by Holly Rutan
Movie stars and producers had lived here years ago, until a mage lost his mind. Unable to control himself, he drew in more and more magic. His body bottled it up like a shaken soda. When the pressure became too much, his shell exploded in an inferno so intense that it superheated the ground. The soil was still sterile fifty years later.
Our instructor told us that magic behaved like an ocean and sounded like a symphony. Most places, the sound was gentle and easy to ignore. But there were also currents of melody that tempted mages to listen and join in, to take magic in to their bodies and harness it for use by releasing it as song. It was a constant balance to maintain control over the current, and losing that battle meant losing yourself. The mages called it drowning, and feared the times when the current drastically increased in strength, sometimes without warning. Those surges could take an unwary mage by surprise, and cost him his life.
The Great Surge of 1955 had drowned far more than a single mage. It had been the first surge of the modern era—a dreadful, terrifying reemergence of magic after centuries of quiet—and it had brought humanity to its knees. We had suffered through many smaller surges since, but they had been localized. Smaller. The Great Surge had been worldwide.
"Now," the guide said, "come. See the Vault, and trace your fingers over the names. You may find your grandparents or great-grandparents immortalized in stone. You may discover a family member is missing from the memorial; if so, inform us and we will correct the matter immediately. Even now, we continually expand the rolls of the dead. We will remember. By our blood, may it never happen again."
The mage turned from us and walked with unhurried steps up a faint path through the rubble. We followed him, chivvied by our teachers, until he reached a set of stairs leading down into what might have once been a cellar. He beckoned to the closest group of students.
"You may enter in groups of ten. Space is limited. You may feel free to touch the walls. Trace the names with your fingers and create for yourselves a tactile memory. Only by remembering the events of the past may we avoid the mistakes of the future. If you have questions, do not hesitate to ask."
"This is one history lesson I'll never forget," Mark commented while we waited for our turn. He drank in the sight of the broken terrain, his black vulpine eyes wide and white around the rims. "Not ever!"
Jorge grunted in agreement, a wordless bass rumble.
"I no cry," I said. "I wish."
"You cannot cry," Jorge said, correcting me, "but you wish you could."
"Yes," I answered. "It quiet here. So quiet, I hear dead weeping."
"What?" Jorge said, unable to translate that one.
I shrugged, struggling to articulate a better description for my friends, who couldn't hear the haunting melody. The heavy air whispered with a lament for the dead. I could hear it in soft chords and sweetly sung notes that quavered with unshed tears.
"The ground weeps," I repeated. "I hear ground cry. It remember life gone. Song silenced forever. It sad."
"Could you repeat that, young lady?" the mage asked.
All three of us jumped, and I spun to face him with wide eyes. We'd been so intent on our conversation that we hadn't heard the man approach until he'd reached my shoulder.
"The ground sings for the dead," I said. "I hear it sing. They no hear it sing. Do not," I added as an afterthought, correcting myself. Karen was right, my words were getting better with practice.
"Can you sing the notes you hear?" the mage asked.
His face and body were so intent that I had to pause and think about my answer. I listened to the melody, capturing a thread of it that I thought I might be able to recreate.
"Yes," I said. "Think so."
"Do so," he ordered.
I glanced at my two friends, who shrugged. Faced with that unhelpful advice, I listened to the melody for several long minutes. No one had ever asked me to sing before, or even acknowledged the music that I could always feel thrumming through my heart and mind. It had been a slow realization that they couldn't even hear it.
I tilted my nose to the sky and sang, a pure lupine howl that silenced conversations around me in a spreading ripple as the students who were still waiting outside the Vault turned to stare. The sobbing note hung in the air, wavering and liquid and sweet, and I added to it piece by piece to recreate the mournful melody I felt thrumming from the ground below.
My flesh sizzled, and I fell to the ground, body curled around my injured wrist where the black-banded silver bracelet burned into my flesh. The beautiful, sorrowful, melodic construction fell to pieces as my voice went silent.
