by Shaun Barger
“Could I get one Chestnut Jeeves, a Blue Ridge Smoke, a Schwarz Royale, annnddd—”
Nik could feel eyes on the back of his neck, and glanced back to see a couple of Joseph’s old friends who had played on the academy flyball team with him when they were teens.
Catching Nik’s look, one of them—a tall, poshly dressed mage with sandy hair and a spattering of freckles—raised his glass to him, then muttered something to his friends. They all laughed.
Gritting his teeth, Nik ignored them, turning back to the bartender. “— fuck it — a Ginger Dragon. Make it a double.”
He downed the Ginger Dragon at the bar and sent the brews to their table. He instantly felt more relaxed as warm snakes of alcohol spread down through his chest and stomach.
“Hey, guys,” Nikolai said, taking a seat. He took a swig from his honeybrew and leaned in, loosened up, elbows on the table. “So, I hate to ask, but please. Be straight with me. The assignment ceremony. Was it . . . as bad as I think it was?”
Stokes and Trudy looked at each other, faces fixed with artificial smiles as they unsuccessfully attempted to mask their discomfort. Astor frowned.
Nikolai shrugged. “I’m not dumb. Everyone here’s looking at me like I’ve got shit on my face. I was hoping that after two years away maybe people would have forgotten.”
“No, dude, it wasn’t that bad,” Stokes said. “I mean . . .” He looked to Astor for support.
“It was a nightmare,” Astor said, blunt as always.
Stokes cringed. “Yo, Astor, come on . . .”
She slammed her Chestnut Jeeves down onto the table, sugary brown soda splashing over the fingers of her golden medi-glove as she cut Stokes off, her eyes glittering with fiery intensity.
“Who gives a shit, though? Nicky, I’m sorry. I know being a Watchman like your dad meant a lot to you. And I know we weren’t on speaking terms, but ever since you left I’ve been so angry at myself for how I just stood there and watched you fall apart. How I just froze up and let those douchebags laugh at you instead of slapping them upside their heads. So if anyone tries to give you shit, you point them to me. And I’ll feed them their own assholes. Okay?”
She stared at him, intent, fingers wrapped so tight around her glass that Nikolai worried she was going to crush it.
Nikolai looked at her for a moment, his insides a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Then, finally, he grinned.
“Hey. Astor. Do you want to dance?”
“W-what?” she said, shocked, as if that was the last possible response she could have anticipated. Shock turned to delight. “Nikolai Strauss, since when do you dance?”
He stood and offered her his hand.
“In New Damascus, everyone dances. It’s the whole point of going out. C’mon, I’ll teach you.”
She grinned. “We’ll see who teaches who.”
The music was just right, so Nikolai downed his brew and led Astor over to the open space in front of the stage. He, Ilyana, and Albert had gone dancing almost weekly, and they’d taught him all the most popular steps.
“Hands here, with the music . . .”
She picked it up quick, and soon they were stepping and spinning and turning in front of the stage. The band didn’t seem like they were accustomed to magi actually dancing to their music, and it excited them. They started playing louder, faster. A circle formed around Nikolai and Astor, magi watching and clapping along.
“Wow,” she said, teasing. “You really have gotten fancy since you left.”
“Not really,” he said, trying not to blush.
A hand clamped on his arm, stopping them midturn.
“All right, sucka,” Stokes said. “My turn. Show me how to do that shit.”
Nikolai grinned at Astor and passed her to Trudy, taking Stokes in a spin as he showed him the steps, leading until Stokes got it and then letting Stokes lead.
“How you doing, bud?” he said into Nikolai’s ear. “Seems like you’re keeping your cool, but I know how you are.”
“Okay, I think,” Nikolai said honestly. “I was nervous, but I’m actually having a really good time.”
“You know, it’s totally okay if you don’t want to go to Joseph’s game. It’s gotta be weird for you.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” Nikolai insisted. “I’m a big kid, I can handle it.”
