by Myke Cole
You’re no good to him with a bullet in your head, Britton told himself. Get out of here.
He swore and floored the accelerator, bumping the car over the plain until the cop and the demon-horses vanished behind him. Assuming the cop had a seventeen-round magazine, he’d already expended at least ten of them. There was no way he could take out the whole pack, shooting like he was.
He’s as dead as your father.
Another gate opened. Through it, he could see deep forest alongside an overgrown trail.
The devil you know is better than the one you don’t. He drove through.
The cruiser rumbled onto an old logging trail. The car bottomed out over roots and rocks, making it a few feet before the front tires blew out, sending his scraped nose into a half-deployed air bag. He sat with his head against it, numb and exhausted.
He raised his head as the wind wafted steam from the radiator through the shattered windshield. Another gate hovered four feet off the ground. It had opened into an underwater portion of the other world. Shafts of weak sunlight penetrated green depths that stirred with the languid movements of huge bodies. Not a drop spilled through the gate.
“What do you want from me?” he shrieked, pounding the steering wheel. He sank back in the seat, weeping. “I don’t want you…I just want…” I just want to go home.
And where exactly would that be now? his mind asked.
“Stop,” he said. “Just stop. Pull yourself together.”
He searched the interior of the car. He found an unlocked gun case under the passenger seat, but it was empty, as were the backseats. The glove compartment contained a plastic first-aid kit, three chem-lights, a pocketknife, and a pack of tissues. He took them all, stuffed the lot into the gun case, and exited the car in time to watch the gate close on the watery depths and vanish.
What exactly was he planning to do? He’d managed to keep a half step ahead of his pursuers, but that couldn’t last long. And even if he could stay ahead of them, what then?
You’ll just have to figure it out, he answered himself. Maybe you can make your way to New Mexico, join up with the Apache insurgency. Maybe you can find one of those Selfer street crews hiding out in New York City.
And fight the government I’ve served?
The government that murdered a confused girl. The government that’s trying to kill you. Live or die, Oscar, make your choice.
You didn’t want to kill anyone. They’ll never believe that, but you know it. Britton hung on to that thought, repeating it to himself over and over again. It’s the reason you’re not a Selfer, not like they use the word.
So, he thought again, make your choice. What do you de-serve?
Britton choked back tears of relief as he realized that he did not deserve to die. His choice was made. He would run.
Step one, find a place to lie low, get your bearings. Step two, find someone who can help you get control of your magic. The Green Mountain National Forest was miles from here, but it was big enough to get lost in. Big enough to go to ground while he figured out a way to head south without being spotted. It was a paper-thin plan, ridiculous in the face of what was sure to be a manhunt conducted by the most powerful military in the world.
But it was life. And, for the moment, it was all he had.
“Got to hide this car,” he said. The police probably had some way to track their vehicles. He wasn’t certain where he was but figured that distance on the other side approximated distance in this world. He couldn’t be too far from where he’d stolen the car. A thick carpet of ochre pine needles blanketed the ground, but that wouldn’t cover the cruiser.
The magical tide rose with his frustration. Another gate flashed open, cutting through the car’s front quarter panel. It shimmered there, then vanished, severing the wheel, bumper, and headlight. Water pooled beneath the sliced radiator. He stared, thinking what a gate would do if it appeared in the middle of a person, and shuddered.
“All right,” he said. “You want to help? Fine, you can help.”
“Magic,” he asked, feeling ridiculous, “you listening? I need you to open up and suck in this car.” He made a pincer motion, sweeping his arms up over his head.
A light breeze gusted over his back, drying his sweat and reminding him of the cold.
“Come on,” he said. “Do it. I command you, swallow the car.”
He motioned again. Nothing. He sighed, looking around at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in their branches, a squirrel chattered.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, God! I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” He laughed again, the sound strange in his ears. But he felt a little better as he moved into the woods.
Once he was out of sight of the trail, he treated his wounds with what he found in the first-aid kit, using up its entire contents. Nearly every inch of him was covered in gauze, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. He had no water to wash his wounds and used the bottle of peroxide instead, wiping with gauze and a miraculously clean corner of his ragged T-shirt.
His ears rang, but the drums felt intact. He looked at his reflection in the plastic case and saw no blood leaking from them. His calf throbbed. The sock had sealed the wound though blood still oozed through the black crust that had formed on the fabric. His shoulders ached from the impact with the car.
Treating his injuries restored a measure of humanity but reminded him of his surroundings and lack of supplies. He shivered in the chill air, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. The blanket of fallen needles was soft enough, but he couldn’t eat them and doubted they’d keep him very warm.
The relative peace calmed him, and the tide of magic receded. He shut his eyes and found it hard to open them again. Exhaustion beat hunger, and he burrowed deeply into the soft pine needles. The trees blocked most of the wind, keeping them from blowing off.
Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
He awoke in the deep of night, filthy, starving, and freezing.
The night air stung him, and his teeth chattered. Got to get moving, only way to keep warm. He broke one of the chem-lights and shook it, wreathing the woods in its neon green glow. He lurched to his feet, wincing, and trudged off into the dark.
