by Tash McAdam
“Aw, hell. If I’d known I’d get a sweet leather jacket, I’da come out Serpent hunting weeks ago.”
I hand my gun to Ruble, stock first, and then haul my tee over my head, making the young kid, Paulie, gasp. Unable to hide my smirk, I yank on the combat shirt, buttoning it at high speed. He’s flushing bright red with his eyes squeezed shut, and I roll mine.
“Imminent death, I didn’t think we had time to find a changing room.”
Louise scowls at me, jaw clenched. “Start taking this serious, newbie, or we’ll leave you in the van. Breaches be damned. You could die out there, and if you mess up, someone else will die.”
I get that it’s serious business, but you obviously do not get my sense of humour. That’s cool. Remind me to never invite you to a tea party.
I put on my most reliable face, furrowing my admittedly heavy brows, and thread my holster over my arm, clipping it shut as professionally as I’m able. I only fumble once, and don’t shoot anyone, so decide to count it as a win.
“Sorry. I react to abject terror with inappropriate nudity and jokes. It’s something I’m working on with my therapist.”
Louise doesn’t appear to catch the sarcasm, and nods briefly, but Ruble chuckles under his breath and when I glance at him, he’s got a smile tucked into the corners of his full mouth.
I’ve just finished settling my holster in place over my leather jacket when the van squeals to a halt, making me slam into the male warlock, who steadies me with one hand, not even looking as his mouth continues to move in rhythmic chants. No one else skidded at all.
Stupid low centre of gravity. How come I didn’t get any of the cool powers that stop you making an idiot of yourself?
I keep out of the way as the warriors efficiently gather up their equipment and bundle out of the van, following Ruble, who is hefting a clanking bag. The warlocks seem to be staying behind—for now, at least.
THE VAN IS PARKED DOWN from Waterloo Bridge, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben gleaming in the distance. Louise, Ruble, and the other warriors of Bravo Sierra book it at a speed that would leave Usain Bolt in the dust toward one of the major wharfs, where ferries pull in. I race after them, deciding after one hundred metres that I’m definitely going to start going to the gym every day. Or at least three times a week. Okay, twice. I make a mental note to inform Cam of this decision so the big warrior can haul me out of bed.
It’s eerily quiet around us, the streets not crowded for once, the usually bustling bank completely devoid of traffic and foot passengers. I shiver, impressed by the power the Protectorate wields, that they’re able to clear one of the busiest parts of London in less than forty minutes. When I make it, panting, to the team, they’re clipped into impressive combat jackets and even the warlocks have somehow beaten me to the group.
Why don’t I get one of those sweet rigs? One look at the multiple carabiners and weird zips allows me to answer my own question: Because I have no idea what any of that does.
Below us, the water is frothing and foaming, huge shapes milkily visible beneath unnatural waves. A sinuous flank twists clear of the surface of the river, liquid gushing off it like a waterfall, and I move closer to the team.
The Irish-looking guy, Barry, is gazing out over the water, frowning. “Shit, guaranteed some wannabe journalist has snapped a few pictures. I’m gonna be up all night rejigging memories after we deal with the wrigglers.”
The rest of the team looks organized, standing close behind each other in pairs. Apparently in my absence they’ve gone over some sort of plan. Louise is with the female warlock, Paulie is behind Barry, Milly and Danika make a third team, and Ruble is impatiently gesturing for me to stand behind him.
Oh, they’re all standing on something.
I hurry to my place, inspecting the shiny, oval object under my partner’s feet as I approach. It’s about three feet long, two wide, and maybe a couple of inches thick. Whatever it’s made from is translucent, so that I can see colourful swirls of magic dancing inside the layers of what could be glass. The surface is heavily crosshatched, presumably for our feet to grip.
Oh, brilliant, a tea tray. That looks safe. And we’re going boarding on them? In pairs?
“Grab on.” Ruble’s voice is pumped with adrenaline, and he reaches back, taking my hand and wrapping it round his narrow waist. I cling on, harder than is probably necessary, and move forward until he’s basically sitting on my lap, our feet only inches apart as we stand—surfer style—with our left sides facing the river.
