Three Promises (9 page)

She took a few more bites of the burger, which was pretty good. She'd have to remember the place, and thank Brigid for the cash to get real food. After a swallow of water, she let out a deep breath and felt her stomach settle in contentment.

“You're apparently the strong, silent type,” she said. “Which is cool I suppose, but I guess that means I'm going to do all the talking.” She nodded. “That's fine. I'm not normally the talkative type, but I'm in kind of a bad place, and I don't really have anyone to unload on. So, you know, lucky you.”

She drank some more water and shifted her weight to get more comfortable.

“I think I told you my name,” she said. “In case I didn't, you can call me Wraith. Kind of a lot has happened since I last saw you.”

The words came easy, with only a break to drink some water, or get up and walk around a bit. It kind of surprised her that she wasn't more scared, but she wasn't. She talked about her friends, the Order, and everything they'd done to her. Then she started talking about her parents, everything she could remember. It felt good, like talking about them out loud somehow made the memories more solid, more real.

Brendan for his part never said a word, and Wraith never saw anything but the shifting shadows in the trees. Even so, she was absolutely sure he was there, listening to every word.

Wraith wasn't sure how much time passed, and whenever she looked up, the stars and moon seemed entirely unmoved, but she knew that was impossible. Eventually though, she just felt like it was time to go. So she got to her feet.

“This was fun, thanks,” she said. “I'd offer you my number, but I bet the ser­vice here sucks. And there's the whole creeper factor.” She looked around. “I'm going to take your lack of laughter as part of your laconic thing and not that my jokes are bad. I'll be back with more food and stuff. I don't know when, but it won't be long.” She put her hands up and shook her head. “No, don't argue with me. You're the best listener I've ever met, so I'm just going to keep coming back and keep talking until you come out and tell me to shut up.” She shrugged. “So it's up to you.”

She smiled at the quiet.

“I'll take your silence as an invitation.”

Nothing.

“Take care, Brendan. I'll see you soon.”

She turned and was about to draw up the striding equation when something flashed in the corner of her eye. Then she saw it again, something twinkling in the moonlight as clouds passed in front of the moon's face.

She crouched down and found a battered silver pin amid the dead grass, partially covered with dirt. It was a triskelion, three interlocking spirals over a circular Celtic knot. It was strangely familiar, though she couldn't place where she'd seen it before. When it didn't come to her, she stood and held it up.

“Is this yours?”

No answer.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll just keep it safe for you. If you want it back, just ask.”

After a long moment, she tucked the pin into a pocket and drew up the equation around her, setting reality spinning. Before the dark and twisted lands vanished, she thought she saw a pair of blue eyes in the shadows watching her, and she could've sworn they were filled with tears.

B
rendan watched Wraith vanish in a mini cyclone. Even after she was gone, he could smell magic in the air. It was still powerful and wild, but now it was more focused, less a tidal wave and more like a fire hose.

She's dangerous.

“Aye,” Brendan whispered. “Aren't we all.”

Brendan would've sworn the demon chuckled.

After wiping the tears from his eyes, he walked slowly to the pack, but he just stared at it. It was a large backpack and full near to bursting. He looked from the rucksack to the swirling marks left by Wraith's departure and marveled at her. After walking through hell, she came out the other side bent on being kind, on bringing more light into the world. Brendan knew full well how rare a thing that was. She didn't know him, or owe him anything, and yet . . . He looked down at the pack again. That's when he understood; she was a monster too, of a sort. That group, the Order, had made her one. Rage still churned inside him as he thought back to her telling of what they did to her. It was almost worth returning to the mortal world to find those dark bastards and show them what a real monster was.

Yes, we could avenge that girl, and her friends.

Brendan laughed without humor as he knelt down and opened the pack. “You're a force for justice and good now, then?”

I'm the embodiment of anger and rage. As you know well, sometimes even the furious can also be righ­teous.

