Cancer's Curse (The Zodiac Book 4)

by Sating, Paul

  I twitched when hot breath coated the back of my neck. The incubus growled. "I'm going to fucking kill you if you ever do that again."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and focused on getting out of the mess hall in one piece.

  I did, and I even made it through having my head shaved. Bilba looked even dumber and Ralrek, of course, had a perfectly symmetrical head. Uniform disbursement followed and our first experience on the drill field where we learned to march followed that. At least I didn't screw that up—I actually picked up quickly.

  As we headed off the drill field, my stomach knotted in protest. I willed it to shut up, celebrating my drill performance and the fact I wasn't an absolute failure at everything.

  6 - Underworld, Seventh Circle

  "Not too bad, Zeke," Bilba smiled, nodding at the boot in my hands.

  Two weeks on from my mess hall humiliation, we'd gotten into a rhythm of boot camp life. I still wasn't enjoying it. There was nothing fun about the military—though no one ever promised that there would be—but the distinct flow of daily life helped gather momentum. No longer was I struggling to adjust to the Army's demands. I'd even learned to not call female drill instructors 'sir' in that time. Everyone in the platoon was regrowing their hair—though I still couldn't look in the mirror at my stubble-covered misshapen head and take myself seriously.

  Since we'd hit our training targets and performed to Sergeant Kelem's expectations, we were given time to ourselves. There were no days off for recruits, just for the full-time staff, but the sense of freedom that came with not having to worry about a drill instructor tossing your bed or having you stand at attention for an hour was a joyous occasion all the same.

  Today was about perfecting uniforms. Done with starching and ironing mine until it felt like it would cut skin with its sharp creases, I tended to my black leather boots, trying to get a semblance of a shine out of the toes. Bilba was done with his, so was Ralrek—because he flirted his way into getting help. Mine were pathetic. I willed the tip of the boot to take a shine. It refused. Creed would be useful if it could channel a spell that shined boots—not that we were allowed to use our Abilities—but the halberd had no recommendations.

  I dropped the boot to the floor, so tired of looking at the dull leather toe.

  "Hand it over," Bilba said with a light laugh. "I'll finish it for you."

  Determined, I shook my head, never lifting my face, and picked it up. "No, I've got it. I can't have you saving me on everything."

  "You can't fail the uniform inspection. Just let me help you, I'm done with everything else."

  "No, I've got it," I said, my elbow burning from rubbing small circles of blackened wax onto the toe for far longer than any demon should have to, even if they had an eternity of free time.

  Bilba sighed, stopping me.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I don't want you to fail inspection. How many times have you?"

  "Failed?"

  He nodded. "Twice. And you know what can happen if you do again."

  I did because Sergeant Kelem set clear expectations at every opportunity, as if he took pleasure in threatening us with the promise of making those who failed too often restart boot camp, something they elegantly called 'washing out.'

  Bilba pointed at the tip of my boot. "That's half your problem, right there."

  "What?"

  "You're rubbing that wax in as if you're trying to remove a stain. Relax, Zeke. Light touches. Oh, and more cold water. The bin has been sitting out so long it is room temperature. That won't help."

  I stopped rubbing, resting the cotton ball on the leather. "How am I supposed to keep water cold for that long? We live in the blessed Underworld, we're in boot camp, and no one is allowed to use their Abilities even if one of us has blessed Water magic."

  My cursing drew a few snickers from the demons near us, the strangers who became friends over these past weeks. Amazing how it happened, really, without me being sacrificed in a hazing ritual. Half a month ago, I was the focus of their frustration when I deprived them of that first meal in the mess hall. Now we were a team who helped each other out of binds. Everyone had strengths and weaknesses—mine seemed to be centered on everything and anything the Army needed me to learn—and we'd learned what each of those were for the other. My boot camp experience would have been rebooted a few times already if it weren't for the other twenty-eight incubi sharing this open living space with me. I say twenty-eight because we lost a recruit a few nights before.