"That's the Vault's Lament. She’s singing with the current. By the Lord's mercy, that little were is a mage," I heard our guide whisper.
Chapter Three
I pulled at my collar, sliding my finger between the rough cloth and my skin. My uniform was too tight, restricting my movements, and I felt trapped by the unfamiliar folds of fabric. My mouth gaped open a little as I panted.
"Quit fidgeting," Peter whispered.
"I want this to be over," I grumbled under my breath.
Someone the next row up gave us a dirty look, and I hushed. It really was hot; the trainee ahead of me had sweat beading down his flushed neck. The room stank of it. I bet it made his uniform even more uncomfortable than mine; there were benefits to not having sweat glands.
At the front of the room, the headmaster continued with his announcement, ignoring the minor disruption.
"Today marks a turning point in your lives. You have worked diligently to develop valuable skills and the knowledge of how to use them to protect and serve the public. You are now ready to use those skills for the benefit of society. Congratulations. Do not fear your new responsibilities—embrace them. Serve your fellow citizens with an open heart, and do not condemn those who are different from yourself. It is those very differences that create a strong and vibrant culture. Remember, it is not only your duty to uphold the law for the safety of humans, but also to protect nonhumans from exploitation and abuse. The United States Department of Magical Affairs has a proud tradition of providing only the finest. Serve us, and your country, well."
"All rise," a different voice announced.
Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone in the small audience stood. My view of the stage was abruptly obscured by the taller men and women in front of me, and I sighed. With the rest, I put my fist over my heart in salute and craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the department head, Reginald Moore.
"You may be seated," Moore's voice growled, needing no assistance from the microphone.
We sat.
"The twenty of you have endured two years of tests, drills, and physical training. You may, at times, have come to the conclusion that we were trying to break you by any means necessary. But you persevered, and now you wait, at the peak of youth and idealism, for your graduation papers.
“There are a lot less of you now than there were when you arrived as fresh-faced recruits straight out of high school. Those of you who were weak quit. Only the strong remain. That is how it should be. It is a dangerous world out there, boys and girls. We've done our damnedest to prepare you for it."
He took a deep breath and looked over our solemn faces as though seeking affirmation. We were all silent. When his eyes met mine, I tensed and gritted my teeth, unable to look away until his tired gray eyes released their hold.
"This year, we have lost fourteen agents. Twelve of them to death, and two to retirement. I feel very fortunate we have managed to exceed the number of agents lost with new graduates. You have some big boots to fill.
“Tonight, you will be matched with an experienced partner, who will guide you through your next few years. Obey your partner; if we have deemed them sufficient to instruct a new recruit, that is because we believe their advice will keep you alive." Moore smiled. It was a small, tight expression. "I imagine at this point you are all tired of the chitchat. Very well. As your names are called, approach the podium."
&nb
sp; I straightened. Peter touched my elbow, silently and unnecessarily reminding me to stay quiet.
"Baker, Thomas," the headmaster said.
The tall, sweaty recruit in the chair in front of me got up and strode to the front of the room. He took the few steps to the stage eagerly, moving with a free and easy gait. Moore shook his hand and said a few words too quiet for me to catch, and Thomas grinned proudly. A camera flashed, and the young agent departed from the other side of the stage.
"Bramian, Gail," the headmaster said.
Gail, a tall, dark-complexioned woman who wore her hair in a very tight regulation braid, stood. Behind me I could hear Thomas opening the door. Moments later, as Gail was shaking Moore's hand, the scents from the back room reached me.
There was food back there!
I was so diverted by the unexpected prospects of a meal that Peter had to jab me to get me attentive in the right direction when my name was called. He rolled his eyes sympathetically and nodded up at the podium. Flushing, I got out of my seat and padded to the front of the room.
"Something more important than the culmination of two years of hard labor, Miss Davis?" Moore asked me with quiet amusement.
"Roast beef," I said, embarrassed. "Pizza with pepperoni and olives."
