Feeling a little warm, I returned my eyes to my pan-mush. I’d never seen Jules in jeans and a t-shirt before. Heck, I’d never seen Jules in anything that couldn’t be featured next to dowdy in the dictionary. But minus the furrowed brow, Jules was looking rather like a hottie this morning. This confused me greatly.
Oblivious, Jules pushed a handful of curls behind her ear, huffed once, and plopped down across from me. As I worked through my pan-mush, I couldn’t help but notice her oatmeal remained untouched. Jules was hiding behind a copy of The Daily Manangler, but her eyes kept darting over the top of it. I was about to point out that crushing a newspaper with your fists didn’t enhance its readability when I caught the headline splashed across the front. It read: “ATTACKED!!!”
I put down my fork.
Below the giant headline was a photo labeled: “Initiate Dieter Resnick of Nevada carries Emissary Rei Acerba Bathory of Cahokia away from the carnage of Elliot’s faculty lodge”. Rei’s head was slumped over my shoulder. She looked like she’d been through a bad night at the disco. My robe and jeans were covered in blood-puke. I wasn’t sure if I was smiling or wincing (maybe both), but I certainly didn’t look charming. I frowned. Did I always squint like that with my left eye? And, man, I really needed a haircut… The Daily Manangler was really salting my pancakes.
Jules let out an audible sigh.
I rolled my eyes.
“Look, I’m terribly sorry your photo didn’t make it above the fold, but I had nothing to do with that.”
Jules crumpled up the newspaper and tossed it behind her. Then she thought better of it, picked it up, and put it in the recycling bin. She plopped back down and frowned. “Like I care about shite like that, ya focker.” She stabbed her oatmeal. The spoon near chipped the bowl.
I slid my break-feast to the side and exchanged it for my cup of coffee. I leaned forward on my elbows—and winced. I shifted to just my left elbow and cupped my cheek—and winced. I settled on modified cowboy posture, left elbow forward, right hand on cup. “Well, miss, then what’s troublin’ your cute little breeches?”
Jules continued to impale her oatmeal.
Time passed. Painfully.
“Where were ya last night?” she asked at last.
“In the woods…mostly.”
Jules raised her green eyes from her savaged oats. Her spectacles stayed low. I swallowed. She was acting like the time I accidentally torched her textbooks. She’d threatened me with eternal warts.
“Mostly, ya say?”
Shit. I shuffled in my seat. You couldn’t straight up lie to a high-caliber witch. You had to be creative.
“Well as you know, I went for a walk to clear my head. I headed up toward Mt. Sleeping Giant. Then I sorta got lost. Fortunately, Rei ran smack into me, and—”
Jules delivered a vicious thrust that shook bowl and table. “In the middle of the woods?” she exclaimed. “Rei Acerba ran into ya in the middle of the woods?”
The breakfast crowd quieted.
I looked around. Every last pair of eyes were on us. (We go to a school in the sticks; gossip is life.) I laughed nervously. It goes without saying that pissing off a high-caliber witch is also unwise—and Jules was a neutron bomb caliber witch. “Um, yea, funny thing, that. Anyway, it started to rain, and I sorta got soaked, and since her place was close, I swung over to Rei’s to dry my—”
Jules leaned forward and pounced. “Central Hall is closer.”
“Oh. Oh, yea,” I said, scrambling. “I guess you’re right. But Rei’s cabin has a fireplace.”
Jules’ cheeks went ruby-red. “So-so-what, ya two just laid down and warmed up in front of a fireplace?”
“Nice!” Roger from Iota shouted from halfway across the cafeteria. I noticed a hastily drawn chalk circle on Iota’s table. An eavesdropping spell. Wonderful. Roger gave me two thumbs up. Susan Collins smacked him in the back of the head—but didn’t erase the circle.
“Dieter,” Jules roared. “This has ta stop. This has ta stop, it does! I am not gonna spend my time training’ ya if ya…if ya…” Jules scowled. “Awen’s Ghost, Dieter. She’s a vampire.”
“She’s my friend first.” I leaned forward and frowned at Jules. “And judging people by their race is beneath the Jules I know.”
Jules leaned back with a huff.