It bothered him when the demon made sense. He pushed the thought aside and examined the contents of the bag. Inside, he found two cheeseburgers. He'd barely gotten the wrappers off before devouring them, savoring each bite of meat. They'd grown cold, but they were perhaps the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. After finishing the burgers, and licking his fingers clean, he dug deeper into the pack. It contained dozens of plastic pouches. Each had the letters MRE printed on them, and a different meal name printed below that: spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, beef stew, southwestern chili, and countless others.

“Meals ready to eat?” Brendan read aloud.

There had to be two or three weeks' worth of food. As he moved the pouches, he saw bottles of water underneath them. He blinked and looked at the outside of the bag, then again inside. There was no way all that should've fit inside. He reached inside, pushing pouches and water bottles aside until his fingertips touched the bottom of the bag. His arm was in the bag almost to this shoulder. After removing his arm, he lifted the bag, sure it would have to weigh eighty or ninety pounds, but it wasn't even ten pounds.

“That's bleeding deadly, that is,” he said through a smile. “A fecking magic bag.”

He sat down then and began going through all the pouches as he removed the contents of the bag. When it was done, he had forty-­five meal packs, twenty-­five bottles of water (each thirty-­two ounces), and a first-­aid kit that could've come from an emergency room. He shook his head as he looked from the small mountain of goods and the pack that shouldn't have been able to hold a third of it. A wave of emotion surged through him, one he'd almost forgotten existed. He'd lived for so long angry and hungry for vengeance, he'd almost forgotten what kindness and gratitude felt like.

“I was wrong, love,” he said quietly. “You're no bleeding monster. You're an angel to be sure.”

He repacked the rucksack, slipped it on, and headed back into the woods to take his place again among the shadows.

T
rue to her word, Wraith returned. Brendan wasn't sure how much time had passed, it had no meaning in the Dusk Lands, but from what Wraith said, it'd been less than a week. She brought another pack loaded with food and water, and four cheeseburgers this time. The smell of them almost brought Brendan out of the shadows. Almost. Instead, he sat in the darkness, ate beef stew, and listened to Wraith talk about her friends. There was a wizard kid called Con who'd had a broken arm, but his cast was off now. She brought some comic books and read them to him. They were all about Wonder Woman, an Amazon princess. Another friend, this one a changeling called Geek, had gotten her hooked on them. Brendan had always thought comic books were for young kids, but he had to admit, he liked this Wonder Woman.

“She's a Fian,” he thought to himself. “No doubt about it.”

Wraith also told him about a little changeling girl called Sprout who'd been hurt with Con when the Order had taken Geek and another boy called Ovation. She was apparently none the worse for wear and had adopted Wraith as her big sister. Brendan couldn't help but think of Fiona then, and Caitlin. He hoped wherever they were that they were happy and safe. Then his thoughts turned to Áine, and the darkness around him soaked into his soul. He didn't hear much else Wraith said after that, but he was still sorry when she left, and secretly hoped she'd forget about him.

She didn't. Instead, she came back again, and again. Eventually, it occurred to her he didn't have a sense of time, so she told him the date when she arrived. Once a week, sometimes twice, she came to visit and talk while he listened in the shadows. He smiled with pride when she told him how she was finding homeless wizards and changelings and teaching them how to protect themselves. He was more than a little surprised there were homeless wizard kids, and more so that they needed help protecting themselves. Then he remembered Edward, and it made sense.

“We've formed a group of sorts,” she'd said. “I call it the Forgotten Circle.” She laughed. “Geek wanted to call it the Justice League, but I voted that down.”

Brendan smiled and listened, enjoying every word. He still wished she'd forget about him, but he was also glad when she came back. They'd even worked out a backpack exchange; him leaving an empty she'd take when leaving a full. Realizing he had more than enough food, she'd started bringing more fresh food. The empty wrappers in the bag were received as a request for more cheeseburgers, which she happily filled. Occasionally, she'd also leave in a postcard from some city or another. On each she'd write:

Wish you were here!

