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Like the three musketeers joining their swords, I muse, a comparison my dirty mind reads a bawdy pun into. Orson, Braxton, and Max. My men. My pack. My mates.
“But still…”
Orson shakes his head. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Braxton smirks. “You know, we know where the fight will be. Even if you run, we’re just going to follow, but we’d be safer with you in our sight.”
Damn it. He’s right.
I turn to Max. “You really don’t think the girl with the crazy, deadly magic should try to battle this fight alone? Think about it logically.”
His eyes hold amusement. “There’s nothing logical about this, Asha. We’re not leaving your side.”
“Besides.” Braxton shrugs. “That asshole did a number on our heads before he let you take us, and nearly killed Max. We have a score to settle with him.”
Despite the morning’s grim sight and the dangerous battle looming on the horizon, I feel…happy. It’s a peculiar sensation, I have to reacquaint myself with it. It’s been an emotion in short supply these past few years, and I savor it now all the more for it.
When this is over, we’re going to make a home for ourselves, my mates and me.
And now I’m not just fighting against something, I’m fighting for something.
NINE
Asha
On the eve of the final operation, we’ve traded up from motels to a small house. Its three stories rise above the surrounding forest with the aid of a hill beneath it, as though the earth is lifting the structure so that it can peer over the wall of its neighbor. Which would make the land itself our ally, because that’s exactly what we intend to do.
Standing in the master bedroom, I gaze through the sliding glass door that leads out onto the balcony. Beyond its railing lies the ominous compound, a swath of land bounded by a tall fence topped with spiraled razor wire. In its middle stands the mansion itself, gothic and menacing, adorned with dark spires that extend like spears into the gathering night. The last light of dusk colors the tip of each spire red, giving the impression they’ve stabbed at the belly of the heavens and drawn its blood.
It’s strange to think that in that building, Blood Mages, and likely the rest of my pack, wait. I don’t know if they’re working together as friends, if they’re prisoners, or if they’re some uncontrollable violent force like the rest of my pack. And maybe I won’t know until we get in there.
I just hope I can save some of them, I think as I stare at the miserable structure.
“Looks nice,” I say glibly, making fun in an effort to combat the chill worming down my spine.
“Looks like a hotbed of magical activity,” says Orson, seated at the vanity. An assortment of cosmetic products have been shoved to its perimeter to clear a space for his computer.
Braxton slaps a hand against his back. “Nice workstation. When you’re done, you can powder up.”
“I don’t think I could be any prettier,” Orson rejoins. He looks up at Braxton. “You, on the other hand…”
Braxton smirks. “Smartass.”
Orson returns his focus to his computer again, agile digits tap-dancing over the keys. “That’s what got me here. Intelligence.”
“Speaking of,” says Max, retrieving a pair of binoculars from his bag, “what sort of intel have you been able to gather?” He tosses the binoculars to his brother and nods at the balcony.
As Braxton slides back the door, inviting a cool breeze into the bedroom, Orson replies, “Suboptimal.”
What can we really know when we can’t see in the damn place? I have a number of powers, but seeing through walls isn’t among them.
“Have they got some sort of magic blocker around the place?” Max asks, joining Braxton on the balcony. Braxton lifts the binoculars to his eyes and slowly surveys the compound.
“The substance of the intel,” says Orson, “I should have specified. I’m able to review the signatures with remarkable clarity. In fact, the tool’s never been clearer.” Giddiness seeps into his voice. “I actually managed to fine tune the aperture so that it eliminates excess noise often misinterpreted as the fading edges of magic use, thereby making each figure distinct both from one another and the historical background. In other words, a pristine live image. Even now, I’m watching the inhabitants of that mansion move about in real time.”
“Numbers, Orson,” Max demands impatiently.
This sours Orson’s mood. Not because of the curtness of Max’s request, but for the answer he’s about to give. “Still waiting on an exact count, but…dozens.” I watch over his shoulder while he runs a few programs on the live map, returning data I have no clue how to interpret. After scanning the information, Orson relays its bottom line. “They’re powerful.”