“What’s happ—” A whooshing sound drowns me out, accompanied by a weird pearlescent light shooting from the edges of the tea-tray device. I jump, and almost fall right into it, but Ruble steadies me.
“It’s a skimmer. You’ve never used one before?”
I shake my head mutely, reaching out with my free hand to touch the glowing surface that now surrounds us like an iridescent bubble. Sparks of colour matching the rainbow below our feet glint in the air around us, marking the curved shape of the magic enclosing us. At least six different colours, meaning six warlocks must have teamed up to make this ‘skimmer.’ Every warlock gets their own distinctive shade, so you can usually tell who’s done what, but I don’t recognize any of the colours here. Too old, maybe—before my time.
Ruble drags my attention back to him with an exclamation. “Crikey, how long have you been on campus? Shit. Okay. Well...”
The team next to us glides to the edge of the wharf and drops into the water, the weight of the girls plunging the whole apparatus under. I flinch in shock, and Ruble pats my hand. The gleaming container pops to the surface as I watch, just metres from our feet, and slides off over the water, leaning forward. Like a Segway—a floating, water-riding Segway made of magic.
In it, Louise is wielding the fierce-looking gun she’d been assembling in the van, while her partner crouches in front of her, one hand pressed against the inside of the bubble. A viciously serrated tail punctures the water surface next to them, but they’re already spinning out of the way, as if they’d seen it coming. Louise fires, the sound muffled by distance, and gleaming purple blood flowers on the chalky tail, which splashes back into the water, raising a huge wave that almost capsizes the team.
I realize I’m pressed extremely tightly against Ruble’s back, and that he’s been talking for the past few minutes, and groan under my breath. Can’t you listen to one thing, Hallie, ever?
“Are you ready?” His voice is thrumming with excitement.
No, no, I didn’t hear a word you just said, and I have no idea what you need from me or what I’m doing.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.” I’m pleased with how cool I sound. Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump, and I squeeze Ruble’s waist even as he somehow starts sliding us forward. We’re almost at the drop before I jab him.
“Just a tick,” I mumble.
We stop and he twitches impatiently, tapping his fingers against the back of my hand. I fish my phone out and look at the screen. Cam. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. If you die I’ll kick your ass. And I will post all your terrible Buffy fanfiction online for everyone to see. With pictures of that Halloween party!’
I grin—shaky, but feeling more normal. Shoving my phone deep into my pocket, I look out at the turbulent waters. I’m pretty sure I can see Cam’s six-foot figure in a bubble zipping along a few hundred metres downstream. Obviously she managed to text and skim at the same time. Warriors get all the perks.
I cross my fingers, hoping we’ll both get out of this unscathed. “All right. Let’s go fishing.”
Ruble snorts and we slide again; he’s pushing against the front of the bubble with the palm of his left hand, like Louise’s partner.
“Remember, this only keeps water out. Not the snakes. And not you in—if your feet leave the board, you’ll go through the side, or maybe the top. Squat down a bit and hold on. If you get a shot at one of them, take it! The bullets are spelled to cut through their scales, so they
’ll feel it for sure!”
He whoops then, and we drop off the pier, leaving my stomach behind with the orange emergency equipment.
Is it too late to ask for a life jacket?
AND JUST LIKE THAT, WE’RE plunging under water, bubbles streaming past and obscuring all vision. I squawk in surprise, digging my fingers into Ruble’s muscled stomach. We go down what must be a couple of metres before buoyancy asserts itself and we reverse, popping back to the surface like a cork, the solid board beneath my feet pushing up so fast we end in a squat, my thigh muscles screaming with the effort of balancing. I’m grateful for Ruble’s strong grip on my forearm. He feels like iron, firm and in perfect balance even though his butt is pressed against my lap from the rapid ascent. I don’t mind; I feel safer just from the contact, the adrenaline starting to bubble through my veins making my heart sing.