Your friend,

Wraith

The first had been from Dublin, and Brendan had wept quietly when he'd found it.

“S
o,” Wraith said as she sat and opened the bag, “it's been almost three months now and you still haven't said anything. A girl could start to feel a bit self-­conscious.” She laughed. “It's okay though. It probably sounds odd, but these visits have been really great. I feel like you're one of my best friends, and I've only ever seen you once.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to say thanks. I know you've just been sitting there listening, but I know you're there and, well, I appreciate it.” She drew a bottle of golden liquid. “I don't know anything about whiskey, or even if you drink it, but I heard this was good stuff.”

“No way are you old enough to be buying that on your own,” Brendan said as he stepped out of the trees.

Wraith almost dropped the bottle but didn't, for which Brendan was very grateful.

“Oh, uh, hey,” she said and got to her feet. “You're, um, looking better than last time I saw you.”

“Aye,” he said. “Been eating these nutritious prepacked meals for a while. Thanks for that.”

Wraith smiled. “No problem. Glad you like them.”

Brendan shrugged. “The vegan chili is utter shite, but the rest ain't so bad.”

Wraith laughed. “Sorry, it's in the pack. I'll try to avoid those in the future.”

Brendan walked very slowly toward her. Wraith watched him, and he could see the fear and hesitation in her eyes. He stopped better than ten feet away, but it was close enough to notice her looking over the tattoos and scars that covered his bare chest and arms. Up until that moment, he'd forgotten he'd been half naked all this time.

“Nice, uh, tats,” she said, then cleared her throat and looked away.

“I could use a shirt next time, if you wouldn't mind,” Brendan said.

Wraith nodded, but still didn't look at him. “Uh-­huh, sure, no problem.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“Did you steal it?” Brendan asked.

Wraith looked at him. “What?”

“The whiskey,” Brendan said and nodded at the bottle.

“Oh, that.” She pursed her lips and looked at the bottle. “Would you be angry if I said yes?”

“Not even a little, love.”

Wraith smiled and seemed to relax a bit. After a moment of not looking at him, she realized she still had the bottle and held it out for him.

Brendan stepped forward and took it, then stepped back and looked the bottle over.

“Bloody hell,” he said and smiled. “This is The Tyrconnell.”

“Is that good?”

Brendan opened the bottle and took a long sniff. The smell alone was almost intoxicating. He lifted the bottle and took a sip. Warm liquid silk slid down his throat and stoked warm in his belly. He let out a long sigh.

“I guess that's a yes,” Wraith said.

“Oh, aye. Well done, love.
Go raibh maith agat
.”

Wraith blinked.

“Thanks.”

She smiled. “You're welcome, Brendan.”

He looked at the bottle. “I'm sure you're well under age in the states, but it's terribly rude not to offer whiskey to the person what gave it to you.”

Wraith eyed the bottle, then looked at Brendan. “Is it terribly rude to decline? It's nothing personal, I just don't think it's a good idea for me just now.”

He shook his head. “Not rude in the slightest. Just means you're leaving more for me.” He lifted the bottle,
“Sláinte,”
and took another sip.

“Well,” Wraith said, “maybe it's time for you to take the lead in the conversation for a while. Now that I've plied you with drink and gotten you to come out of the woodwork.” She smiled. “Get it? Wood work? Because you were in the trees?”

“I think I need another drink.”

“Not one for puns, huh? Duly noted.”

Brendan let out a breath, looked around, then sat down. “All right, fair play. Least I can do is a bit of talking for a change.”

Wraith beamed and sat down, crossing her legs, and leaned forward.

“Have you ever heard of the Fianna?”

 

THE LEGION OF SOLOMON

 

“N
ice day, huh, Collins?” Mitchell, the Humvee driver, asks me. He's a few years older than me, which means just old enough to have beer back home. The guy is about as average as you can get, which includes his sense of humor.

