War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,131

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.

The third turret fights worse than the others, straining against my ability, refusing to move as smoothly as the others. “They figured us out,” I growl, breaking a sweat. “The gunner is trying to keep the turret in place.”

“Are you a magnetron or not?” the teleporter sneers at me.

I hope Ptolemus got someone less mouthy, I think, wincing. With a burst of force, I get the turret turning, and I crush it into position with more fervor than necessary. The base crumples inward, stuck on its track.

“It’s done. Give the signal.”

It’s easier to trip the gun mechanism than I thought it would be. Like pulling a gigantic trigger.

The resulting boom of a single artillery shell sends me sideways, clutching my ears. Everything rings and dulls in succession. I fight to my feet, watching as the round hits home, exploding on the deck of Iris’s battleship.

Fire races its length, a vicious snake coiling with hissing fury. Larger than a blow from a single shell. A few soldiers jump into the Bay to escape its wrath.

Cal’s wrath.

The Lakelanders are less deterred, drawing an arcing wave up and