“Cool.” Stokes broke off from Nikolai, beaming. “I really missed you, man. It’s fucking good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back,” Nikolai said, realizing, to his surprise, that he actually meant it.
Stokes broke off from Nikolai, bowing to Trudy with a flourish and taking her hand. Couples and singles were moving onto the dance floor, some emulating Nikolai’s New Damascus dance, others doing their own thing.
That ex-flyball player douchebag who’d toasted him earlier (whom Nikolai had mentally dubbed Freckles) hung back with some of the other ex-flyball guys, occasionally casting annoyed glances Nik’s way as he began swapping partners—eventually ending up with one of the two friends of Astor’s who’d laughed at him earlier. She was a tall, willowy girl with hair dyed a softly glowing opalescent pearl.
“Nik, right?” she asked, leaning down a little to shout into his ear. “I like your uniform!”
“Thanks,” he said, and twirled her around, catching her at the last possible moment. She laughed, cheering.
“You’re good. I’m Gwendolyn. I think we had living math together?”
Nikolai thought about it with an expression of practiced indifference. “Maybe.”
The more they danced, the closer they became, until finally she was hanging off him, and they were practically nose to nose.
“All right.” Astor cut in. “Time’s up, Gwyn. You mind?”
Nikolai’s heart skipped a beat, though from Gwyn’s expression she did mind. Taking Astor’s hand, he glanced back to see Gwyn go sit with Freckles, who was scowling with a pint of brew in one hand, angrily tapping the glassy length of a truth-teller Focal against his leg with the other. It appeared that they were together.
Gwyn put her arm around his waist and tried to kiss him but he pushed her away and said something that, from her stricken expression, must have been nasty. Clearly upset, she stormed out, dragging her friend behind her. Freckles glanced over at Nikolai again, eyes glinting with jealous rage.
“Yikes,” he muttered, trying not to look pleased.
Astor rolled her eyes. “I know, right?”
They were both sweating and grinning by the time a slow dance began to play, giving everyone a chance to catch their breath. Nikolai held her close, her unruly hair tickling his cheek. Disc, he’d forgotten how good she smelled. How good it felt to hold her.
“You know,” she said, into his ear. “You said some pretty shitty things last time we talked.”
“I know,” Nikolai said quietly. “I’m sorry. I just . . . you were my first. Friend. Girlfriend. Everything, really.” He smiled, trying to smother the melancholy that threatened to wash away the joy he was feeling. “Nobody had ever gotten me like you. And I wasn’t ready to let you go.”
She stopped dancing and hugged him tight. “You know I love you, right?”
“Sure,” he said, tears stinging his eyes. “Of course.”
“Oh, Nicky,” she said. “You never were any good at lying to me.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome home, Strauss. I’m glad you’re back.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of singing, dancing, and too much honeybrew. By the end of the night Nikolai was cheerfully, drunkenly saying goodbye to almost everyone—everyone except for Freckles and his friends, who had spent the night watching Nikolai and Astor dance with uneasy eyes.
It was strange and wonderful feeling like a part of this group. Even at his happiest, when Nikolai and Astor were at the peak of their relationship, desperately in love in the way only fifteen-year-olds can be, he had never held any hope of connecting with these people. But with a few drinks, and a few dance less
on imports from New Damascus . . .
It wasn’t until Nikolai was drifting off that he remembered his promise to call Ilyana. But it was late, and he was drunk, so he decided to wait till morning instead.
* * *
A crushing hangover pounded through Nikolai’s skull as he soared through the clouds over Marblewood, he and the jet-black skyhorn hidden from view by a sheet of invisibility as he scanned the Dome for thinning, which would appear through goggles worn for the task as dark blotches in the Veil’s mirror surface. When it was found, which was rare, a Lancer would be scheduled for repair.
Red took the western half of the Veil, around the farmlands, while Nikolai took the eastern side, mostly over the lake and wilds.
The air was chilly high up over the water. Nikolai had never flown over Marblewood before, and if the city had felt small before, seeing it spread out below in miniature made it doubly so. Down below, fishing boats threw out nets over black water, dragging up piles of fish flashing silver and gold in the early morning sun. Bright circles of light moved under the surface along the shore as divers harvested freshwater mussels.
