by Myke Cole
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.
CHAPTER VI
YOU RAN
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.
CHAPTER VII
GONE TO GROUND
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 towa
rd 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.
