for appearances’ sake. Dad told him to take a hike, that I needed time to regain my bearings, but I know Granduncle’s still hassling him on a regular basis.”

  “Of course he is,” Margo said. “I think that’s all Granduncle Raymond knows how to do. From the fuss he made about me moving to that place in Tribeca, you’d think I’d uprooted to the Everglades or somewhere.”

  “I remember those rants.” I shrugged. “I’m still considering my options. There’s no point in rushing into anything if I don’t have to, right? From what I’ve gathered, the options for nonmagical work within the Confed are limited. I want to make sure whatever I commit myself to is the right thing. And I’m still getting used to— It feels so strange.”

  My hand rose to my temple automatically. I yanked it back, my fingers clenching. I could have talked about that, but I didn’t have much desire to. I was used to the numbness around me now, the muted sensation of the air, but the loss of the magic still ached.

  “You should take your time,” Margo agreed. “After you’ve been through—whatever you’ve been through—it’s best not to make hasty decisions.”

  “Yeah.” I did want to find something, a job where I could be at least somewhat productive. If I could find a placement meaningful enough to wipe the concern from my parents’ glances, then perhaps all the pitying murmurs would stop too. I could still contribute in my own way.

  I hoped.

  “You know,” Margo said, leaning forward, “just to add to the options you’re considering, there are government positions you shouldn’t need magic for. Liaison for the nonmagical departments, or a similar role—someone to bridge the divide between the Confederation and the Dull system. I’m scheduled down in Washington for the next few days; I could always put out feelers.”

  “Would those politicians really want to deal with someone who’s hardly even a mage anymore?” I asked.

  Margo’s mouth tightened. “You’re still a mage,” she said emphatically. “And anyway, a lot of the Dulls in Washington still aren’t all that keen on magic. I don’t think a day goes by when I don’t hear someone complaining about how we in the Confederation are only looking out for ourselves and not contributing to the country as much as we should.” She rolled her eyes. “As if we would have exposed our talents to the world just for the joy of lording it over the Dulls. They’d feel safer dealing with someone who couldn’t possibly ’chant them.”

  I cocked my head. “All right. But even if the Dull politicians prefer someone who can’t cast, would the Circle really want to send out a representative sporting this?” I motioned to the Burnout mark.

  Margo looked as if she were going to argue, but then she simply sighed. “You might have a point there. I’ll still keep my ears perked.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She leaned over farther and grasped my hand, fixing me with that keen gaze of hers. “If you need anything, Finn, you can always come to me. Call, or drop in if I’m in town. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Emotion swelled in my chest. “Thank you,” I said. “Really. I appreciate that.” It was more generosity than I would have taken for granted. It was more than I ever wanted to take advantage of.

  I had to find my own way back onto my feet, or I really would be nothing more than a failure.

  The next morning, my parents left for work and most of the mages around my age headed off to either the Manhattan Academy of Aspiring Mages or the college. I waited until there would be minimal eyes on the street to produce further gossip, and then I called for a taxi.

  I studied the map on my phone while I waited for it to arrive. The girl, my girl, had conjured a dragon into the sky the weekend before the Exam. The closest thing to a name I’d been able to unearth was that fond nickname: Dragon-Tamer.

  She’d been new magic—that much I was sure of—and she’d lived close enough
for me to see her conjuring. There were two tutorials for mages who couldn’t make it to or afford the Manhattan Academy: Manhattan-Bronx and Brooklyn-Queens. Her dragon had soared among the clouds to the south of here, so down across the Brooklyn Bridge I went again, directing the driver to a landmark near my most recent wanderings.

  When I got out, I didn’t linger. I meandered along the streets, glancing through shop windows, taking in every face I passed. I didn’t really expect to run into my Dragon-Tamer here. Most likely, National Defense had already shipped her out to wherever they were running their special missions. She might be fending off magical attacks meant to murder her right now…

  My stomach lurched, and I braced myself against that worry. She’d held her own through the Exam. I had to believe she’d make it through whatever other horrors they sent her into.