Nikolai skimmed to a halt over the far edge of the forest, breath catching in his chest. Just out of reach, the cerulean dome shone with the vaguest reflection of green from the trees below.
It was then, as he drew near enough to see the Veil’s mirrored curve within the illusion of sky, that he was able to gauge the dome’s actual size.
The realization of how truly small Marblewood was compared to New Damascus left him breathless. He could feel the weight of it, as if the whole sky had suddenly come crushing down on his lungs.
Nikolai let the skyhorn drift closer to the Veil and pressed his hand against it, steadying himself. The surface was cool and frictionless. Though one couldn’t normally feel the magical energy constantly filling the air from the Disc at the center of the city, as he splayed his hand against the artificial sky, he could feel the flow of it like a gentle, electric breeze through his fingers.
Slowly, purposefully, he drew his baton and lightly pressed it against the surface. The surface began to bulge outward, and he pulled away in a horrified panic—the reality of what he’d almost done hitting him like a slap.
He couldn’t breathe. He circled the maples, looking for a spot to land. A familiar clearing caught his eye, and with morbid fascination he pushed through the treetops, cracking limbs and branches with the heavy vehicle as he landed.
He couldn’t hold it anymore. He had to try the spell passed on to him by that fucking revolver. Had to get it out of his system, lest he find himself unable to contain it next time he was within reach of the dome.
What better a spot than the very clearing in which the revolver had first touched his mind?
The ground remained blackened from Nikolai’s flame when he and Hazeal had fought, though ferns and wildflowers had already begun to sprout up among the scorched moss. Nikolai was relieved to find no trace of Hazeal’s ashes remaining, likely washed away by rain.
Feeling the spell pulse and take shape through his pools and channels, he weighed his dagger in one hand, his baton in the other. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, focusing.
It was heavy. Powerful, but somehow delicate. He sheathed the dagger. The baton was a better fit for the spell, which required some finesse.
“APOCRYPHA!”
It was remarkably like the akro weave of hardened air, though less malleable and far more difficult to cast and maintain. It cast with barely controllable force, like trying to control the flow of water from a spigot with your bare hand.
With a wave of his baton, a great glimmering wall split the clearing in two.
The spell was far too powerful to maintain with his inner pools of magic alone. That gentle electric wind from the Disc’s unlimited well of magic he’d felt before seemed to buffet him like a storm as it rushed to fill in the swath of sky he’d created.
With a grin, he shot off another curving strip of mercurial Veil, then another, featherweighting himself and creating long looping ribbons he could sprint along as he watched the forest spin around him.
When he was finished, the clearing looked like an art piece, woven abstractly with long tangles of shimmering, paper-thin mirrors.
Dismissing the Veil, he tried the more difficult inversion of the weave, sending out a great open sphere of Veil to close around a tree stump.
The tree stump disappeared, the place where it had been now an unremarkable spot of scorched moss. There wasn’t a hole—it was as if the stump had never been there at all. The spell made reality somehow pinch, pulling in the surroundings as the Apocrypha Veil stowed away its contents in some sort of pocket dimension.
This was how magi had hidden themselves from the outside world for thousands of years. This was how their cities had remained safely stowed away from whatever calamity had afflicted the world beyond the Veils.
Nikolai could feel an invisible point hanging in the air at the center of where he’d cast the spell. He reached for it, dismissing the spell, and the stump reappeared, the ground around it pushing out in an unsettling way that gave Nikolai a moment of nauseating vertigo.
He wasn’t supposed to learn the spell until he’d ranked up to Lancer Class. But so what? Using it to pass through the Veil without any idea of what lay beyond would be insanity. For all Nikolai knew, he’d be torn to atoms the moment he left the protection of the Veil. There were too many unknowns—enough that he’d have to be suicidal to risk it so blindly, and with so little cause.