I bit my tongue. That sort of bigoted anti-Nostophoros comment usually set me off. I’d handled it much better this time. Pleased with myself, I took a sip of coffee.
Jules frowned and looked deep into her oatmeal.
“Dieter?” she asked quietly. “You two didn’t…”
I sprayed coffee all over the table.
“Stars above, no!” I said gasping. “Crikeys, Jules!”
A collective sigh of disappointment rose from the girls sitting at the table next to us.
I shot them an angry glare, and they rediscovered their pastries.
“Oh,” Jules said, fumbling with her spoon. “Oh.” She took off her spectacles and polished them on her shirt. The green t-shirt must have been another loaner from Sadie. It was one size too small. “Well, we better get goin’. It be almost twelve.”
“Huh?” I asked dreamily.
“Training, Dieter.”
I checked my watch. “Oh, right.” We needed to hustle. Albright wanted us back for training at noon. Returning our trays, we headed over to Central’s basement.
“Dieter…one last question. What happened to yer face?”
I felt the spot right above my gut where I’d nearly been impaled.
“I slipped in the rain.”
“Awen’s Ghost, Dieter. Please be a more careful. I’m not putting’ all this time in ta training’ a pupil only to have him…”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, boss. It won’t happen again.” And I meant it.
+
Jules ran down the stairs like a speeding bullet. She wasn’t one to be tardy. I hobbled behind her, pain shooting through my shoulder with every step.
“Curse you, Irish!” I roared.
She giggled.
“Hurry up, Yank!” she shouted back at me.
I rubbed my stubble sagely. Jules’ mood had certainly improved. But girls are funny that way. One moment they’re angry, the next moment they’re bubbly. The female beast is a fickle one. It’s best to approach them carefully bearing plenty of snacks…preferably chocolaty ones.
We reached the bottom of the stairwell panting and hustled through the heavy double doors. The rest of Lambda was already robed up and ready to go. Jules tossed me a bottle of pills. I popped two of the ibuprofen and kept the rest for later. As I limped over to the rest of Lambda, a heavily accented voice boomed from across the room.
“I love this one. He beats himself up ahead of time.”
Gastone Spinoza? I raised an eyebrow. Clipboard in hand, the short knot of a man paced over to us. The alguacil had exchanged his black fatigues for a thick leather coat, flannel shirt, and heavy brown riding boots. He tapped his pencil against his clipboard and let loose a labored sigh.
“So this is Lambda Squad. Norté America’s finest, no?”
He paced off toward the center of the massive room, his leather coat flapping about behind him. Reaching the center of one of the padded circles, he gifted us with an unpleasant smile.
“Welcome to hell, kiddies.”
“Fucking hunters,” Monique grumbled.
“Seriously,” Sadie said with a nod. “These ICE bastards can suck my—”
“Yo, Mr. Alguacil,” Roster asked. “What’s the deal? What are you doing here?”
“Teaching, of course. But I am off duty, so today, Alguacil Spinoza I am not. Today, I am but a lowly, private contractor. You may call me Uncle Gastone. Now form about me, children, ten meters off, half-circle formation, your capitán at center.”
We arranged ourselves around Monique. She crossed her arms and frowned. She looked none to pleased to deal with Spinoza. What she had against the alguacil, I had
no idea.
“Now pollitos, I teach you to survive.” He glanced at his clipboard. “Ms. Rice, yes? You are the capitán?”
She nodded.
“Bueno. Capitán Rice, let’s pretend I am a bad man. Let’s pretend I have killed many peoples.” He smiled. “That shouldn’t be so hard, no? Order a subordinate to attack and subdue me.”
Monique stiffened. “Sir?”
“Cluck-cluck-cluck, Capitán Rice. I teach you to survive. Time to survive. I am a threat. Crush the threat.”
“Then I’ll do it my—”
“No. No. No,” Spinoza tisked. “Capitán Pollitos, the brain does the thinking, the fists do the fighting. Choose a subordinate.”
Monique’s eyes darted around. Sweat beaded on her brow. I wondered what the deal was. This was just training. Why was Monique so worried? Her jaw tensed and she looked down at the floor.
“Sheila, go,” she ordered.
Sheila didn’t seem bothered. “Full contact?” she asked Spinoza.
