The Forgotten
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His stomach turned when he thought back to all that had required. He’d made sure he hadn’t hurt Con or Sprout too badly, just enough to make it look like the Order had kicked the door in, fought, and then fled with Geek and himself. That still meant he hurt a little girl. That made him the kind of guy whose ass he’d kick, if given the chance. Then he thought of Wraith again. She was a sweet kid, and he genuinely felt for her, but it wasn’t any different than a kid with a bomb strapped to her. He did what he had to do to make sure an Order cell was destroyed. As One had said—How many kids wouldn’t be tortured and killed now? No, Collins didn’t have to like what he did, he just had to do it.
“I know that look,” One said. “I’ve seen it in the mirror a couple of times, but it looks especially bad on someone your age.”
Collins didn’t say anything, and he didn’t look at One.
“It wasn’t pretty,” One said. “Lives were lost, including a few good FBI agents—”
“What?”
One nodded. “The team that was sent into to investigate had the security clearance to know about us and our work,” One said. “The Order managed to get a mole on that team. She killed her partners.”
“What happened to her?” Collins asked.
“Her body turned up with a single tap to the head,” One said. “I can’t prove it, but I’m sure the faeries did it.”
“The Order are like roaches,” One said. “They get in everywhere. That means we have to use methods that don’t always sit well with our consciences. But that’s a good sign.”
“Sir?”
“It means you’re still a human being,” One said. “But you’re also a soldier. You don’t get the luxury of regret or guilt. That’s my job.”
Collins nodded.
“You should know that our surveillance of the Order stronghold reported back that all the captured kids got out, including that one from your group. What’s his name?”
“Dustin, sir,” Collins said. “Went by Geek. He was half troll.”
One shook his head. “This just gets more and more bizarre. Anyway, the point is, it looks like the only casualties were your double and that Order cell. Put a substantial dent in their operation too. Based on the body count, they’re going to need one hell of a recruitment drive to recoup those numbers, and that will take time.”
“And then?”
“Then we hit them again,” One said. “And again, and again, until they’re gone.”
“Will they ever be gone, sir? I mean, all of them?”
“Our job is to fight the enemy until there is no more enemy.” One handed Collins a cup of water with a straw. “Some good is getting done too. We’re having a lot of success undoing what they did to those mortal kids, removing the souls bound to them. I know it’s not much, but it’s something.”
Collins drank.
“I don’t know if this is a war I’ll ever see the end of,” One said and set the cup aside when Collins was done. “But it’s a war that needs fighting. Most of the country has no idea what’s going on around them— and don’t want to know, including some on Capitol Hill who fund this unit. We don’t feel it’s in our best interest to trust the security of our nation, and our species, to the faeries. We’ve advised the secretary of defense; both he and the president agree. As such, we’ve been given the green light to begin recruiting others.”
Collins nodded. One was right. This was a fight humanity needed to fight for itself, and he was glad that more were going to be given the chance to help. He turned to look at his CO, opened his mouth, then closed it and looked away.
“Speak freely, soldier,” One said. “You’ve earned that much at least.”
Collins swallowed. “What about, Wra—the asset, sir?”
One eyed him for a moment. “She was carried out by the lead elf, the regent. She was unconscious, but appeared alive with no obvious injuries. We have no report on her whereabouts or condition at this time. I’m not proud of the fact that we had to resort to manipulating a troubled child to eliminate this cell, but she was the only one with the power to pull it off.” One nodded at Collins. “You just rest and heal, son. Let me worry about her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two is taking care of you. You’ll have a few more scars when this is done, but he expects you to make a full recovery.” One pulled something out of his pocket and set it on Collins’s chest.
Collins reached to take it and realized for the first time that his arms and hands were covered in bandages. He ignored them and took up the patch. It was a Seal of Solomon: two overlapping triangles—the symbol that would eventually be known as the Star of David—within two circles, the space between which was filled with Syriac writing. And there was a “4” in the middle of the star. It was the Legion’s command-unit patch, and only worn by seven members: the most powerful wizards who made up “the circle.” Collins, as support, was technically just on loan from his unit and still normal Army.
“We lost a good man in this operation,” One said. “He’ll be missed, but the team is a man short now. You’ll be the youngest to ever join the circle, but I think you’re up to it. Interested?”
Collins nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
One smiled. “Okay, I’ll check in on you again soon.” One saluted. “At ease, Four. Welcome to the circle.”
“Thank you, sir.” Collins returned the salute, or as close as he could manage in his condition. When One left the room, Collins looked over the patch and smiled, as much as he could. He let out a breath and said a silent prayer and apology to his double. Collins hated that he hadn’t even known the kid’s real name.
Collins shook his head, set the patch on his chest, hit the button for more morphine, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He didn’t look himself over either. He didn’t want to see how bad off he was.
Of course, he didn’t want to see the look on Wraith’s face when she saw him getting his throat cut either, but he did. He probably would for a long time to come.
Before slipping off into a morphine-enhanced sleep, Collins heard voices outside his room.
“Were you able to get inside?” One asked.
“No, sir.” It was someone Collins didn’t recognize. “The house has wards on a level we’ve never seen before.”
“All our reports said he was a mediocre talent at best,” One said. “Is the intelligence bad?”
“I don’t know, but they did spot the observation team. It could be the faeries.”
“I don’t like how close he is with the faeries,” One said. “We may have to take a more direct approach and speak to the good Dr. Huntington directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Acknowledgments
I want to thank everyone who has supported and inspired me as this book has developed. I’ve learned that writing a book might be a solitary feat, but finishing a book is anything but. Thanks to the Knights for their constant support and encouragement: Kenda, Mike, Dustin, Kristin, Casey, and Geoff. To my friend Samn (I amn), thanks for the inspiration. To Ned and Ed, “SPOON!!!” Thanks to my mom and Neil for your support and for all the copies you’ve bought and given away. To Margaret, my agent, thanks for being such a great agent and sounding board. To my publicist, Caitlin, I really appreciate your enthusiasm and hard work. Thank you again to Rebecca, my editor, and everyone at HarperCollins (Caro, Jessie, Pam, and David) for your dedication and excitement with this book and for making me feel like a real author. To my HarperVoyager Impulse colleagues, I so appreciate having a support group. You all have been great through this. Last, but certainly not least, my deepest thanks and undying gratitude to the American Faerie Tale fans.
About the Author
BISHOP O’CONNELL is a consultant, writer, poet, blogger, and member of the New Hampshire Writer’s Project. Born in Naples, Italy, while his father
was stationed in Sardinia, Bishop grew up in San Diego, California, where he fell in love with the ocean and fish tacos. While wandering the country for work and school, he experienced autumn in New England. Soon after, he settled in Manchester, New Hampshire, where he collects swords and kilts. But he only dons one of these two in public. He can be found online at A Quiet Pint (http://aquietpint.com/), where he muses philosophical on the various aspects of writing and the road to getting published.
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By Bishop O’Connell
The Forgotten
The Stolen
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE FORGOTTEN. Copyright © 2015 by Bishop O’Connell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780062358783
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062358806
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