The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel

by David Mack

  Then the eighth of November arrived, and all Cade heard was chatter about that night’s Allied invasion of French North Africa. Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia—they were all in the crosshairs. It was the “soft underbelly of the Mediterranean” to hear the Allied commanders describe it, and they were about to rip it out of the Axis’s hands.

  All except for the B-17 flight crew tasked to ferry Cade into Germany. He listened to the men of Silver Sadie complain and swear under their breath about him and his mission as they crossed the tarmac toward the aircraft, which stood separated from its squadron.

  The flight engineer, Sergeant Ward, grumbled, “Six months of mission prep down the drain so we can ferry this shithead to Krautland.”

  “Good thing we’re bomb-free on this run,” said Corporal Trahern, one of the gunners. “Gotta make room for the general’s luggage.”

  Cade admired the bomber. He loved the illustration adorning its nose: a zaftig platinum blonde in blue coveralls, her expression proud as she clocked a cartoon Hitler with a pipe wrench, sending the Führer’s teeth flying. The dark green aircraft was silhouetted by a late-autumn sunset as Cade climbed the ladder into its midsection.

  Inside the aircraft, Cade looked around. The lack of bombs made it feel strangely empty. Private Orson, the tail gunner, shouldered past and almost knocked him over. “Watch it, Meat.”

  Another gunner, Corporal Chao, muttered as he passed Cade, “Orson’s an asshole. Ignore him.” He did a double take at Cade. “Fuck—what happened to your eyebrows?”

  “Occupational hazard.” Cade turned away, ending the conversation.

  The pilot and commander, Captain Gladwin, was the last man aboard. He raised his voice to fill the main compartment and address the entire crew. “Look sharp, guys. I know this isn’t the mission we expected, but we have our orders. And look on the bright side—after we drop Mr. Martin behind enemy lines, we’ll be continuing on to England.”

  No sooner was Gladwin ensconced in the cockpit than Ward snarked to Chao from the topside turret, “Oh, goody—England in November. I shoulda packed my swim trunks.”

  Silver Sadie was one of the last aircraft to take off, nearly two hours after sundown. Night fell while they traversed Spain, and darkness became their cloak as they raced over southern France, which was nowhere to be seen thanks to lights-out curfews.

  It was freezing inside the bomber. Cade had expected to face wet cold in Germany this time of year, but he was unprepared for the sharp chill of speeding at two hundred miles per hour, ten thousand feet above ground. The ten-man bomber crew all seemed impervious to the frigid air, with their fleece-lined jackets, silk scarves, pullover caps, and thick gloves.

  Worse than the cold, the drone of the propellers was deafening. Their vibrations permeated the bomber’s hull and decks. Cade had hoped the sound might prove hypnotic after a few hours and lull him to sleep, but it was so loud it sounded as if a swarm of bees had taken up residence inside his skull.

  Fucking hell. What I wouldn’t do for a decent night’s—

  A nudge from a booted foot opened his eyes. He looked up into the scowl of Ward, who hooked a thumb toward the forward bulkhead. “Cap says we just crossed the Swiss-Kraut border, so get your shit together.”

  Cade checked his watch. It was just after 1:00 A.M. They had made exceptional time from Gibraltar, reinforcing his perception that the crew of the Silver Sadie wanted him out of their aircraft as soon as possible. The fact that the B-17 was carrying no heavy ordnance also had helped speed its progress on this night flight over enemy territory. While Cade fumbled in the dark to find his gear, Ward climbed into the topside turret.

  Moonlight illuminated the rest of the crew as Cade looked fore and aft. Waist-gunners Trahern and Chao rubbed their eyes and seized the grips of their pivot-mounted M2 Browning machine guns. Far aft, tail gunner Orson swiveled left to right, anticipating trouble. As Ward rotated the top turret in a full circle while searching the skies for danger, Corporal Dominguez mirrored his actions in the bomber’s belly-mounted ball turret. Through the open cockpit door Cade glimpsed the flight officers. The only member of the crew Cade couldn’t see at all was Sergeant Rozansky, the bombardier and nose gunner.

  The first thing Cade retrieved was his leather roll-up containing his tools of the Art. He strapped it diagonally across his back, as he always had while traveling.

