The commander, unlike the others dressed in a uniform of dark green, wore an officer’s outfit of black and blue. A stitched line marking his status as a commander—colored red, white, and black—gleamed in the rays of the moon as it hung over the collar bone of his tunic.
She met the first lieutenant across the gap of the second trench, her aim off thanks to her injury. Geist took a full breath to steady her rifle despite her shaking hands. The commander’s name, stitched in bright ivory above the breast pocket, caught Geist’s eye.
First Lieutenant Agustin Fechner.
But before she could pull the trigger, her mind flooded with a grating noise. Her eyes were bombarded with flashes of light that lingered as bright stains on her vision.
Fuck—this is his doing, she reasoned. What sorcery is this?
In her confusion, Geist missed the moment the commander leapt across the gap dividing them. He pulled a combat knife and slashed wide, clipping her forearm and drawing blood in one brutal swing.
Geist stumbled back. She needed to focus in order to become intangible. But the terrible noise in her head broke her concentration again and again. When the commander slashed again, he laughed, slicing through part of her ear and sending a long shiver of agony throughout Geist’s body. These cuts wouldn’t kill her quickly, but blood loss would finish her if she weren’t careful.
“Are all American men so small?” Fechner asked in German. “I’m disappointed.”
She met his excited gaze with her own steely stare. Adrenaline masked the pain from her injuries, like they had all bled away, leaving her whole.
The commander thrust his blade forward, but it flew through her cheek without making contact, her skin shimmering in defiance. He stepped back, a smile creeping across his face.
“Fascinating. Maybe you’ll make a good trophy after all.”
Bring your tricks. I’m ready.
The machine gun fire stopped, and the irregular crack of rifles sounded from the German defense lines. Geist heard the enemy enlisted men rally. They had returned to help their fellows, and when she chanced a glance, she spotted them hiding among supply boxes and ducking between trenches under cover of darkness.
Accosted with another round of lights and deafening sound, Geist stifled a shout and slid back over a pile of sandbags. Her back hit the dirt as her mind searched for focus. She needed something to hone her thoughts, and a memory wormed its way into her mind.
Prove me wrong! her father shouted. If you’re not worthless, prove me wrong!
She chewed her tongue and tasted copper.
First Lieutenant Fechner leapt over the sandbags, his uniform straining over his bulk. Geist scrambled to her feet and reloaded. The first lieutenant swung and she buried the end of her rifle barrel into his shoulder before firing. He grunted and fell back on his heels, his shoulder mangled and streaming blood.
Geist turned to run, but the first lieutenant lunged forward clumsily, slamming into her and sending them both to the ground. Her rifle slipped from her grasp. Geist couldn’t become incorporeal or fade fully into the dirt with Fechner on top of her. By grappling with her in the mud, the first lieutenant had limited the usefulness of her magic.
Fechner struck downwards, opening a gash across her face with jagged knuckles.
As Fechner readied a second swing, Geist jammed her thumb into the gaping hole of his wounded shoulder. He cried out as she torqued him to the side and mounted him, reversing their positions. She bashed her elbow down across his nose, and blood exploded onto his chin and uniform, breaking his concentration and causing his magic to fail.
A bullet clipped Geist’s sleeve. She jumped off the first lieutenant and took cover, her chest heaving.
“Auslöser das Grab-Hersteller Gas,” the Germans shouted from the far lines. “Auslöser das Grab-Hersteller Gas!”
It took Geist only moments to translate the words literally: Trigger the grave-maker gas!
“No…” the first lieutenant gurgled through a mouthful of blood. “No! Not now!”
Geist took in controlled breaths. Gas? She had heard of deadly gases used in the trenches but not yet in Verdun. What were the Germans planning?
She turned and spotted Wilhelm pressed against the side of the bunker, keeping out of enemy fire. His body glistened with sweat in the moonlight, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Geist didn’t know what ailed him, but she knew they needed to retreat before the gas hit.
She limped to his side and motioned toward No Man’s Land. “We’ve got… got to hurry.”