I give him a flat look. “Yeah, it's only 108 today, and we haven't taken any fire in an hour. I love spring in Iraq.”

“Yeah, but it's a dry—­” Mitchell starts to say, but the collective groan shuts him up.

“Don't forget about the sand in all your nooks and crannies,” Johnson says from the turreted fifty-­caliber. “Three tours here and I still can't figure out how it gets in. Swear to God, I used duct tape over my skivvies once. Didn't do a damn bit of good.”

We all waited for the punch line.

“Of course it did provide a new method of getting my regular Brazilian waxing in.”

We all laugh, and the tension eases, but just a little. Johnson is the funniest bastard I've met since getting deployed. He's tall, has a shaved head, and is 250 pounds of solid muscle. I'm convinced there's a defensive line somewhere that sorely misses him. Dude is also the best shot with any weapon he puts his hands on, which is why he's on the fifty.

I've only been in the sandbox a few months, but that's long enough to know you have to laugh, especially on these convoy missions. I don't know how Johnson's done this for three tours. Almost five years.

Everyone goes quiet as we move into the city. The streets are deserted, which is never a good sign.

“I wish we had one of those V-­hull rigs the marines get,” I say under my breath.

“Stow the chatter,” Sarge says over the radio. “Hold up here, I don't like the look of—­”

It all happens so fast.

The lead Humvee goes up in a ball of flame, someone yells “IED!” over the radio, and then the gun truck goes up. After that, it's all sporadic gunfire, and more explosions all around us. It becomes a full-­on Charlie Foxtrot in record time. That's the alphanumeric for the letters
C
and
F
. For the civilians, the
C
stands for cluster. You can figure out the
F
.

Then everything goes black.

“K
id, can you hear me?” someone asks.

I can hear the voice, but it's miles away. My brain is a jumble. I'm not sure where I am or what's happening, but I know I shouldn't be lying down, or sleeping, or whatever the hell I'm doing. Sarge will kick my ass if he catches me.

Why the hell can't I get up?

“Nonresponsive,” someone else says.

“Three, Six, provide cover. We'll get the wounded inside,” the first voice says.

His tone is one I know well, a commanding officer. Even in my brain-­scramble, I find myself trying to follow his orders.

“Yes, sir,” two voices say in unison.

“Four, soon as we're in, I want wards up.”

“Copy that.”

“Move, now!”

At first I think maybe this is an exercise. But only until someone grabs the drag handle on my vest and hauls me across the rough ground. Pain surges through my body, worse than anything I've ever felt, and I hear someone cry out. A moment later, I realize it's me.

I'm almost sure I learned in my training that that's not good.

It takes all my focus, but I manage to kick my brain into gear and open my eyes. The world is a stuttering blur of dust and dirt and blood and fire, like a movie with half of every second frame missing. There are two guys, I think they're friendlies, but they're not wearing standard Army Combat Uniforms. Their ACUs are all black. They're taking cover behind a seriously mangled Humvee, but they're not holding any weapons. I see the rest of my detail all around me. None of them are moving, some of them aren't even whole. A few of those who are, are being dragged by more of the men in black.

In an odd moment of clarity, my brain latches onto my training when I spot a rifle. I grab it, though the movement sends even more pain through me.

I look back to the two taking cover behind the Humvee wreckage just as I'm being dragged into a building. I'm pretty sure no one uses flamethrowers anymore, and I don't see a tank on either guy's back, but one of them is spraying a jet of flame forty feet long out of his hand. They must be spec-­ops, right? Some kind of new weapon system the grunts haven't seen yet? All things considered, it shouldn't be surprising if they had three heads.

As I'm dragged over a doorway, my body bounces. I wince and grit my teeth. For a moment, everything goes white and I have to fight to get my senses back. But I never let go of my rifle.

Sarge would be proud of that much, at least.

Where the hell is Sarge?

