The Veil
Page 140
Another angel descended, grabbed Tom.
“They’ll be safe?”
“They’re Consularis,” Burke said. “I called with a war whistle, something we worked out during the last go-round. We don’t command angels, but we can ask for their help to keep people safe. That’s how we do it.”
I nodded, and movement caught my eye, and I glanced back across the field, where a woman slipped toward the woods.
She was tall and slender beneath the ComTac fatigues, with long straight hair that fell nearly to her waist. And it was vibrantly red. She turned back, looked in my direction. Her skin was pale, and her eyes, just like mine, were green. The tilt of the nose, the curve of her lips, the long almond shape of her eyes—also like mine.
I hadn’t known my mother. Didn’t have a single memory of her, red hair or otherwise, because she’d died when I was two, the victim of a flu strain that had swept southern Louisiana.
Or so I’d been told.
“Claire!”
My mind racing, I looked back at Burke, who frowned at me, hands on his knees. “Are you all right?”
I nodded vaguely, switched my gaze back to the woman, but she was gone, probably disappeared into the bayou. “I’m fine. There was a woman with red hair. Did you see her?”
Burke’s eyes widened. “No. You’re the only redhead I’ve seen around. Get down here with me, Claire.”
I wanted to follow her, to obsess, to work through who she was. But I didn’t have time to think about it, or her, right now. That was for later. I dropped to my knees beside him.
“Put your hands here and here. We need to cast magic into the box, okay? I think that will reinforce it enough to keep the Veil from splitting. And we need to do this now, because I don’t think it’s going to hold.”
I heard the soft pop before the zing of sound reached me. Burke froze, then looked down at the spreading blossom on his chest. He’d been shot.
“Oh, damn. Oh, damn.” I pressed a hand to the wound, which was warm and wet with blood. A lot of blood. I pushed harder, applying pressure and trying to stanch the bleeding. But there was so much blood.
“Malachi!” I called.
Flutters, the movement of air, and then he was on his knees beside me, eyes wide and lips parted as he looked at Burke.
“I think this is my last battle,” Burke said, coughing.
“Not today,” Malachi said, a promise, and lifted the man into his arms without so much as a wince. He rose into the air, hovering, wings beating against gravity, and looked back at me.
“You have to do it, Claire. You have to close the locks. We don’t have much time.”
“Okay,” I said, wiping sweaty hands on my jeans. “Okay,” I said again, and blew out a breath.
I put a hand on the box, closed my eyes, tried to ignore the screams, the crashes, the pops of gunfire around me.
Sweat rose on my back as the magic in the air grew fiercer, hotter, but I forced myself to concentrate.
It’s a box, I thought. It’s just a box with parts and bits. I know how to move parts and bits. I can even do it with my mind.
So, technically, it was the perfect task for me. If I could make my magic work.
I closed my eyes, felt my magical way through the box. Each of the seven locks was different. There were springs held by tension, and pins that weren’t physical—not really. They were magical. Each tensioned for the Sensitive’s magic, so that only their magic could be used to slip the pins into place, to let the top gear turn into the appropriate slot.
I opened my eyes, concentrated. I didn’t have their magic. But I had mine. And maybe that would be enough.
“They’ll be safe?”
“They’re Consularis,” Burke said. “I called with a war whistle, something we worked out during the last go-round. We don’t command angels, but we can ask for their help to keep people safe. That’s how we do it.”
I nodded, and movement caught my eye, and I glanced back across the field, where a woman slipped toward the woods.
She was tall and slender beneath the ComTac fatigues, with long straight hair that fell nearly to her waist. And it was vibrantly red. She turned back, looked in my direction. Her skin was pale, and her eyes, just like mine, were green. The tilt of the nose, the curve of her lips, the long almond shape of her eyes—also like mine.
I hadn’t known my mother. Didn’t have a single memory of her, red hair or otherwise, because she’d died when I was two, the victim of a flu strain that had swept southern Louisiana.
Or so I’d been told.
“Claire!”
My mind racing, I looked back at Burke, who frowned at me, hands on his knees. “Are you all right?”
I nodded vaguely, switched my gaze back to the woman, but she was gone, probably disappeared into the bayou. “I’m fine. There was a woman with red hair. Did you see her?”
Burke’s eyes widened. “No. You’re the only redhead I’ve seen around. Get down here with me, Claire.”
I wanted to follow her, to obsess, to work through who she was. But I didn’t have time to think about it, or her, right now. That was for later. I dropped to my knees beside him.
“Put your hands here and here. We need to cast magic into the box, okay? I think that will reinforce it enough to keep the Veil from splitting. And we need to do this now, because I don’t think it’s going to hold.”
I heard the soft pop before the zing of sound reached me. Burke froze, then looked down at the spreading blossom on his chest. He’d been shot.
“Oh, damn. Oh, damn.” I pressed a hand to the wound, which was warm and wet with blood. A lot of blood. I pushed harder, applying pressure and trying to stanch the bleeding. But there was so much blood.
“Malachi!” I called.
Flutters, the movement of air, and then he was on his knees beside me, eyes wide and lips parted as he looked at Burke.
“I think this is my last battle,” Burke said, coughing.
“Not today,” Malachi said, a promise, and lifted the man into his arms without so much as a wince. He rose into the air, hovering, wings beating against gravity, and looked back at me.
“You have to do it, Claire. You have to close the locks. We don’t have much time.”
“Okay,” I said, wiping sweaty hands on my jeans. “Okay,” I said again, and blew out a breath.
I put a hand on the box, closed my eyes, tried to ignore the screams, the crashes, the pops of gunfire around me.
Sweat rose on my back as the magic in the air grew fiercer, hotter, but I forced myself to concentrate.
It’s a box, I thought. It’s just a box with parts and bits. I know how to move parts and bits. I can even do it with my mind.
So, technically, it was the perfect task for me. If I could make my magic work.
I closed my eyes, felt my magical way through the box. Each of the seven locks was different. There were springs held by tension, and pins that weren’t physical—not really. They were magical. Each tensioned for the Sensitive’s magic, so that only their magic could be used to slip the pins into place, to let the top gear turn into the appropriate slot.
I opened my eyes, concentrated. I didn’t have their magic. But I had mine. And maybe that would be enough.