He raised his eyebrows. "You can smell the olives?"
"Yes, sir," I answered. "Given a minute, I could probably lay the whole menu out for you."
"Interesting. I would like to refer you for specialist training. A nose that keen could be quite useful. What do you say?" Moore asked.
"I would be delighted," I said.
"Excellent. Be sure to inform your new partner; you will get an e-mail in the morning," Moore said. "Congratulations on your successful graduation. It's been a rough road, and we're all glad you were able to stick with us. Serve the agency, and your partner, well."
"Thank you, sir," I answered, shaking his hand.
He handed me my diploma, and the camera flashed. I trotted happily down the stairs, making a beeline for the back room to seek out the source of the tantalizing aroma. Peter caught up with me halfway across the room.
"Congratulations, pup," he said, slinging his arm across my shoulders. "Karen says so, too. She'd be here, but you know we got that call about an orphaned bobcat kit. Turns out, the girl's only six. Your room won't even have a chance for your scent to wear off. I hope you don't mind. Karen's wrangling with foster services right now."
"I'm glad you were able to stay for the ceremony," I answered. "But if you have to leave, you have my phone number. And"—I hesitated—"if the kit needs Teddy, he's still on my bed. I've been quarreling with myself over whether to pack him all day, and it would make me feel better if he went to comfort another cub."
"Are you sure?" Peter asked, concerned.
"I don't mind sleeping on the couch until I find a new place, and I'm almost done packing," I replied. "I'll get my new partner to take me back to your house tonight and start looking for an apartment as soon as I know where I'll be stationed. It will be good to have a den of my own."
Peter nodded.
"Then be safe, pup," he said and kissed me on the forehead. "Do us proud. I am off to rescue Karen from bureaucracy."
I grinned as he hugged me and ducked my head. Peter was already pulling his cell phone from his pocket and turning for a side exit—a were always hated being far from their mate, and it was a testament to the lion's caring and investment in my fosterage that he had waited, even though he knew his mate needed him.
I allowed the smile to show my teeth as I walked through the back doorway, reminding myself for the thousandth time that humans would prefer that expression, that it was friendly and teeth weren't a sign of aggression. I'd been practicing for years, but it still felt stiff and unnatural.
Lots of unfamiliar agents in formal uniform were milling around in groups, chatting with the new graduates and one another. The air was swimming with food-scent and musk and dominance-scent, and I paused, the smile falling from my face as I absorbed and adjusted myself to the new smells.
A hand fell on my shoulder, and I twitched.
"Samantha, congratulations. Or should I say Agent Davis?" Instructor Roth's voice was light with joviality.
I turned and practiced my smile. "Instructor. Thank you. No, Samantha is still fine. What is going on here?"
"A party for a job well done. This is your chance to mingle with some of the people you will be working with in the future," Roth answered.
"A party," I mused. "I suppose so."
"What, haven't you ever been to a party before? Pah, go. Eat some good food and join in on the conversation. None of you have been assigned partners yet. All of the agents here are looking; if you find a good match, come see me. Until then, enjoy yourself," he ordered.
"I have been to parties before," I protested and turned away at his shooing motion.
I wrinkled my nose, struck with the thought that I should have been more social during Academy. The place reeked of dominance-scent from all the posturing as the humans sorted out their social status, probably without even realizing what they were doing. It made my skin itch.
Food, that was the ticket. This whole situation would be much more comfortable once my stomach stopped growling. With that in mind, I made my way across the room to the buffet tables that had been set up along one wall.
I was right about the pepperoni pizza with olives.
With a pleased grumble, I filled a plate and sat in a corner where I could see the whole room. Watching the humans mill around, grouping up in circles as conversations were struck and separating into smaller groups or merging into larger groups as the topics changed, was as entertaining as a movie. My food was gone long before I joined the action.
One of the senior agents, who had been gradually drifting in my direction, looked at me and jerked his head in a beckon. Reluctantly, I got up from my seat and strode over, still clutching my empty plate.