He stumbled along in the darkness for hours. When the chem-light eventually failed, he didn’t bother to light another one, moving by touch along tree trunks and kicking over rocks he could no longer feel through frozen feet. The moon was a sliver. What little starlight penetrated the tree cover was inadequate to navigate by. He groped along, conscious that he might be going in circles and long past caring. All that mattered was staying warm.
A sharp burning pulled taut across his chest, bringing him to his senses.
A half-crumbled line of fence posts stretched before him. Strung across the top of two of them was a rusty length of barbed wire, hopelessly tangled in the rags of his T-shirt. Beyond it, the trees gave way to an overgrown, star-dappled field.
A low, wooden tobacco barn dominated the field. The peaked roof was supported by hinged slats, gray-brown with creo-sote, louvered open to admit the air. A small house with dark windows and a beat-up blue pickup parked outside stood farther off.
He blinked, seeing shelter and possibly food and water. He disentangled himself from the barbed wire and trotted toward the barn.
The barn’s massive doors were unlocked. He winced as they groaned on their hinges, but there was nothing for it. It was there or the woods, and he wasn’t sure he would last another night without at least something to drink. A dog began to bark from the vicinity of the house. He ignored it, praying the owner would think it alerted by some animal.
The barn interior wasn’t much warmer, but it kept the wind off better than the trees. The strong smell of tobacco nearly overwhelmed him. He took out another chem-light, cracked and shook it, sending horror-movie shadows dancing. The weird light couldn’t penetrate the shadows in the rafters, but he could barely make out a loft above him. The ground was neatly brushed with st
raw. Long clutches of drying tobacco hung in orderly rows, marching away from him down the barn’s length. To his right was a tractor, smelling of oil.
He turned to his left and nearly cried out. A wooden barrel bound by rusty hoops and brimming with water stood under a rotted portion of the roof.
He seized the barrel’s sides and thrust his head in, drinking deeply. The water was rank, but he couldn’t stop. He finally tore himself away, feeling the chilly fluid pour down his torso, stinging his wounds. His vision grayed momentarily, and he sank to his knees, resting his cheek on the barrel’s rim.
A fat black Labrador retriever sat before him, head cocked to one side, tongue lolling happily. A frayed collar suspended a bunch of silver tags. The thirst surged again, followed by powerful nausea.
“Nice doggie,” he mumbled. He batted at the dog, trying to scratch its head and missing. Then he was doubled over, vomiting before collapsing facedown in the contents of his stomach.
He lay, dimly aware of the dog licking the back of his head.
“Thank…you. Thanks,” he mumbled.
“On Jake’s behalf, you’re welcome,” a man said in a thick New England accent. “When you’ve recovered, I’ll need you to stand up and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Britton slowly got to his feet, then checked himself as he heard the familiar clack-clack racking of a shotgun’s pump action.
CHAPTER VIII
TRESPASSER
There is absolutely no substance to the rumors of a secret government base. I want to put paid to this crazy notion once and for all. Unauthorized magic users, in particular those practicing prohibited schools of magic, are dealt with according to the provisions clearly laid out in the McGauer-Linden Act, the Geneva Convention, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. We do not cart them off, we do not train them, and there is not, nor has there ever been, a “Shadow Coven.”
—Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
Press conference responding to an article allegedly exposing
a hidden SOC program trafficking in prohibited magic
Jake nuzzled Britton’s elbow as he leaned against the big animal’s neck, balancing between barrel and dog.
A sixtyish man stood in the entrance, wearing bedroom slippers, dirty denim overalls, and a faded cap. He was paunchy, with a wide, jowly face, small eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. He kept the shotgun leveled at Britton’s chest.
“Come on over here, Jake,” the man called. “You get away from him.”
Jake turned toward his owner, panting. He nosed Britton’s hand, his bulk upsetting the barrel, dark water slopping out. The man rolled his eyes. “Useless goddamn dog,” he muttered.
Jake backed away from Britton, bristling as the magic rose in reaction to the gun, opening a gate between them, the back of it to Britton. He couldn’t see the landscape facing the man, but he could hear the keening of the demon-horses clustered beyond.
The man took a lateral step and raised the shotgun, sighting down the barrel at Britton’s face. “You just put it away, now,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, I promise you I can pull this trigger before you can do it.”
Britton struggled against the magic but he still felt its tendrils push into the gate, reaching for the pack beyond. Their keening became frenzied as they resisted, terrified of the flickering portal.
“Come on, you damned fool,” the man said. “Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.” His finger tensed on the trigger.
“I can’t control it,” Britton rasped. “It’s worse when I’m stressed. I’m hurt and I’m hungry and you’re pointing that damned gun at my face.”
The man looked down at his dog, then up at Britton. Slowly, he lowered the gun. “Okay, son. Gun’s down,” he said. “You get a lid on this, and I’ll get you fed and put some Band-Aids on you. Scout’s honor.”
Britton desperately tired to reel in the magic, but how could he pull on something he couldn’t see or touch? The keening grew louder. The gate wavered as one of the demon-horses began to come through.
The man’s eyes widened. He pointed the gun at the gate. “Come on, son. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve gotta trust me. I know it’s hard, but you can do it.”