Wilhelm replied with a curt nod and a groan.
A loud explosion shook the ground, sending shivers down Geist’s spine. A shell landed in between the German trenches—between her and the other members of the Ethereal Squadron. Through the debris, she could see the German sorcerers fleeing, leaving Little Wick, Cutter, and Buttons in control of the line.
Fog poured from the shell. The gas, a cloud of sickly yellow and green, crept across the battlefield with an almost slither, seemingly attracted to life. It slipped into the trenches, washing over the German soldiers as well as Little Wick and Cutter. Buttons sat in the machine gun turret and covered his mouth with a handkerchief—one printed with the stripes of the United Kingdom’s noble flag.
First Lieutenant Fechner forced himself to stand. He waved his one good arm. “Fall back! Run! It never should’ve been released this close!”
The screams that followed came straight from Geist’s nightmares.
She watched from around the corner of the bunker, her whole body tense. The German men clambered over each other in their haste to flee, but the gas seemed to chew through their flesh and turned their eyes to jelly. Skin sloughed off in hideous clumps, the soldiers’ uniforms turning into bags of blood and organs. Soon they couldn’t even scream.
“Wick!” Geist shouted, her voice high and strained. “Cutter!”
Cutter stared from within the cloud. Geist knew his sorcery had long since killed his fear of death, but she could only watch as his confidence shattered in an instant. The gas melted his flesh, first to a waxy sheen and then liquefying his whole body. By the time he actually realized what was happening to him, he fell apart in chunks of red, pink, and putrid yellow, his uniform sinking into his body as though disappearing into a pool of bloody quicksand.
No. Not Cutter. He can heal. He’ll get up, and…
Even in the most desperate of straits, Cutter had returned to the squadron commander without fail. He had lived through every injury imaginable, including near decapitation. Nothing slowed him. But the gas…
Cutter didn’t get up from the gas.
Little Wick attempted to burn the fog away, but to no avail. His fate came just as swiftly as Cutter’s, and as he cried out, his voice faded into strangled sobs.
“Dear Lord, not now… not before I’ve told Ellen… Please… I’m not ready…”
Geist turned her attention to the first lieutenant, but his shock and horror matched her own. Had he not known?
No. He had to have known. It was his weapon.
The Grab-Hersteller Gas shifted without the wind, snaking up out of the trench and toward Geist and Wilhelm with supernatural precision. She saw it swell and waft forward in a thick, semi-opaque cloud. She pulled on Wilhelm’s arm, prepared to run, but First Lieutenant Fechner lunged toward her. He punched her in the side, right on the bullet wound, sending Geist to her knees.
Wilhelm shoved off the bunker and cocked his fist, but First Lieutenant Fechner struck first, knocking Wilhelm back into the wall.
“Traitor,” Fechner hissed. “You’ll die here.”
Geist’s vision darkened for one terrible second, a small portion of her mind on the gas at all times, panic blocking out all other information. She inhaled, jumped to her feet, and slammed her shoulder into Fechner. The German officer toppled into the nearest trench as the gas came on, hungry for flesh.
Geist grabbed Wilhelm the moment the yellow-greenish Grab-Herstel
ler Gas grazed the skin of her arm. The odd pinprick sensation—a prickling that went deep and flared into a heated pain—returned her to her senses.
She ran, Wilhelm in tow, leaving the first lieutenant to his fate.
Her feet struck the packed earth in rhythm, matching the pounding tempo of her heart. Bullets followed her, but she didn’t fear them like she feared the gas. She felt pity for the soldiers close enough to fire. Soon they would know why she ran…
No Man’s Land greeted her with a fog of death all its own. Amid the corpses, barbed wire, and posts, Geist saw nothing but phantom visions of her comrades melting away. She slowed and came to a stop halfway back, turning to get one final look. Her fingernails dug furrows in her scalp as she ran a hand through her crew-cut hair. The sensations made the situation real.
The machine gun turret stood empty, Buttons’ fate left unknown. Had he used his magic in time to escape? Only if he was lucky.
All rifle fire ceased.