Ruble crows again and leans forward, pressing his hand harder against the front of the skimmer, the muscle in his forearm tensing. Suddenly we’re zooming off over the water and I join in, yelling with the sheer joy of the movement. It’s like a rollercoaster—surfing on a rollercoaster.
See, Dad, I knew skateboarding was gonna be useful for something.
I keep myself in balance, shifting my weight automatically, years of practice coming in handy. Underfoot, through the ethereal layer of magic and technology that’s keeping us afloat, I can see Serpents. Two of them—one large, one small—are writhing deep in the water, coming up toward us. I open my mouth to shout a warning, but Ruble is already spinning us away from the approaching sea demons.
Then Paulie’s team swoops in, a huge war bow in the boy’s small hands, fierce glee painting his face with exultation. He hollers something and launches an arrow, which punches through the side of his bubble with no ill effects. The missile sinks deep into a Serpent’s flank in a blossom of cloudy blood, and the monster twists away from me and my companion.
Ruble skids us sideways, London riverbank streaming past. We’re going at a decent clip, halfway out over the river, when my hands start to glow.
“Here, Ruble!” I squeak out. The smoky ghost light emanating from my hands is drifting left, left and down, calling me to the breach below. The insubstantial outlines of the new tattoos that will become a permanent part of my body art, whether I like it or not, are tingling as they form on my wrists. It looks as though someone has drawn on me in watercolour; they’re faint now, but will soon be dark and immutable.
The key to this watery dimension, written on flesh. My future holds many more, and they’ll march up my arms in an increasing procession as I close breach after breach.
Yet another reason why I will never get a job in a bank. I shake the thought away, as distractions now could get me killed, and squeeze Ruble’s waist.
“Left! Left and below us. Close.” The light is flowing now, stronger, showing me the way. Ruble looks over his shoulder as he turns the vessel, his dark eyes alight with excitement, and we skim to a halt, floating calmly for a moment. He grins at me, and then quickly scans the water.
“Ready to go under?”
Do we get scuba gear?
I twist my glowing fist into his combat jacket and shut my eyes. “Sure thing. Just ... one question. How do I close the breach under water?”
He crows laughter, eyes crinkling as he makes a downward motion on the bubble in front of him. Looking closer, I can see that his hand is over a circular area that appears thicker, about twice the size of his palm. It spreads out into the skimmer wall, like the heavy end of a glass fishing float.
“You really never listen to anything, do ya? Works the same, just wetter.”
I furrow my eyebrows at him, and then sigh, letting it go. I’d probably argue that point if we weren’t about to get eaten.
Suddenly the water laps up around the base of our bubble, moving up the sides, pressing against it. I feel like I’m in a translucent plastic submarine, but before I can protest we sink, the Thames closing over our heads, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s a good job I’m not particularly scared of water. My white-knuckled grip on Ruble’s clothes can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t make any effort to loosen it.
Under the surface, it’s dark almost immediately, the sky seeming far away and glassy above us. We’re moving quickly, and a rush of water spins us a little, but Ruble fights to keep us on course, dragging his hand left, right, up, and down in patterns so fast I can barely follow them. I feel his muscles clench as he forces the board to obey his feet. He’s alternating between looking down, following the mist emanating from my hand at his waistband, and scanning our surroundings. The Warplight illuminates the water around us, like a searchlight, the calling of the breach marking our path to the rip in reality.
I can just make out the huge forms of Sea Serpents undulating in the murky distance. They don’t seem to have noticed us yet but my hands are streaming Warplight, guiding us to the rift that has allowed these beasts entry from their home world, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep our presence a secret. I want to speak, to fill the oppressive silence the weight of the water has caused, but my mouth is dry and sticky with fear. A condom is drifting next to us, resembling a translucent jellyfish. Gross.
Well, this is certainly an adventure. Join the Protectorate, they said. See the world, they said. Drown at the bottom of the disgusting Thames, they didn’t say. At least needles don’t float. I wonder if mystical healing works on hepatitis.