  Ward shouted over the roar of the propellers, “Hey, Meat! Are you fucking stupid? Strap that to your leg or it’ll snag your chute!”

  Cade wasn’t sure he wanted to explain to Ward why he wouldn’t need a parachute. He raised a hand to fend off further advice. “Don’t worry about it,” he hollered. “I’ll be—”

  Explosions filled the sky around the bomber with fire and flak.

  Cade tumbled aft as the nose pitched upward and the engines buzzed with acceleration. All around Cade, each member of the crew pressed a hand to one ear as the copilot relayed information and orders over their headsets. Flames and shrapnel choked the sky around Silver Sadie. Captain Gladwin banked the bomber left and pushed it into a steeper climb as more flak harried the B-17.

  Cade gripped the bulkhead, terrified. So much for sneaking into Germany.

  Dominguez grinned up at him. “’Smatter, gringo? Don’t like fireworks?”

  Another cocky smile, this time from Chao. “Having fun yet?”

  Ward looked down at Cade. “Hang tight, buddy! We’re in for some—”

  Pain knifed into Cade’s ears as a jarring blast rocked the plane.

  Silver Sadie’s nose filled with orange fire and black smoke. Wind laced with oily spray and smoldering shrapnel roared from the cockpit into the main compartment. The aircraft bobbled and veered hard to the left, throwing Cade against the curved bulkhead.

  The aircraft barrel-rolled twice, throwing Cade and the waist gunners into wild tumbles, human dice in a spinning cup. Another explosion tore through the starboard wing and blew its engines to bits. Then the bomber pitched into an uncontrolled dive as another hit tore off its tail, taking Private Orson’s life in a storm of metal and smoke.

  Fire and free fall, panic and bitter cold. Cade screamed, and so did the men around him. Silver Sadie’s midsection splintered as it twisted and rolled, ejecting him and the four surviving members of the crew into the night, where it was hard for Cade to hear anything but the rushing of wind past his soon-to-be-frostbitten ears. It was so dark he couldn’t see the earth below. He remembered his briefing on Gibraltar: he had less than a minute before he hit the ground.

  Plenty of time.

  He engaged the Sight. The landscape below came into focus, a monochromatic sprawl of deep shadows and greenish highlights. Looking up, he saw the four survivors of Silver Sadie deploy their parachutes—then felt his stomach twist into a knot as fiery debris from the wrecked bomber rained down and set them all aflame.

  The men released their reserve chutes, only to see them suffer the same fate as they were peppered with burning wreckage from above. Trahern, Chao, Dominguez, and Ward were plummeting to their doom.

  Cade spread his arms to slow his descent, then reached out with the unseen hands of JEPHISTO, snared the men, and pulled them toward himself in midair. The first one he could reach was Chao. He took hold of the young Chinese American’s sleeve and shouted, “Grab Dominguez!” As soon as Chao had his crewmate, the others got the idea, though they seemed confused as to what Cade was doing. They were seconds away from a fatal impact as Dominguez snagged Trahern by his collar, and Trahern gripped Ward’s ankle.

  That’ll do.

  He invoked VESTURIEL’s ghost form just before they met the ground. Arrested in midfall, they lingered like fog, gray wisps above a field of dead grass.

  Then Cade breathed out, restoring himself and the survivors to solidity. They dropped to the ground, stunned and amazed. Their limp parachutes fluttered down and draped over them like burial shrouds. The four men scrambled out of their flight gear, then emerged from beneath the chutes and pawe
d at themselves, as if unsure whether they could trust their senses.

  Dominguez wore a horrified look. “Are we dead? Are we ghosts?”

  Chao punched him in the arm, eliciting a yelp. “Nope. Flesh and bone.”

  Trahern was at a loss to complete a sentence. “But I don’t … But we … How did—? How are we—?” He finally strung together a complete thought: “How did you do that?”

  The master had warned Cade against telling “the rabble” too much about magick, so he resorted instead to a convenient lie. “Sorry, it’s top-secret. You weren’t supposed to see it, but … I couldn’t just let you guys fall.”

  Ward took off his fleece-lined leather jacket and handed it to Cade. “Take this.” When Cade tried to wave off the gesture, the flight engineer insisted. “It’s fucking freezing out here, and it’s gonna get colder.” He showed Cade its inner lining. A rectangle of silk was printed with a detailed map of western Europe. “If you get lost, it’ll help you find your way.”