The Grab-Hersteller Gas remained suspended in the moonlight, looming like a reaper. She had never seen such a weapon before. A mix of technology and magic? Impossible. Such a thing couldn’t exist.
And yet, the shell… The German men—non-sorcerers and mundane in every regard—had been the ones to unleash the weapon. It had to be a product of science if they could wield it.
She had to report to Major Reese. It was imperative.
He has to know.
Wilhelm placed a hand on her shoulder, snapping her out of the mounting dread. “We must continue,” he said, his voice a dry rasp.
Geist gave herself the once-over before continuing through the impromptu graveyard. As long as most of her uniform remained intact, she wouldn’t need to steal pieces from the dead men all around her.
Buttons. Cutter. Little Wick.
She had thought they would see the Great War through till the end.
The Grab-Hersteller Gas—the wretched grave-maker gas. She had never seen a tool of war so horrifying or so efficient at killing sorcerers.
Never.
CHAPTER THREE
FORT BELLEVILLE
AFTER A SHORT WAIT, A Fort Belleville nurse joined Geist in the examining room and gave her the once-over. “Remove your clothes, sir,” she said.
Geist gripped her coat sleeve and turned away. “My physician is Matron-in-Chief Johnson. I’ll wait for her.”
The nurse, a lanky woman in long gray medic coat, tightened her lips and raised an eyebrow. Her cheeks shifted to a rosy hue for a brief second. “All nurses write the same reports. You are not entitled to a specific one.”
“I’m a member of the Second E Squadron,” Geist forced herself to say.
The Ethereal Squadron was a classified organization that kept to itself but during times of war often shared facilities with other soldiers. French, British, and even a handful of American men filled the halls of Fort Belleville; in times of overcrowding the sorcerers referred to their group via a code to avoid revealing information about their true nature.
“Chief Johnson is very busy,” the nurse stated. “I’m more than capable of prepping you for her. Strip off your uniform and I will take all the preliminary notes.”
Geist exhaled and stared down at her tattered clothing. She couldn’t take it off. Not in front of the nurse—not when her medical file read male under all the reports. “I’m not… comfortable,” Geist said, her lie ringing hollow, even to her.
“Come now. This isn’t the place for such frivolity. It’s a nurse’s office. You stripped for your first medical evaluation.”
“I’ll wait for Chief Johnson.”
“Young man, you have no need for modesty. Other soldiers require my attention. Now, strip.”
Her voice, so commanding and authoritative, echoed throughout the tiny examination room. Geist found herself chuckling. The nurses of Fort Belleville were as formidable as any soldier.
Stalling for time, Geist undid the fastenings of her uniform, starting with her trousers. The nurse tapped her foot and kept the sharp point of her pencil poised over her clipboard. She had to be younger than thirty-five, but stress and lack of sleep added ten years to her face. She held herself with matronly confidence, a stern but gentle expression etched into her haggard features.
The door to the room opened, and Geist flinched instinctively. She held her uniform tight, her pants half-off.
Matron-in-Chief Mattie Johnson stepped through the door, her bright blue eyes snapping to Geist in a heartbeat.
“I have everything under control now,” Chief Johnson said. “Thank you, Nurse Rodgers.”
The other nurse frowned but gave no resistance. She nodded, placed the clipboard on the center table, and strode from the room. Chief Johnson followed behind and locked the door, leaving Geist as the only other occupant in the small space.
Chief Johnson turned to Geist and shook her head. “You had me worried.”
“I got in at an odd time,” Geist replied. “And my report took precedence. I’m sorry. I should have come here first.”
“I can’t be awake at all hours of the day.”
“I understand.”
“You don’t want to get discovered, do you?”
“No. You’re right. I understand.”
Geist had nothing else to say. She knew the risks of walking into the medical wards without planning her visit ahead of time, but she had done so without thinking. Images of the battle played in her mind, distracting her. Geist could barely focus and her body refused to stop shaking.
Chief Johnson picked up the form report and lifted an eyebrow. “What happened out in the field, Mr. Charles Weston?”
