the circling crows in air thick with it. Streets, the vehicles jammed over them. The bodies, some torn to pieces, on sidewalks or sprawled out of the broken glass of windows, of doorways.
He’d drawn a dog feasting on what had been a man, its muzzle filthy with blood and gore, as he’d caught it in a snarl.
Something larger, even darker than the crows, winged overhead, and the forks of lightning cracked the sky.
He stood there, his sword drawn, stained with blood. She stood beside him. Fallon Swift, her sword in hand, stained like his.
They stood together in the carnage, in the smoke and the storm. And looked at each other.
“New York City,” he murmured. He only knew because the vision brought him the knowledge. He’d been only one day old when his mother had fled the city with him and his sisters.
But now he knew he would go there, fight there. And he would stand with Fallon there.
He put the sketch away. Suddenly weary to the bone, he sprawled on his bed. He dreamed of her, but the dreams faded with morning.
* * *
Considering its space and location, Fallon set up the lower level of her family’s home as the war room. Until she could build or scavenge better, she used a reclaimed sheet of plywood on sawhorses as a table. With Ethan’s help, she hauled in a motley variety of extra chairs.
Since school was out for summer, she borrowed a blackboard, bartered for chalk made from crushed eggshells and flour.
On the board, she wrote the three targets, and under Arlington listed the fighting troops from New Hope, by name and designation, that she, her father, and Will—with some input from Colin—had chosen. Then the support troops—straight rescuers, medicals, transportation.
With them she listed the enemy’s known numbers and resources, the number of magickal prisoners, the number of slaves according to their best intel and estimations.
On the table, she pinned her map of the base, and used chess pieces borrowed from Poe and Kim—black for the enemy, white for her forces—to designate troop positions.
When her father came down, a mug of coffee in each hand, he studied her work. “You’ve been at this awhile, and it’s barely dawn. I’d have helped you with it.”
“It helped me focus. So will that coffee, thanks.”
“It’s a good job.”
“I had good teachers. I got the chess pieces from Kim, but I don’t have enough for three targets. I got these from Bill at Bygones. He wouldn’t take anything for them.”
She showed Simon a container of plastic soldiers and jungle animals. “I figured we’re the soldiers, they’re the animals. Not very dignified, but—”
“It works. Nervous?”
“I thought I would be, but it’s more anxious to get started. They’ll be here soon, Mallick, Thomas, Troy, Mae Pickett, Boris, Charlie from back home, along with the New Hope Originals. It’s the first time all of them will have been in the same place, the same time.”
“And most of them are used to, more or less, running their own show.”
“There’s that.”
“We picked good people to lead, Fallon. Now it’s time for you to use their strengths, balance any weaknesses, and move forward for the whole.”
* * *
Will and Arlys arrived first, then others trickled in. She’d wait until leaders from every base came, begin with introductions, she thought. Acknowledgments. Some would fight together for the first time, or send those under their command to fight under another leader.
Acknowledgment mattered.
She stepped outside, thinking to gather herself and prepare for the diplomacy portion. Something her father was so much better at.
As she stood with the voices floating out through the open windows behind her, the first from outside New Hope flashed.
Thomas, Minh, with Sabine and Vick—two of the witches she’d asked to join the elf colony. And one more.
The last time she’d seen Mick he’d stood at the edge of the woods surrounding Mallick’s cottage, his hand lifted in farewell as she’d left for home.
He’d been her first friend away from home, the first elf she’d formed a bond with. He’d been her first kiss.
He grinned at her now, those leaf-green eyes alight. He’d grown his bronze-colored hair longer, had trios of thin braids on either side of his head to hold it back. His face had fined down, and he sported a triangle of beard on his chin.
But he looked so much the same.
“Mick!” She leaped forward to throw her arms around him. He swung her, laughing.
Stronger, she realized, and more solid. A soldier now who still wore the braided bracelet