I hear a voice through the pain.

“Can you hear me, kid?”

I nod, since I can't seem to get anything out from my clenched jaw. It feels like a month before I get the upper hand on the agony running through me. Someone props me up against a wall. I take a slow breath, then open my eyes. I'm in one of the many buildings lining the street; old and gutted, typical for this area of Iraq.

“I know that look,” a voice says, and I recognize it as the one giving orders outside. “That's a good sign, son.”

I look up and see one of the guys in black ACUs standing over me. I hadn't noticed it before, but he has a hood as part of the uniform, so all I can see are some scars.

“You're hit, but it's not bad. We're gonna take care of you. Don't worry,” he says.

“My squad?” I ask.

“Looks like three others are alive. They're in rough shape, but I think they're going to make it if we can get an evac.”

He doesn't mention the other six. I don't have to ask what that means.

“Who are you guys?” I ask through gritted teeth. Anger is making it easier to push back the pain and I'm noticing more details around me. I scan his uniform for patches. There's no branch or rank detail. There's just a unit patch, but it's nothing I recognize. It looks like concentric circles with a star inside and a bold “1” in the center of it. The space between the circles is filled with odd script I don't recognize. I think the star is a Star of David, but I didn't think the Israelis had anyone here. But these guys sure sound like Americans. I look, but don't see a flag patch anywhere.

“We're friendlies,” he says, noticing me checking his uniform.

I haven't been out of boot long, but I know “you don't need to know” when I hear it. I'm also smart enough to know when to shut up and appreciate someone pulling your ass out of a fire, especially a literal one.

I almost jump out of my skin when I hear what sounds like a freight train strapped to an A-­10 outside. It's followed by an explosion that shakes the whole building. Dust falls around me, and I grip my rifle, waiting for the walls and roof to follow suit.

The team leader moves away, speaking into a throat mike and listening to an earpiece, but I don't see any cords or radios on him. I look around and see four others, all in the same black, hooded uniforms. One is, well, it looks like he's drawing something on the walls with white chalk, more circles and strange letters. The other three move out of the room, back out the way we came in. I look away, and that's when I see Johnson, Mitchell, and the Sarge lying nearby. They're not moving, and they're covered in blood. Johnson's right arm looks mangled, and his face is burned. I can't bear to look at him for long. I look at Sarge. He's cut up and burned too. I just stare for a long while. He's in his forties, late forties, with weathered brown skin that looks more like leather, and he's the toughest man I've ever met. I sort of expected bullets and shrapnel to just bounce off him. Seeing him like this does more to rattle me than anything else so far.

I check my rifle and my ammo supply. Weapon status red, ready to fire. Deep breath. I've got two magazines on me. Not much ammo, but I'll make it count.

“Get Three and Six in here,” the team leader says over the sound of gunfire outside. “Then I want full wards up around the room. All elements covered, just in case those bastards have a mystic with them.”

“Yes, sir,” says the one drawing on the walls.

There's the sound of a huge electrical arc followed by a boom of thunder that shakes the building again. I move to cover Sarge from the falling dirt from the roof, but my body doesn't respond.

Moments later the team reassembles on the far side of the room. I count seven of them, and notice each has a different number on his unit patch.

“Sitrep,” the team leader, who has a “1” on his patch, asks the one with a “4” on his.

“The rest are angel, sir,” he says. “I count at least five IEDs used, all Monday, and at least a dozen RPGs. These guys didn't have a chance. This was a damned meat grinder. Frankly, it's a miracle any of them are still—­”

I grit my teeth. “You don't have to talk like I'm not—­”

“Settle down, soldier!” One says. He looks at me, then at my name tape. “Collins. I'm sorry for your squad, but you're in the middle of shit you can't even begin to process, son.”

His tone does more to shut me up than the words themselves.

“We're going to do everything we can to get you and your squad out of here, all of them. But you need to sit back and let us do our job.” His eyes go hard and bore into me. “Do you understand me, Private?”