  One night we heard him yelling in the bathroom after lights out, wrenching us from our sleep. His outburst drew the attention of the on-call drill instructor, who entered the bathroom and immediately ran back out, shouting at us to stay in our bunks. We found out the recruit had put his fist through a mirror and was talking to himself in the corner when the instructor found him.

  I don't know if they kept him around or if they sent him home, but I wasn't going to wash out and take my chances of running across someone like that in a new platoon.

  "I've got to learn how to get this right on my own, Bilba. You guys can't always save me."

  He looked away, a sure signal that he was about to be dishonest. "We're not saving you."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Are you really going to try to say that with a straight face? To me, of all demons?"

  "We haven't been."

  "Yes, you have." I countered.

  Bilba returned his focus to his own tasks. How could he deny the truth? He had saved me numerous times. Ralrek too, in his charming way. So had many others. Too many. I needed to get this boot right if for no other reason than to prove to myself I actually could.

  I followed my friend's advice, refreshing my water bin and returning to my bunk. I resumed buffing the toe, careful to rub tenderly with the wax-covered cotton ball. I don't know how long I buffed, dipping the cotton ball in water and switching to new ones whenever I'd abused an old one, but I got lost in the task when I started seeing progress. Slowly, an unmistakable sheen began spreading across the tip of the boot.

  "Keep going," Bilba encouraged, moving on to study for a test coming up later in the week, getting ahead as I fell further behind.

  "Nice work, Zeke," Kayden Lancer fist pumped.

  Momentum was gathering. This wasn't just platitudes, this was real. The boot was starting to shine. The cotton ball was gliding over the wax now, instead of fighting the microscopic grains in the leather surface. Their encouragement pushed me through the sweat and tedium.

  "Nice work, Sunstone," a gruff voice said above me.

  I looked up … into Sergeant Kelem's face. I hadn't heard him come in—this was supposed to be his day off—and no one had announced his arrival, or if they did, I missed it, as focused as I was.

  Immediately dropping my boot, I shot to my feet and stood at the position of attention. "Thank you sir," I said, forgoing the formal permission to speak garbage they made us do weeks ago. Once we learned to follow orders well enough, he stopped requiring it.

  The sergeant bent and retrieved my boot, holding it up for examination in my line of sight. His eyes traveled its dimensions like a horny incubus consuming a racy magazine. I squirmed. My lack of situational awareness at not recognizing the bay being called to attention would cost me after this impromptu boot inspection.

  He turned it, examining every inch of black leather that had just started holding a feeble shine. Rubbing the flat of his thumb across the boot, he huffed. I tried to hide my wince. The oil from his skin would screw with the wax layers. I'd have to repair that area. Great. As if I wasn't far enough behind.

  His eyes flicked to mine. To Creed. Back to me. Without a doubt, he was watching to see if I would slip back into civilian mode at his antagonistic action. What he couldn't comprehend was that part of me was gone, at least temporarily. The military was effective in destroying the demon inside. Old Zeke was dead, for now, surrounded by magicless incubi just like him. One of the tribe.

  Instead of chastising m
e or ridiculing my hard work, Sergeant Kelem leaned closer, and without a smile, said, "Not bad, Sunstone. It appears you might not be a complete fuck-up after all. Just don't let it go to your head." Without waiting for me to respond or even give him a cursory thank you, our drill instructor started away toward the center of the aisle, addressing everyone. "Meeting in the day room in five. Move your sorry asses."

  Something was different in our drill instructor's tone, something that made all of us check with each other when he walked out of the room, leaving us to our own devices and imagination. The nervous glances we shot at each other told me I wasn't the only one interested in hearing what he had to say.

  "What do you think this is about?" Bilba asked as he finished folding his physical training uniform into a perfect square and putting it away in his orderly drawer.

  "No idea," I said, rolling my shirt and tucking it in my dirty laundry bag.

  Bilba watched, shaking his head. "How many uniforms are you actually wearing?"

  I opened my locker door further so he could see the nearly-full set of duty and physical training uniforms hanging inside. My smile was irresistible as Bilba did the math.

  He looked shocked, his ears rimmed with pink. "You've gotten through boot camp rotating out two uniforms?"

