War Storm

Cal just hisses to himself, frustrated. “When we win the city, remind me to give every Silver officer a crash course in newblood abilities. Arezzo,” he adds, barking out the strange word over his shoulder.

A woman shoulders forward in reply, her uniform the dark green of Montfort, covered in foreign insignia. “Sir,” she says, ducking her chin.

“Get your teleporters ready,” Cal commands. He seems almost amused, watching as I seethe, angry with him. And with myself for forgetting exactly what kind of army we’re working with. Is there no end to these newblood peculiars? “Prepare to jump to those ships.”

“Yes, sir,” she says brusquely. With a wave, she draws forward other Montfort soldiers. Other teleporters, I assume.

I glance at my brother sidelong, to gauge his reaction. Tolly seems more preoccupied with the Red general. He keeps his eyes on her, never wavering. As if she might kill him if he drops his guard. It isn’t entirely an irrational fear.

“And when we’re on board?” I step forward, putting myself toe-to-toe with my wretched betrothed. “You’ll need more than two magnetrons to take apart a battleship. And more than a few minutes. We’re good but we’re not that good.”

Jerking, Cal steps back from a particularly exuberant wave, keeping his toes dry. He blinks rapidly, swallowing. “You don’t need to take it apart. I want those ships. I need those ships. Especially because Iris is here.” He licks his lips, a brush of terror flashing in his eyes. “Her mother won’t leave her out to dry.”

Ugh. Does he try to make such awful puns?

“If the Lakelander fleet gets here before we have real artillery protecting the harbor, we’re done for,” Cal adds, looking over my head to the water.

I raise a hand, pointing out past the flooded fort to the ocean hazed by smoke and the still-dancing forms of airjets. “You think four ships can hold back a Lakelander armada?”

“They’ll have to.”

“Well, they won’t. You know that.”

Only a muscle in his cheek twitches, jumping as he tightens his jaw. You’re going to have to get your hands dirty, Calore. Dirtier than they already are.

I move again, planting myself in his eye line. “You said yourself, the queen of the Lakelands won’t abandon her daughter. So we trade her.”

Cal pales like I did, all color draining from his face in shock.

“For the city,” I push on. He must understand. “Ptolemus and I can lock the guns in position, make them fire on her. Pin her down. Keep her cornered. Shouldn’t be difficult for a fire king to subdue her, should it?”

Again, nothing. Cal doesn’t even blink, his face stubborn in its stillness. Coward, I sneer in my head. He doesn’t want to face her. The Flame of the North is afraid of a bit of rain.

“When we have Iris, we bargain. Her life for the Bay.”

That snaps his restraint in half. “I don’t do that,” he barks, his voice rough, all edges. In spite of myself, I take a step back, almost cowed by his sudden fury. “I’m not him, Evangeline.”

At that, I have to scoff. “Well, he’s winning.”

“I’m not doing it,” he says again, the words shaking with anger. Princes aren’t used to repeating themselves. “I’m not taking hostages.”

I’m not giving Maven a reason, you mean, I think to myself, a bitter echo in my head. A reason to take her back. To bend all his resources on one particular person.

He has the unthinkable gall to put a finger in my face. “Get the ships, get the guns. And get Iris out of the Bay. That’s an order.”

“I’m not your soldier and I’m not your wife yet, Calore. You don’t get to order me around,” I snarl, feeling as if I could take a bite out of him. “Her mother will drown this city and us if you let her.”

He stares at me, furious, his hand trembling. So angry he doesn’t notice when a wave hits his ankles. When he jumps, cursing, I want to laugh in his ridiculous face.

“Her mother will let this city be, if her daughter is able to escape,” a voice pipes up behind him. Granny to the rescue, Calore?

The prince frowns, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“She’s right,” his uncle says, his voice far softer than Anabel’s.

Cal’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. “Julian?” he asks, almost inaudible.

Jacos just shrugs, crossing his hands over his thin chest. “I have little talent on the battlefield, but that doesn’t make me talentless. It’s a good plan, Cal. Drive Iris out to sea.” Then his eyes fall on me. “Get to a ship, Evangeline,” he says slowly, his voice empty of his ability.

I realize the threat all the same. I have no choice in this, not with the loaded gun of a singer staring me down. I do this of my own volition or I do it of his.

“Fine.”

For all his shortcomings, Cal certainly is noble to a fault. Usually it makes me hate him all the more. Except now. As he pledged before in Montfort, he won’t let anyone fight for him unless he’s fighting for himself. He won’t make anyone do what he isn’t willing to do with them. So when the teleporters gather, hands outstretched, he is next to me, armed and ready to storm a battleship.

“The first time isn’t pleasant,” my teleporter says to me, his face grim and lined with age. A veteran of many battles.

I can only grit my teeth at him and take his hand.

It feels like being squeezed down to my marrow, all my organs twisting, my balance thrown off, my perception turned on its head. I try to gasp and find I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think, can’t exist—until it disappears, as fast as it came. I gulp down air, knees to the steel-plated deck of a battleship, while the teleporter stands over me. He reaches to cover my mouth but I swat him away, shooting him a murderous glare at the same time.

We’re behind the forward gun turret, crouched alongside cold steel and smooth, cylindrical gun barrels. They’re red hot and still smoking from their barrage on the fort, and now trained on the city. My ability rushes their length, feeling out the rivets and bolts, jumping from one barrel to another, into the powder magazine—almost full—and the artillery shells waiting—more than a dozen ready. I assume the same for the two other turrets fore and aft, dotting the length of the ship.

“There’s enough ammunition to turn Harbor Bay to ash,” I mutter, if only to myself.

The teleporter responds only with a fuming glare. He reminds me of my father. Flint-eyed, focused.

I do as I must. With a grimace, I put my hands to the turret and pull.

It strains against me, already locked and aimed elsewhere. But once I get the gears moving in their track, it goes easily, shifting at my touch. Turning, facing another target.

Iris’s own battleship.

She paces the deck of the boat farthest out to sea, a silhouette in dark blue. Her own Lakelanders flank her, their uniforms easy to pick out. Farther down the ship, at the prow, a figure in red blinks into existence, a teleporter and his own soldiers at his back.

“Almost,” I hiss, sliding the turret into place, its barrels now aimed at Iris’s broadside. With a clenching fist, I fuse the steel and iron plate together, locking the turret into position. No one but a magnetron, or someone with a blowtorch, could aim this gun now. “Next gun.”

With another sickening jump, we land alongside the second turret. I do the same again, shifting the guns. This time, a pair of Red conscripts find us. They rush at me, but the teleporter grabs them both and disappears. He flashes at the corner of my eye, out over the water. Both Reds plummet into the Bay. The teleporter returns before I hear their splashes.