“There!” Ruble hisses, his dreadlocks brushing my cheek as he turns, spinning the board around with his feet. It spirals so rapidly I lose my balance, just a bit. My right elbow hits the bubble and ... passes straight through, resistance no more than the surface of the water itself. It feels like I’ve submerged it into a cold bath.
Gasping, I jerk back. My wet elbow drips water onto my feet, the liquid pooling on the solid board below and sloshing around my boots. It doesn’t run over the sides, though; the barrier seems to stop water in both directions, but let it in if it’s attached to me? Magic.
I take a huge breath, suddenly nauseous, and tilt my head back in the hopes it will stop the heaving of my guts. Maybe six feet above us, the surface is an extremely faint source of illumination. Terror presses in on me, and I wrap my other arm round Ruble’s waist, hiding my face in his leather-clad back. He smells like cinnamon and fresh sweat. I inhale deeply.
“Just gimme a second.” My voice is muffled against his jacket, hands knotted together in the fabric of his shirt. My right hand presses against the warm skin of his belly, and it’s this that settles me. So human, yet so strong.
Anywhere but here, hey? Why the hell did I sign up for this? Oh right, I didn’t. Military school isn’t sounding so bad right now.
I manage to lift my face out of his spine, but it’s extremely difficult.
Then we’re gliding toward the breach that lit my hands. The glowing is turned up as high as it goes, now, whitish blue misting out from my wrists, writhing over my palms, and trailing from my fingertips. It seems as though it should be filling the bubble, like dry ice, but it’s pulled outward instead. Ahead of us, the rift pulses, hanging dead in the water, the other side looking almost identical to this, the mundane water of the Thames.
But monsters are coming through this doorway, and it’s my job to close it. Like, now. I sniff, glaring at it. Its black rim sucks the light in, devouring the illumination. The double layer of magic—white inside, around the other dimension, and black framing it—gives me the usual heebie jeebies. There’s something wrong with the way it looks, like always. Unnatural. I think it’s to do with the slight movement of everything surrounding and inside it—the water in this case—compared to the absolute stillness of the opening itself.
This rift isn’t too big, thankfully, and it’s not currently disgorging anything gross or violent, which is a total plus in my book. I shudder and loosen my grip, allowing myself a quick pat of Ruble’s impressive six-pack for the road before I mostly let go of him.
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You gotta take your perks when saving the world.
He shuffles around so he’s braced behind me and yanks out a gun, checking it at high speed. I’m grateful for his strong arm when he hooks it around my waist, squatting back a little to give me space. He could lift me up with one hand; they all could, even little Paulie.
And all I get are the magic glowy hands. What a scam.
His grip is tight, but not painful, and I take the deepest breath I can, then reach out, my hands, then wrists and forearms sinking into the water. It’s cold, and I can’t help the shudder that runs through me, at least partially for the prospect of having my arms bitten off. They’re certainly sending up a beacon, the mystic light straining to meet the floating rip in reality. I reach further, and—just as I’ve done four times before, just as I’ve been taught in Warp classes—pull the edges of the void together so they seal, leaving nothing to show for it.
Door shut. Magic hands. The light sputters out, leaving us in almost pitch blackness.
Ruble pats my hip and then our vessel starts sliding upward, back to the surface, back to reality. It’s a total anti-climax. No snake even came near us. The only negative is that I’m soaked to the elbows in the notoriously dirty water of the London river.
We emerge into the daylight, into the noise and shouting and madness of the fight that has been going on all the time we were under. How long were we down? It felt like years. There are three Serpent bodies floating on the surface, belly up, their milky pastel scales glinting in the watery sunlight. One of them is huge, with dozens of vicious wounds marring its flanks. It bobs against the ships pressed along the bank, easily the length of four barges. Ruble grins at me, dark eyes flashing with glee, and I suddenly realize that by choosing him as my guard, I’ve kept him out of the fight. As my chauffeur, he hopefully won’t get too much action. He still seems to be having a good time, though; warriors live for adrenaline rushes, as a rule. And he’s handsome now, with the fight rousing his blood. He’s made for war. I grin back, catching some of his excitement and sliding my hand back onto his stomach.