  "Don't hate me because I'm smarter than you."

  "You're not smarter," he laughed. "You're disgusting. No wonder the bay stinks."

  "It stinks," I countered, "because there's almost thirty incubi spending eighteen hours a day in it and they feed us gruel full of additives. That's just asking for it, if you ask me."

  He still shook his head, unimpressed by my effective uniform rotation system that saved me untold time, and finished cleaning his area as the stream of demons moving toward the day room increased. I hurried and joined them, leaving Bilba behind because his need to have the perfect locker and desire to follow every stupid rule only reminded me of how many I consistently broke.

  "Hurry up, slowpoke," I teased.

  The platoon crammed into the dayroom, sitting on the floor in cross-legged positions so we could all fit. The room held no furniture except a simple gray metal desk and chair, both of which belonged to Sergeant Kelem. A demon we called Charlie, even though his real name was Valsiri, volunteered for the position of Administrative Assistant on Day Two, and touted his accomplishment like a conquering hero. Tall, lanky, and with a bottom lip three times the size of his top, Charlie was covering for something, I just had not had the time or interest to uncover what it was. Part of his duties called for him to ensure no one had the gall to sit at the sergeant's desk, and definitely not on it. He stood by the desk, guarding it as if his life depended on it.

  "Hey, Charlie," I said, walking as close as possible to watch him twitch.

  "Don't touch the—" he started.

  "I know. I know." I said, extending my pointer finger toward it. "But let me just clean this speck of dust from—"

  "I've got it!" Charlie dove to prevent me from cleaning the nonexistent dust. I turned away as he caught his thigh on the edge of the desk, releasing an oooof! and cursing me.

  I was still laughing as I found an open spot on the floor. The tile was cool, the chill creeping up through my physical training shorts, the uniform they now allowed us to wear when we weren't in our military fatigues. It was a privilege of being at this part of our training, having survived the early indoctrination.

  Small clumps of demons spoke in hushed tones. I remained sitting at attention—yes, we have a seated position of attention in Lucifer's Army—because I didn't want Sergeant Kelem walking in and catching me slacking. Improved boots or not, the last thing I'd do is give him any reason to scold me or mark me down. When I left for boot camp, I planned to figure out a way to flunk out so I could get home. Only after our training kicked off did I discover there was no flunking out, just endless cycles of retraining until I got it. Now, it was all about getting through boot camp on the first shot. I'm not a masochist. No way would I hand him ammunition to wash me out and make me start this heaven over again, especially since I had enough marks against me to be borderline. Imagining Day One all over again was what would keep me up at night if I was not always so exhausted. We weren't technically allowed to talk when gathered together without our drill instructor's permission, and everyone knew that. Sometimes Sergeant Kelem overlooked that if we were performing well. Sometimes not. The criteria were as inconsistent as my father's love. None of us knew for sure when he'd have a problem with sneaky conversations, so it wasn't a risk worth taking. Not for me.

  Bilba joined us, and Ralrek finally moseyed in like he had more important things occupying him. He squeezed in behind us, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around our necks and pulling us backwards, almost toppling me.

  "Something's happening guys," he said excitedly.

  I pulled away, removing his arm and sitting at attention again. Ralrek, cool as ever, didn't appear bothered by my shunning.

  "I know. The thing I can't figure out is why you're excited. It's never good news when they have unscheduled talks," I whispered as I pulled on my training shorts to straighten them again.

  "I'm ready for a change," Bilba said, the blotches on his cheeks just now clearing from the exertion of hurrying.

  I snickered. "We haven't even been here for a month. How in the world are you already ready for a change? I thought you wanted this?"

  "It's too stressful."

  "It's designed to be," I said, my eyes on the door and my ears focused down the hall for any sign that our drill instructor was on his way.

  "Well, I can't wait to hear what it is," Ralrek said before sitting back.

  Everyone turned toward the door at the clicking of Sergeant Kelem's taps striking the tile floor. Silence was immediate, already so well trained, compliant. Official lapdogs of the Army—probably my greatest accomplishment if anyone asked my father.