Britton felt the magic recede slightly at the kind words. He concentrated on the calmness of his surroundings—the roof over his head, Jake’s well-meaning slobber on the back of his neck, the man’s voice.
Jake lowered his hackles and woofed softly as the gate shimmered and closed, sending them back into semidarkness.
The man sighed and wiped the back of his neck with a pudgy, callused hand. “Well, that’s a goddamned relief,” he said.
“I’m Oscar,” Britton said. “My name’s Oscar.”
The man tugged the brim of his cap. “You can call me Nelson.”
They stood for an awkward moment, the silence broken only by the sound of Jake’s panting as he nudged under Britton’s hand again.
“Well, let it never be said I’m not a man of my word,” Nelson said. “You sit tight, and I’ll be back with some food and my first-aid kit.” He looked uncomfortably at his feet and turned to go. Britton’s mind screamed at him to run, but he ignored it. There was nowhere for him to run and nothing else to do. He had to eat, to rest. He had to trust Nelson. The man could have easily shot him and hadn’t. That would have to be enough.
The old farmer made it a few steps, then turned, not meeting Britton’s eyes, and whistled for Jake. The big dog thumped his tail happily and didn’t budge. Nelson called him again, then sighed. “Most goddamn useless guard dog in history.”
Britton sagged to the floor, exhaustion mingling with relief to swamp what little strength remained. Jake licked him enthusiastically, and he batted ineffectually at the dog, scratching its ears and trying to duck its darting tongue.
He was so engrossed in the dog’s affections that he barely noticed Nelson swing the barn doors shut.
Britton started as a light thud from the opposite side indicated that a crossbar had been put in place.
“Nelson?” Britton called, getting slowly to his feet and pushing Jake behind him.
Silence. Sudden panic bullied exhaustion aside. He raced to the doors and pushed.
They gave a few inches, then held fast.
Britton banged on the doors, the grayed wood rattled under his fists. “Damn it, Nelson! You said you’d help me!”
Even through the barn’s walls, the farmer’s voice sounded sheepish. “You just sit tight now, Oscar. I’ve called the SOC, and they’re on their way.”
Britton looked frantically over his shoulder, scanning the barn’s interior in the pale glare of his chem-light. Jake sat, panting patiently, where Britton had left him. Shadows swam across clapboard walls that showed no other exit.
“You fucking lied to me!” Britton shouted. “Let me out of here!”
“Well, I’m no fan of lyin’,” Nelson’s voice came back, “but I reckon I got a wife and a home and a life here. And if a bit of lyin’ is what’s gonna keep it all from burnin’ up, well, the Lord’ll forgive me my trespasses. Now I got a bead on this door here, Oscar. Don’t do nothin’ stupid, or I’ll punch you full of holes.”
Britton turned and raced around the barn’s interior, running his fingertips over the boards, desperately looking for an exit. In his mind, he could already hear the squealing of the white van’s tires, Harlequin crouching inside. Jake padded along behind him, barking enthusiastically.
“I’ve got your fucking dog!” Britton cried. Nelson didn’t respond. Britton looked back down at Jake, who sat and emitted a long stream of barks that almost ran together into a howl. What was he going to do, hurt the animal? He shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered to the dog, trying to master his panic.
He looked up in the loft and saw no exit that way either, and the panic surged, bringing his magic with it. Jake backed away from him, growling low in
his throat, hair bristling and ears flat against the ridge of his skull. A gate flashed open just before the dog, sending him whining and running for the wall. It rolled shut and reopened in the middle of the tractor, slicing the machine neatly in half, collapsing it in a cascade of grinding metal.
“Damn it, Oscar!” Nelson bellowed from outside. “I told you to just sit tight! Don’t do nothin’ stupid!”
The gate flashed away from the tractor and appeared lodged diagonally in the barn wall.
When it vanished, it left a clean, angled slash in the wood, the splintered edges clipped as neatly as if they’d been burned by a laser. Through it, Britton could see the light of the stars and feel the cold blast of the air. Without thinking, he launched himself at the rent.
The impact knocked the breath out of him, his shoulder singing out in pain. His head whipped backward, and, for a moment, he thought he had just made the dumbest move of his life. But then the weakened wall exploded, the jagged edges of wood ripping into his skin and sending him spinning into the darkness, feeling as if he had been set alight as the chill air trilled in the rents in his skin.
He staggered, fell to one knee, skidding across the frost-kissed grass of the field, arms pinwheeling for balance. He could hear Jake barking in the background and Nelson panting as he ran from the front of the barn to the side. The lights were on in the house by then, and a small figure, probably a woman, stood on the front porch, a cell phone clutched in her hand.
“Now you just get down, Oscar!” the farmer shouted. “Get right down and keep your hands where I can see them!”
Britton staggered, got to his feet, met the farmer’s eyes levelly.
Nelson leveled the shotgun at Britton’s chest. “You just stop right there. Don’t be a damned fool.”
But the magic had other ideas. It flowed through Britton, borne on his sense of betrayal and desperation.
A gate snapped open in front of Nelson. The farmer stepped around it and thrust the gun’s muzzle forward. “Damn it, son, I warned you.”