  “I can’t. You’ll need that to get out of enemy territory.”

  “Chao’s jacket has the same lining.” He pushed his jacket into Cade’s hands.

  Cade took off his less insulated coat and gave it to Ward. “Now you’ll freeze.”

  “The boys and I can take turns trading coats. But you have to go on alone. Speaking of which—” He pivoted toward Trahern. “Danny, give him your Colt.”

  The corporal balked at the order. “What?”

  “He’s unarmed and marching alone into Krautland. Give him your fucking Colt.” When the Silver Sadie gunner continued to resist, Ward added, “He just saved your life, you fucking ingrate. The least you can do is lend him your sidearm.”

  There was no easy way for Cade to explain to Ward that he was anything but unarmed, so he accepted the semiautomatic pistol that was grudgingly surrendered to him by Trahern. He received it and its holster with a humble smile. “Thanks. If I live, I’ll try to get it back it you.”

  “Assuming I live,” Trahern said. “If I don’t make it, my wife and kid are in Secaucus. Give it to them.”

  “Will do.”

  Truck engines and voices barking orders in German began to echo in the darkness. From the east, bluish-white searchlights slashed over the top of a low hill. It was time to move on.

  Cade shook Ward’s hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. And good luck.”

  “Same to you, kid.” He turned away and jogged past his men. “Let’s go, ladies! The Krauts are coming, and Switzerland’s calling!”

  “Chocolates and milkmaids,” Trahern said as he fell in line. “What’s not to love?” Dominguez and Chao rolled their eyes and shook their heads as they hurried southwest, close on the sergeant’s heels as they made their desperate bid to reach neutral territory.

  Rendered invisible by AOROTOS, Cade ignored the incoming German search team and walked north-northeast toward Frankfurt. In the morning, once he was someplace safe, he would contact Adair with the mirror to let him know he was on the ground in Germany, and that the survivors of the Silver Sadie would need transportation out of Switzerland.

  Until then, he knew what mattered most was to keep moving and not look back, because that was where regret lived—and for Cade that was a burden already too great to bear.

  * * *

  There was no getting used to the stench in the infirmary. But then, calling this mess an infirmary struck Anja as a sick joke. It was little more than a crudely excavated tunnel, its roof held up by half-rotted timbers and the empty prayers of atheists. Every time a mortar shell struck within a quarter mile or a German tank rolled past inside half a block, dirt rained down on the wounded and dying, dusting them with the colors of the grave.

  Anja tried to avoid this place, but her conscience had led her to it each night for over a month. Scores of maimed soldiers and civilians lingered here in need of attention, and more arrived every hour, adding to the ranks of the mortally wounded and the delirious.

  The smell of blood was masked by a bite of disinfectant, but neither odor could compete with the miasma of human excrement that pooled on the floor. Dying patients voided their bowels with revolting regularity, as did those forced to endure amputations without the solace of morphine or even vodka. When one of the medical volunteers succumbed to the urge to vomit, no one paid attention anymore. It was just one more mess in the mix.

  Anja walked between the rows of cots, dismayed by the bloodied and the burned. General Khrushchev and other Red Army leaders had promised the fighting would be ended by now. Long-overdue reinforcements had arrived the week before and crushed the Romanian and Hungarian forces defending the Nazis’ flanks. It seemed then the battle was over; the Germans had lost. Everyone had expected them to wave the white flag. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the Germans, who had intensified their efforts, waging battles of attrition from one ruined building to the next, and sometimes even from one floor of a building to another.

  It was insane. Anja didn’t understand it.

  What she understood was suffering. Sorrow. Loss.

  There were so many children huddled under bloodstained sheets. Too many. Anja could tune out the plaintive cries of adult soldiers and spies, people who had gone to war knowing the cost it might entail. But the children.…

  In every young boy’s face she saw the dying grimace of her little brother, Piotr, his body cut in half by Kein’s cruel magick, his lifeblood leaching into the snow. In the eyes of every wounded girl she recognized herself, grieving and alone, forever unredeemed.