  Anxiety lanced the air as the clicking approached. The demon performing sentry duty performed a right face and called to the room, "Platoon, ten–hut!"

  The precise moment Sergeant Kelem stomped into the room, I knew something had changed. His face was drawn, lacking any of the sadistic joy all drill instructors seemed to have perpetually staining their expressions.

  "At ease. Take your seats, boys," he said in a flat tone.

  Usually, I would relax slightly when he gave us that permission, but I couldn't this time. This was so unlike him.

  "We've got a few things to go over," he said, spreading notes in front of him at his desk before looking up at Charlie. "What are you doing hanging around my desk, scum? Go take your blessed seat."

  Charlie jumped as if someone had pinched his ass. A smile flickered on my face, and I wasn't alone.

  "Not sure why so many of you are happy. The Army doesn't want happy soldiers. Anyway," Sergeant Kelem growled as if we were to blame for what he was about to share. "I haven't had nearly the time I need with you scum. But things beyond my control dictate our actions. Those things are namely being the human war. It has escalated."

  The room chilled. We had been cut off from the outside Underworld and any news about the mortal conflict. Everything was news to us, even down to the daily reports on the health of the Hellfire. The last thing anyone talked about was the human war. From the sharp edges to Kelem's narrowed eyes and the way his jaw jutted, things had to be bad.

  "Sir, permission to speak?" I found myself asking.

  Sergeant Kelem nodded. "Go ahead, Sunstone."

  "How bad has it gotten, sir? And what does it have to do with us?"

  As one, all heads moved from our drill instructor to me.

  "Bad enough that we've cut your training time in more than half." The news made his face look like he had just eaten an entire lemon with the peel intact.

  This time, no one could hold back a gasp. A dozen hands shot into the air.

  Sergeant Kelem closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Listen boys, I'm going to get real with you. You
're seeing the real Sergeant Kelem now. We need to spin you up and make you into Army troops as quickly as possible. That means I don't have time to entertain every question. We've got too much to do and no time to do it."

  He ran a hand over the top of his close cropped, tightly curled black hair. "Gotta be honest with you boys. This will suck for everyone. You think you've had long days? You haven't seen shit yet. The only time you're going to stop is when you're sleeping. It will be that busy. In fact, I'm moving into the office in the bay and staying with you so we can train on as much as possible before you graduate."

  Bilba and Ralrek and I shared looks, validating that we'd heard accurately.

  Even though he clenched his jaw, his eyes seemed to be looking at something a thousand yards away. "In fact, we need to start this accelerated training within the hour; and we have a long march ahead. Get your shit put away because we need to hit chow before we set out."

  I raised my hand again—hey, if things were this bad I wouldn't have to worry about washing out, so why not see how far I could push the rules?

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "And before any of you dumbasses ask; we're going out to the firing range. Today, I'll make sharpshooters out of you sorry scum."

  ***

  When you spend your entire life as the only demon in the history of a species to not have magic, being restricted from using it isn't necessarily a big deal. So when we were informed on Day One that it was strictly prohibited to access our Abilities, I coped much better than the rest of my platoon mates. For the first time in my life, I was normal, and it felt glorious—even in the context of early wake-ups, tons of marching, crappy food, and a complete lack of autonomy.

  Our purpose in boot camp was to be prepared to covertly join the human army, seamlessly blending in with the mortals to fight the enemy. Who their enemies were, I had no idea—I didn't keep up on the mortal's politics—but I knew we would join whatever side was the opposing force to the side angels were joining. Angels and demons, in the Overworld, ostensibly fighting a mortal war for mortal reasons. The real reason we were going, and I imagine the angels were being sent, was to maintain the Balance, the middle ground in the eternal tug-of-war between Hell and Heaven. So it made sense to ban all Abilities. In the Overworld, we would look and act just like the typical human soldier. To restrict our training to a magicless one gave us a life dependent on a different law of physics and mechanics. I can't lie, I was stoked that everyone had a further taste of what it was like to live as the Segregate for six thousand years. When all was said and done, maybe I would return to the Fifth being given a little more respect?