"Hey. You planning on sitting in the corner all night? Pretty girl like you doesn't need to do any hiding," he said, flashing a toothy grin and displaying deep dimples. His breath stunk of alcohol powerfully enough that I doubted his friends were unaware of his indiscretion.
I tensed and stepped back, mouth clamping shut. My back straightened, and I felt my expression close into the blank look I wore if I couldn't fake human friendliness. I tilted my face away in a futile effort to avoid his breath.
"No," I said. "I am simply not being hasty. My apologies if I have given offense."
"Offense! Honey, you hurt our feelings! Isn't that right, boys?" My assailant looked around for support. Ignoring the uncomfortable, sidelong looks from his companions, he continued. "So why don't you stick around for a while and make some friends?"
His teeth were still bared in what he probably thought was an ingratiating smile, and I felt my lips stretch away from my teeth in a mirror of his expression.
"Back off. She doesn't know you're hitting on her, and you're making a fool out of yourself," someone suddenly said from behind me.
I spun in a small arc, keeping the drunk in my sight. The speaker was a strongly built woman with dark hair and chocolate eyes. Something in her bearing reminded me of a brick wall, and without thinking I retreated a few steps from the drunk and let my lips fall over my teeth.
One of his companions nudged him.
"Yeah, dude. You've been hitting the punch too hard, man. Don't you see the eyes? That's a were, dude. Too high maintenance for you. Why don't you check out that blond chick over there," the other man suggested, pointing out Ameile, another of my classmates.
With a grunt, the drunk nodded and spotting the other woman in question, strolled in her direction.
"If he comes on to her like he came on to me, she'll kick him in the balls," I commented, once the drunk had safely left earshot.
"Beats getting his throat ripped out for pushing every button a were has," the woman answered drily. "Really. Drunk and flashing teeth to a were? H
e's asking for it. Why not give him what he wants?"
"I wouldn't have killed him," I protested. "Punched him in the face, maybe. If I was undisciplined enough to shift over a mild annoyance, they would never have let me into the academy. Besides, I'm banded."
The man who'd redirected the drunk's attention snickered. "He fancies himself a pretty boy. He'd be more upset about a black eye than the nut shot he's got coming to him. Can't believe he passed through security with booze and didn't get caught. Oh, I'm Tomas, by the way."
“Samantha Davis," I said, shaking his hand.
"And I'm Moira," the woman said.
I smiled, the expression feeling more genuine than earlier. "Pleased to meet you both."
"What are you banded for?" Tomas asked curiously.
I pushed back the sleeve of my left arm to display the silver and black band around my wrist, and the rest of the crowd peeled off so fast their shoes left black marks on the floor. That was fine by me; the pressure of so many bodies close to me was making me nervous.
"Feral," I admitted. "I have been improving, but I had a very bad snap. My people skills need work, and I still lose words now and then."
"I'm surprised they let you into the Academy," Tomas said.
"Let her in to the Academy!" one of my friends caroled, strolling up with a drink in his hand. "She's a freaking hero. The bitch is made of pure iron."
"I wouldn't put it that way," I said, looking away. "I did what had to be done."
"Listen," the young man said, sliding his arm around my waist. "They say she snapped way late, when she was like, fourteen or something. She killed a milker and saved all the kids he'd stolen. When the police came, she was guarding the kids with her life, and the cops had to tranq her because she wouldn't stand down."
"What is so heroic about preventing the authorities from doing their duty?" I asked.
"Picture it," he continued as though I hadn't spoken. "A were with such a hyped-up, protective instincts that even starved to skin and bone, shot full of holes, and freshly snapped, she still wouldn't give up, not for anything. Even when she was totally gone, she didn't lay a tooth on the kids. Even when the...food ran out." His voice lowered to a dramatic whisper, and he widened his eyes meaningfully. “They found bags and bags of chilled blood in the fridge when they searched the place. Almost all of it hers. God only knows how much they milked from her before she snapped.”