  Ash-covered fingers, small and trembling, reached out to her. Silent, she drifted past, a living ghost haunting those the Reaper had marked as its own.

  Perceiving them through a lens of demonic sight, she knew which ones were too far gone for her gifts to save, and which ones might recover on their own in time. The ones she sought were those whose lives stood balanced on the razor’s edge between life and death:

  A boy of five or perhaps six years, shot through his abdomen. The bleeding was stanched, but it remained to be seen whether he would succumb to sepsis.

  A girl of nine, comatose after falling from a collapsing building, struggling against a slow hemorrhage in her brain.

  A teenage girl, clinging to life, written off by the medics—none of whom possessed the resources to realize she was nearly two months pregnant.

  Anja paused beside each of them, pressed her palm to their chest, and channeled the healing talent of BUER, one of only three spirits she still kept yoked despite the discomfort they caused her and the risks that arose whenever she needed to renew their bondage.

  After working her magickal therapy on each child, she dipped her index finger into a canteen of water she had exorcised and blessed. With her wet fingertip she scribed a cross in the grime coating each one’s forehead.

  When she turned away from the last of them, she nearly collided with Nurse Deshkin, a young woman who had volunteered to tend the wounded.

  “If it isn’t Saint Anja, making her rounds.” There was no sarcasm in Deshkin’s voice. She, like many of those who had observed Anja’s visits to the wounded, had noticed that those whom she anointed always recovered.

  “Just doing my best to offer comfort.”

  Anja started to leave, but halted as Deshkin called after her: “We could use your help. There are wounded coming in. Lots of them. From the battle out by the old grain silos.”

  “I don’t come here for them.” She quickened her retreat, eager to slip the noose of imposed obligation. Deshkin wasn’t going to stop her.

  A wave of wounded Red Army troops surging into the infirmary did.

  Everyone was shouting, but no one knew what they were doing. Soldiers on stretchers gagged on blood so dark it was almost black, or clawed at torsos stained crimson. A dozen casualties raced past Anja missing limbs or extremities, or pawing at shredded eyes, or trying to hold severed ears against their heads in the hope that someone could sew them back on.

  In the middle of all the
mayhem was a lone surgeon, barking orders at anyone who might be able to help him, including Anja, who was too deep in shock to understand a word he said.

  Nurse Deshkin grabbed Anja’s wrist, put her hand to a wounded soldier’s chest, and said with authority, “Press here, hard.”

  Blood pulsed against Anja’s palm and oozed between her fingers, no matter how hard she pushed down. Panic bloomed inside her. Her heart raced, her breaths shortened, and she shook like a dog left out in the cold. Every nerve in her body told her to run, to escape this abattoir.

  She looked down to apologize to her patient for being a coward—then froze. The face looking back at her was masked in blood and dirt, but familiar all the same: Nadezhda’s eyes locked on to Anja’s, pleading for life. The brave young sniper mouthed words, but her voice was gone. Anja leaned in, but all she heard were weak gasps passing her friend’s lips.

  Redoubling the pressure of her hand on Nadezhda’s chest, Anja shouted over the clamor of the infirmary: “Over here! She needs the doctor! Now!”

  The surgeon was wrist-deep in another soldier’s mangled guts. “She’ll wait her turn!”

  It took no special sight for Anja to know her friend’s life was expiring as she watched. Nady had at most a few breaths left before the Reaper struck. She was nearly gone; Anja knew it would be a fight to save her—and if she did, how could she ever explain it?

  A croak from Nadezhda’s parched throat commanded Anja’s attention. Anja lowered her ear to Nadezhda’s lips and struggled to hear her friend’s dying words.

  “Anja?”

  “It’s me, Nady.”

  “I … I’m … scared.”

  The blood pushing against Anja’s palm grew weak, the pressure behind it too feeble to force it past her fingers. The end was coming for Nadezhda; death was going to rip her from Anja’s grasp just as it had taken her brother so many years earlier.

  No. You cannot have her.

  It was possible to heal a great many injuries and maladies through the power of BUER, but the greater the feat, the higher the cost it demanded from the karcist. Pulling Nadezhda back from the brink of death would push the limits of what Anja could compel from the demon. She felt BUER balk when she tried to focus it on restoring Nadezhda’s tattered heart.