  There was a small chance I might pass by her, though, and a slightly larger chance I might run into someone whose features were similar enough to peg them as a relative. What I’d do if the latter happened, I hadn’t entirely worked out. Mostly I just wanted her name. If I had her name, I could reach out to her, instead of failing in my last promise to her too.

  On a few of the streets I wandered down, mine was the palest face around. The looks I got were curious, although a few of the locals jerked their eyes away when they caught sight of the Burnout mark on my temple, as if that somehow made me a more dangerous mage, rather than a neutered one. I supposed in the eyes of the ruling powers, it did, and that was why they marked us. It was a symbol of reckless incompetence.

  I wove back to one of the more commercial areas, debating where to grab lunch. I was just passing a club, its black walls splattered with a dappling of neon paint, when my gaze caught on a bright yellow piece of paper tacked beside its door. My feet froze in place.

  The curved X I saw every time I looked in the mirror stared back at me from the flyer.

  I eased closer, so I could read the words that were printed around the Burnout mark.

  Burnout? Dampered? Want to do more? Meet us in Newark.

  The message was followed by a time and a date—this Friday—and an address.

  My pulse thudded faster as I pulled out my phone to snap a picture of the flyer. It could be simply a support group or the like, but the vagueness of the message left room for possibility. I made myself walk on, but the words kept worming through my head. Suddenly my step had a little more spring than had been there before.

  Want to do more? By Jove, yes, I did.

  Chapter Five

  Rocío

  The ballistic vest weighed down my chest as I strapped it over my shirt. I adjusted my sunburst necklace against my skin so the charm’s points didn’t pinch me. The equipment guy had told us that standard vests were heavier. Ours were ’chanted to reduce the need for padding—and to ward off conjured projectiles as well as bullets.

  I pulled on the similarly ’chanted hoodie next, leaving the hood down for now, and zipped it over the vest. Prisha tapped her foot against the floor as she sat on the edge of her bed, across from mine.

  “First real mission,” she said. “Very exciting.” Her voice had more trepidation in it than anything else.

  “Yeah,” I said, with similar feeling. “At least it shouldn’t be anything too intense.”

  “Let’s hope Hamlin knows what he’s talking about,” Prisha said. Her first field mission was scheduled for tomorrow night.

  I took one last look around the dorm room we shared, trying to avoid the thought that I might not see it again. We’d only arrived at our assigned base in Estonia three days ago, but this space felt a lot more like a home than the sparse four-bed setup we’d had during basic training. The beds came with actual wooden frames and comforters that were more cozy than lumpy. We each had a matching bedside table with a lamp that gave off a warm amber light.

  My skeptical side wondered if the special ops officials kept the accommodations unappealing during training so that we’d have to appreciate our new quarters when we got here.

  The whole base, or at least the part of it we’d had access to so far, had a similar vibe. Like an oversized ski chalet, I’d thought when I first walked through—based on seeing ski chalets in movies and stuff, not ever having actually been to one. The broad hall I walked down to reach the briefing room had wood-paneled walls that gave off a piney scent. Dense maroon carpeting absorbed my footsteps. Light glowed from sconces beneath the ceiling beams.

  The only thing it lacked were windows. Windows were hard to defend.

  My gaze snagged on the phone alcove as I passed it. In a few more days we newbie operatives would be allowed our first call home. I didn’t know which I felt more—eagerness to hear Mom and Dad’s voices again, or dread at the thought of trying to figure out what to say to them. Most of what I’d been up to in the last month I couldn’t say.

  “Hey.” Desmond caught up with me, dressed in the same uniform. He and Leonie had been sent here too, while the other two Champions had been assigned to a base in Syria. I doubted any of us had been sorry to see them go—which was probably why Hamlin had suggested the split.

  It must have been obvious where I’d been looking, even to Desmond’s limited eyesight. “At least they’ll let us reach out every now and then,” he said.