“Of course. We fight to incapacitate. You must call your offensive shots, but there are no other rules. Everyone else, get the hell out of our circle.”
I backed up. This was a first. I’d never seen a duel before. Jules never let me go watch the sparing sessions. (Said it would give me bad ideas.) Sure, I’d read up on the dueling tradition, but books can’t really capture this sort of thing. I knew that distance mattered. Classic mages liked to cast from far away. It gave them the time they needed to focus. A minority preferred close contact casting. Those mages were called cataphracts. Still others used exotic techniques like fortifications and golems. There was one constant, though: all the books agreed that casting speed was paramount. If you were too slow on your casts, you were toast before you started.
Spinoza and Sheila stood ten meters apart on the naked cement. Spinoza held his clipboard in his left hand and slid his pencil behind his ear. He paced laterally as Sheila began a chain of rapid fortifications. I recognized the anti-kinetic charm she placed on her robe, but the rest of her series went too fast for me to track. I swallowed. If I were fighting Sheila, that wouldn’t be good. You need to read your opponents casts to counter them.
“Don’t mind the mages, Dieter,” Jules said quietly. “Mind the mana.”
I nodded. Jules was right. I had an asset I wasn’t using. I primed my Sight and observed their auras. In a blur, Sheila was off. Not as fast as Rei, but quick enough to leave my eyes in the dust. One of the casts must have been for a spell called Burst. It enhanced your speed but cost you some agility. Sheila moved diagonal to Spinoza forcing him to exert effort and pivot. I watched as the air around Sheila’s hands compressed. With a jolt, she shifted, cutting towards him with a second Burst, and called out, “Vento!” My ears popped as the air rushed forward. Sheila thrust both her palms forward. The motion unleashed a surge of wind at Spinoza’s core.
The alguacil shifted one foot back and extended his clipboard edge first. “Cortada,” he called, and the incoming gust split in two. With his free hand, Spinoza grasped onto his flapping coat. In the midst of the gale, he called out, “Ocultada,” and shifted his feet wide. My eyes locked onto Spinoza’s fluttering coat. How could he cast anything while he was holding onto it? Was he going to fortify it or something? I frowned. I’d lost sight of his aura too. It was almost as though he’d…
“Dodge!” I screamed, but it was far too late. The coat was already fluttering to the ground. A voice announced, “Martillo,” from high above. A dummy! I flinched upwards to see Spinoza, foot extended, completing his flip. He brought the heel of his boot down on top of Sheila’s left tennis shoe. Bones crunched. Sheila yelped as Spinoza followed through with a sweeping kick to her uninjured right ankle.
Her balance shattered, Sheila toppled.
Spinoza shifted upward, palmed Sheila’s head, and accelerated her fall.
Roster let out a gasp as Sheila’s head met the padded cement.
My jaw dropped. Sheila’s head…bounced.
“Jesus Christ!” Sadie screamed. “What the fuck!”
Sheila twitched once and went still. Unaffected, Spinoza walked over and picked up his jacket. The long garment’s interior was lined with a silvery mesh. Chainmail, I realized. Redoing the top two buttons, he turned in the direction of the double doors and whistled. Two men in DEA sweats came jogging over with a stretcher.
“Be sure to check for a hematoma, yes?” Spinoza said to the men.
The two of them carried her away.
“What the hell was that?” Monique roared. Her hands trembled as she spoke.
“That, Capitán Rice, was a failure. What have we learned, pollitos?”
No one answered. We all were looking at Monique.
Spinoza shrugged his shoulders. “I tell you then: 1) attacks must always be faster than counters, 2) you mustn’t become distracted from your objective, 3) you can never assume your fortifications are sufficient, and 4) for the love of the Padre, pollitos, stay on your feet! Next choice, capitán.”
“This is insane,” Monique stuttered. “This is insane.”
“And life is not?” Spinoza asked.
“I’ll go,” Roster said, striding forward.
“Good man. Come as you wish.”
Roster called, “Burst!” and shot forward.
I blinked. His body flashed from stride to stride like a series of still images. He covered twice the distance that he should have. Each step was like a shotgun blast. At half the distance, Roster shifted low, called, “Amass!” and a molten metal coating enveloped both of his hands. Two steps from his target, Roster pivoted to strike.