“Yes, sir,” I say more out of instinct. In a moment of panic, I'm back in basic training and calling the drill sergeant “sir.” One doesn't glare or scream at me that he works for a living, so he's probably an officer.

He nods, then turns back to his team. I can hear them speaking, but it's too quiet for me to make out now. And that's when I notice something missing from their gear, and my stomach drops through the floor.

“Christ, you don't have any weapons!” I say without thinking. None of them has so much as a side arm.

One glares at me, and I go silent again. I can't tell you why, but I now know this guy doesn't need a rifle, or any kind of gun, to bring a world of hurt down on someone. I think he could call an airstrike from sheer force of will. He scares the shit out of me, and he said he was a friendly.

“Are the wards up?” One asks without looking away from me.

“We're sealed tight,” Four, the one who'd been drawing on the walls, says from the doorway.

I blink and stare, but nothing changes. The odd writing that covers the walls now also covers the doorway, but there's no door, so the symbols just hang in the air.

What the hell are you guys? I want to ask, but have enough sense not to. I'm dense, but I eventually learn.

One nods, then walks over and crouches down to look me in the eye. “Listen up, Collins. I don't know who the hell sent your convoy through here today, but rest assured I will make sure they receive an ass-­chewing about which epic poems will be written. But you're here, we're on the same side, and we're gonna help.”

“I sense a monster
but
coming, sir,” I say.

He nods and smiles a little. “But, you can't ask any questions. Suffice it to say, we don't exist.” He looks at me for a long while. Through the shadow of his hood, I see his dark eyes; they almost look to be filled with swirling white clouds. “Try not to move. Our medic is gonna see to you and your squad, then we'll try to get you out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. When in doubt, shut up and follow orders.

He stands, turns to Two, and nods at Sarge. “Check him first.”

“On it,” Two answers, then pulls a bronze pedant with a vividly clear and bright blue stone set in the center from a utility pouch. He wraps the long chain, of the same metal as the pendant, around his hand a ­couple of times and crouches over Sarge. With care and gentleness that seems at odds with the circumstances, he places the pendant on Sarge's chest. A blue light surrounds the still form of the massive man who put the fear of God in me every day, and who I thought was invincible.

A moment later, I remind myself to keep breathing.

“Shrapnel in eight places, second-­ and third-­degree burns, and some internal bleeding,” Two says. “I can stabilize him.” He closes his eyes and slowly turns the pendent. After a moment, the blue glow around Sarge gets a few shades lighter. Two smiles and opens his eyes. “Check, he should be okay.”

“Good,” One says, then turns to Five. “Any sign of Sierra Novembers?”

“That's a negative, sir,” Five says from a window, a hint of Louisiana bayou in his voice. “I see Monday forces only.”

I stare, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing, but I can't. Five is just standing there, right in front of the window with no cover at all. But somehow, he isn't drawing any fire.

I dig through the addled recesses of my brain to try and remember if I've heard of Sierra Novembers before.

I look at Sarge, still glowing, and the pendant on his chest. Then I think back to the flamethrower. That's when I realize that Five wasn't saying “Monday” like the day, he was saying “mundane.” A chill runs through me and I start breathing fast. This has to be the result of serious head trauma. Or a dream, a truly messed-­up dream. I feel One's eyes on me. When I look up at him, I figure it out, and the words just pop into my head. I'm not able to meet his eyes, but I know I'm right. Sierra Novembers: supernaturals.

In the middle of shit you can't even begin to process, he'd said. Talk about the understatement of the century.

“This one is in rough shape,” Two says as he looks over Johnson. “Aside from a shattered humerus, he knocked his head pretty bad, possible cerebral hemorrhage. I'm going to pause him till the mundane medics can get here. Even so, we need to get him clear.”

I watch as he traces his finger over Johnson's chest, leaving white symbols behind like glowing finger paint.