Maybe if the revolver hadn’t been confiscated, it would have had further instruction for Nikolai. But whatever plans his mother might have had for him and the artifact, it was locked up tight now. That ship had sailed.
Nikolai returned to his uncle’s office in the Watchman station to find Red at his desk, bent over some paperwork.
“Disc,” Nikolai said, stretching. “I can’t believe you do all the scanning on your own. Even half was a pain in the ass.”
“Don’t have to be so thorough,” Red said, not looking up from the paperwork. “It’s just busy work. Takes months of neglect for real thinning.”
“Why aren’t there any other Edge Guard here? Even little Veils usually have a few.”
“Don’t want any others. Got you to help for now.”
“Yeah, well, don’t expect much,” Nikolai said. “This is supposed to be a vacation.”
He tapped the comm crystal, which automatically displayed the face of a disinterested Edge Guard clerk back in New Damascus.
“Marblewood check,” she said.
“Marblewood green,” Red replied.
“Confirmed.” The crystal went dark.
As Nikolai moved to leave, Red cleared his throat.
“The captain told me that you and him talked about . . . your mother.”
Nikolai stifled a sigh. “Yeah?”
“She never told me anything,” he said. “Kept me in the dark. Didn’t even know she was dead till a couple Moonwatch dragged me out of bed for questioning. I still don’t understand why. But . . . it was very hard.”
He hesitated, watery gray eyes haunted as he looked up at Nik. “I know that growing up with me . . . wasn’t easy. But when you left . . . and when you never called, or wrote—”
Guilt and anger swirling in a hot muddle, Nikolai opened his mouth to speak, but Red held up a hand for Nik to let him finish.
“—it got me thinking. A lot. About how absent I was in your upbringing. About how selfish I was, too buried in my own issues to be the man you needed me to be.”
Nikolai straightened, mouth pressed into a thin line. He was furious now, though he wasn’t quite sure why, jaw clenched to keep from saying anything unkind to the uncharacteristically vulnerable man, usually so stone-faced.
Red met Nikolai’s angry gaze, pained but unflinching. “I know you’re only here for a little while. But I was hoping that maybe . . . we could start over. Try to get to know each other. To be . . .
something like a family, at least.”
Nikolai took a moment to collect himself. When he finally spoke, his manner was cool and composed.
“You’re a Lancer, like my mom was,” he said. “You’ve gone beyond the Veil. So tell me—what’s really out there?”
Red stared at Nikolai, seeming surprised by the question. “I’ve told you this before. Showed you files.”
“Oh, I remember. But are you sure you don’t have anything to add? Any details you might’ve forgotten to include in your reports?”
Red seemed to be very carefully maintaining eye contact with Nikolai. It was strange—as if he was struggling not to look over at something looming in his periphery.
“No.”
“So say, hypothetically, that there was a freak magical accident, and some random civilian was thrown out into the human world. Without a Lancer’s spells and knowledge, they’d just die in the radioactive hex storms, right? Melt like a candle in spellfire.”
“That’s right,” Red said evenly. “They’d be dead in an instant. Like I told you.”
Nikolai smiled unpleasantly. “Yep. Just like you told me.”
“Nikolai—”
“Look, Uncle Red, I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Red began to nod eagerly, waving for Nikolai to go ahead as he tried and failed to mask his disappointment.
Nikolai took a deep breath, relenting. “Thank you for talking to me. I’ll think about what you asked.”
“Of course, of course,” Red said hurriedly. But his relief was palpable.
That was as close to an apology as he was going to get from Red, Nikolai supposed. Lost in thought as he contemplated Red’s words, he almost walked right into a Watchman who was much larger than him.
“Oh, sorry about—” he began, but stopped midsentence, going cold.
“Nikolai!” Joseph Eaglesmith rumbled, the immense mage impossibly dashing in the brass-buttoned Watchman uniform. A golden scepter topped with the figure of a screeching eagle hung at his side—the logic Focal of one born for political leadership. On his feet were a pair of great golden flyball boots—art Focals with wings like the mythical sandals of Hermes.