“Don’t call me that,” Geist snapped. She threw off her pants and undid her coat and shirt.
Geist undid the first of her chest bindings, allowing herself to breathe easy. “We should go by codenames when we’re alone. It’s better that way. I like calling you Cross.”
“I like hearing it,” she said with a genuine smile.
“What happened out there, Geist?” Cross asked, her smile never fading.
“It was gas. I wrote about it in my report to the commander.”
“What kind of gas?”
“Something new. Something I’ve never seen before.”
“Did Little Wick report on it as well? His write-ups are always so detailed. The commander will want to see them.”
Geist’s throat seized. Did Cross not know? Of course not. It all happened last night. How could she know when the Ethereal Squadron kept their activities classified?
“Little Wick…” Geist fished for words. She ripped off the last of her bindings and took a seat on the cold counter that lined the wall of the room, biting back the stabbing pain of her gunshot injury. With a long sigh, she shook her head and stared at the floor. “Little Wick and the others didn’t make it.”
Cross’s smile disappeared in an instant, replaced with a tight frown. “All of them?”
“I don’t know about Buttons.”
“Cutter? Surely he didn’t go like the rest.”
Geist nodded once.
“But, Cutter, he—” Cross cut herself short. Geist met her gaze and found nothing to read. No fear. No pain. Cross dealt with more loss and death than anyone—it came with her job. Geist admired the emotional fortitude, but Cross hadn’t seen the Grab-Hersteller Gas with her own eyes. Would she be so stoic then?
“Have you seen Buttons since last night?” Geist asked.
“No. I haven’t heard from anyone in your team until now.”
With no more words to pass between them, Cross turned her attention to her work. She jotted down a few simple notes and went to examine Geist.
Cross grazed her fingers over Geist’s narrow frame and then through Geist’s blackish-brown hair, easily mistaken for tar it was cut so short. Such a trim figure made masquerading as a man a simple task, but in moments of vulnerability, naked in front of another, Geist couldn’t help but wonder how life would be different if she possesse
d a different sort of body, something closer to Cross’s hourglass curves and golden-wheat hair.
“Cross,” Geist said, her voice hushed. “Have you treated the man I brought back to the fort? His dog tag said his name was William.” Even though he said his name was Wilhelm.
“Of course.”
“Did he… mention me? Or anything strange about the rescue?”
“No. Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. It’s nothing.”
Perhaps he doubted his eyes.
But Geist knew she couldn’t take that chance.
With the care befitting a master physician, Cross ran her fingers over Geist’s body. Such contact from anyone else would leave her feeling vulnerable, but Cross’s touch came with a warmth and soothing comfort unlike any other. Her magic was so potent—Geist’s hardly compared. No other sorcerer as young as Cross could hope to be as proficient.
Every wound, big or small, relaxed and mended itself. The knife slash down Geist’s forearm closed, leaving no scar in its wake. The bullet wound in her side ceased its throbbing pain. Her sore feet, aching from miles of marching in worn boots, rested easy. Even internal bruises faded, leaving Geist awash in relief.
Except her left wrist.
Cross touched Geist’s wrist, and a terrible pain flared throughout Geist’s body. Geist jerked back, holding her arm close to her chest.
“Cross,” she breathed. “What was that?”
Cross met her question with a furrowed brow. “I… didn’t do anything. I was healing you.”
Geist glared down and held back a gasp. Her left wrist, though fine the day before, had a waxy sheen to it and a piece of fabric—khaki like her uniform—embedded in the flesh. Geist clawed at the inch-long, half-inch-wide distortion, hoping to rip it from her body. Blood welled at her fingertips and ran in rivulets down her arm, falling onto her bare lap.
“Stop,” Cross said. “You’re hurting yourself. Let me try again.”
She ran her hand over Geist’s and caressed the wrist. Pain flared once more. Geist fought the urge to pull away. The flesh healed, but the fabric remained. And the longer Cross attempted to fix it, the more agony built up in Geist’s arm. The sensation of burning became too much.
The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun) Page 2