  “Because they know that people back home would go bonkers if they stopped hearing from us completely,” I said.

  “‘Tell no one where we’ve gone until we’ve returned,’” Desmond said in his quoting tone, with a pained smile. Then he added, more casually, “Are you going to talk to Finn?”

  The question made my throat tighten. Finn and I hadn’t exactly announced our relationship during the Exam, but it mustn’t have been too hard for the others to notice. “I can’t,” I said. “I don’t have his phone number.”

  Not that I hadn’t thought about trying to find it out. But would it be a good idea to talk to him over the base’s phone line anyway? I didn’t know what the examiners had made of whatever closeness they’d witnessed during the Exam. The Confed might not like the idea of one of their golden boys, Burnout or not, continuing to associate with a street-magic girl they’d once considered a threat… and maybe still did.

  He had to be struggling enough right now without me bringing more scrutiny down on him. I’d have my leave in another few weeks, and then I could see him in person.

  My heart leapt at that thought, as if it could spring across time straight to the moment when I could look Finn in the eyes again.

  “That sucks,” Desmond said. “The not knowing what’s going on back there is killer, isn’t it? Heck, even the TV shows I’m missing…” He elbowed me gently. “Kidding, kidding. Obviously not the same deal.”

  “I guess it could be worse,” I said. “He could be here.” About to set off on a mission to fight violent militants who reveled in illegal magic.

  Desmond’s sympathetic grimace confirmed what I’d thought I’d seen developing between him and Leonie over the last few weeks. “Yeah. That sucks too. I’ve wondered what’s worse—knowing someone you care about is in horrible danger, but at least you know—versus having no real clue what they’re going through. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d prefer neither.”

  A hollow chuckle tumbled out of me. “Too bad they didn’t give us that option.”

  “At least it sounds like they’ve got an actual job for me,” Desmond said as we reached the briefing room. “No way did I want to be stuck in some little room like an invalid while the rest of you were off putting your necks on the line.”

  The briefing room held a long oak desk and two rows of wooden chairs. I couldn’t help checking the poster on the wall as I slipped by it. The green column listed attacks thwarted; the red, the ones our unit had failed to stop. Right now, the green column was a smidge longer. We’re never going to catch every plot, Hamlin had said when he’d pointed the poster out to us, but if we can keep the balance on that side, we’re doing all right.

  Hamlin w
as standing behind the desk now, with the base’s head, Commander Revett, at his right, and the Estonian government official who acted as our consultant, Mr. Ilves, at his left. Four other figures sat in the rows of chairs. I recognized three of them from earlier introductions: Samak Rojanwan, one of the mission leaders, who’d said straight off with a flash of a smile, “Call me Sam”; Tonya Sekibo, a senior operative with wary eyes who specialized in monitoring; and a junior operative with a perpetually clenched jaw who’d only offered his name as “Brandt.” The young woman sitting off to the side I guessed was this mission’s translator.

  “Right on time,” Hamlin said with his usual clap for attention as Desmond and I sat down. “Let’s get started. This should be a relatively tame night—we don’t want to throw Powell and Lopez into the deep end on their first time out. We’ve received a bit of intel via the official channels.” He glanced at Ilves.

  The Estonian consultant stepped up to the desk, his narrow jaw working for a second while he gathered his words. He hadn’t looked very comfortable when I’d first met him yesterday, and he didn’t now either. I’d gathered the Estonian government was still iffy about the idea of employing mages at all—they didn’t have their own magical military branch. Whether they’d called for our help to fill that gap or because our government had bullied them into it, I wasn’t totally sure.

  Ilves pointed to a map on the large computer monitor atop the desk. “Reports have come in from locals in this town near the border, where there’s a significant Russian population,” he said in his thinly accented voice. “Two men we believe were involved in the recent train bombing by the Borci have been seen coming and going from a particular house multiple times over the last few months, most recently five days ago.”