“Wow,” I whispered to Jules. I’d no idea Roster was so strong.
Jules shook her head. “Too linear.”
Spinoza stood at the ready. His eyes were focused on Roster’s fists. Extending one hand, Spinoza repeated Roster’s cast. “Amass.”
Roster’s momentum shifted. He stumbled forward.
“What’s the…?” I asked.
“Nothin’ is easier than amplifying a cast,” Jules explained. “He shoulda waited till he was closer.”
“Oh.” Spinoza had simply doubled the weight of the metal. He’d turned Roster’s weapons into a pair of shackles. The Alguacil strode over to Roster as the big man struggled to stand back up.
“Martillo,” he announced.
Monique screamed as Spinoza brought the point of his elbow down on Roster’s shoulder blade.
Another sharp crack sounded, and Roster grunted in muffled anguish.
“My God!” Spinoza said picking up his clipboard. “No wonder you lose this silly war.” He leaned over Roster who was writhing on the ground. “Idiot boy. If you can cast with nothing but your hands, do not cast a spell that confines your hands.” He smacked Roster on the back of his head and turned to Monique. “And you. Do you know anything of tactics?”
Monique was in tears. She covered her mouth as Roster curled up in pain.
Spinoza slammed his clipboard on the ground. “Do you?” he shouted.
“Yes,” Monique managed.
“Then why did you send cataphracts to do the work of artillerymen?”
Monique looked at Spinoza in confusion.
“What am I?” he asked.
“A…a hunter.”
“And?”
“I…” Monique wiped the tears from her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I’d never seen Monique act this way before. Even after Lucas’ death, she’d been like a rock. Now her entire body was shaking. Spinoza didn’t sympathize. He was going red with fury instead.
“Ichijo Fukimura,” he shouted. “For the love of the Padre, demonstrate proper form.”
Fukimura was sitting quietly off to the side. “Hai.” The waif-like exchange student had a way of fading into the background. He rose, bowed, and walked toward Spinoza. He bowed again. And again. And—
“Enough,” Spinoza ordered. “Begin.”
“Bounce,” Fukimura call
ed. With a rush, he catapulted twenty feet into the air flipping backwards. On his descent he called out, “Mato,” and flicked his right hand at Spinoza.
“Burst!” Spinoza shouted, shifting into a dead sprint. “Burst, burst, burst!”
In mid-air, Fukimura extended one hand, fingers up. “Wana,” he called.
Spinoza flinched at the word but kept on chugging forward.
Fukimura landed gingerly, still tracking Spinoza’s dash with his half-clenched hand. He closed his eyes and flicked his wrist downward. “Teiryuu,” he announced.
Apparently unaffected by the cast, Spinoza continued running—and then smacked into nothing. He bounced backwards as if he had struck a springy wall. Rubbing his nose, he smiled, crossed his arms, and plopped down on his ass. “Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire, Mr. Fukimura. You’ve gotten faster.” He turned to Lambda’s captain. “Now do you see Ms. Rice?”
His hand still extended, Fukimura tilted his head. “With respect, Mr. Spinoza, I must keep you in there until you reverse that.”
Spinoza’s smile broadened. He waved his hand and multiple invisible compressions of matter appeared before him. I looked on in amazement. Spinoza had somehow prepped a batch of projectiles without me even noticing. With another flick of his hand he dissolved them into nothingness.
“Hey, Spinoza, that’s cheap,” yelled Sadie. “You didn’t call that attack.”
“No, Sadie,” Fukimura replied. “He called Burst many times. Burst is a word with many meanings. It can mean to increase speed, yes? But in older English it meant to barrage an opponent with a weapon.”
“Now if we could get on with things…” Spinoza interjected. He was still sitting Indian style on the floor.
“Hai.” Fukimura waved his hand and released Spinoza from confinement.
Spinoza waved his hand as well. Fukimura’s head snapped backwards, firecracker shards dancing this way and that. He’d been hiding another primed spell. Within a flutter of robes, Fukimura collapsed to the ground. Spinoza stood, shaking his head in disappointment. “Fukimura, I said fight to incapacitate. In combat, this has only one meaning.”
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