“Good, get it done,” Cal says with a clipped tone. I’ve seen him in a fight, in battle, but never something like this. He becomes another person entirely. Laser-focused, inhumanly so, without even a flicker of the gentle, torn prince. Whatever warmth he has left is an inferno, meant to destroy. Meant to win. “When the gravitrons finish the drops, put them here, evenly spaced. The Lakelanders are going to charge the walls. Let’s make it hard for them to move. General Akkadi, who else do you have on hand?”
“Good mix of defensive and offensive,” she responds. “Enough bombers to turn the Choke road into a minefield.” With a proud smirk, she indicates the nearby newbloods who have what look like sunbursts on their shoulders. Bombers. Better than oblivions, able to explode something or someone on sight instead of just touch.
“Sounds like a plan,” Cal says. “You keep your newbloods ready. Strike at your discretion.”
If Townsend minds being dictated to, and by a Silver at that, he doesn’t show it. Like the rest of us, he feels the thrum of death in the air. There’s no room for politics now. “And my soldiers? I’ve got a thousand Reds on the walls.”
“Keep them there. Bullets are just as good as abilities, sometimes more so. But conserve ammunition. Target only those who slip through the first wave of defenses. They want us to overexert, and we’re not going to do that.” He glances at me. “Are we?”
I grin, blinking away the rain. “No, sir.”
At first, I wonder if the Lakelanders are very slow to move, or very stupid. It takes the better part of the hour, but between Cameron, the gravitrons, and the teleporters, we manage to get everyone into Corvium from the thirty or so dropjets. About a thousand soldiers, all trained and deadly. Our advantage, Cal says, lies in uncertainty. Silvers still don’t know how to fight people like me. They don’t know what we’re truly capable of. I think that’s why Cal mostly leaves Akkadi to her own devices. He doesn’t know her troops well enough to command them properly. But Reds he knows. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, one I try to swallow away. In the stretch of time, I try not to wonder how many Reds the person I love sacrificed for an empty war.
The storm never changes. Always churning, dumping rain. If they’re trying to flood us, it’s going to take a long time. Most of the water drains, but some of the lower streets and alleys are six inches deep in murky water. It makes Cal uneasy. He keeps wiping off his face or pushing back his hair, skin slightly steaming in the cold.
Farley has no shame. She propped her jacket up over her head a long time ago, and looks like some kind of maroon ghost. I don’t think she moves for twenty minutes, her head resting on folded arms as she stares out at the landscape. Like the rest of us, she waits for a strike that may come at any second. It sets my teeth on edge, and the constant rage of adrenaline drains me almost as badly as Silent Stone.
I jump when Farley speaks.
“Lory, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
At another perch, Lory also has a jacket over her head. She doesn’t turn, unable to wrench her senses away. “I really hope not.”
“What?” I ask, looking between them. The movement sends fresh rainwater down my shirt collar, and I shiver. Cal sees it happen and moves closer to my back, extending some of his warmth to me.
Slowly, Farley turns, trying not to get drenched. “The storm is moving. Closing in. A few feet every minute, and getting faster.”
“Shit,” Cal breathes behind me. Then he springs into action, taking his warmth with him. “Gravitrons, be ready! When I say, you tighten your grip on that field.” Tighten. I’ve never seen a gravitron use their ability to strengthen gravity, only loosen it. “Drop whatever’s coming.”
As I watch, the storm picks up speed, enough to note at a glance. It continues swirling, but spirals closer and closer with every rotation, clouds bleeding over open ground. Lightning cracks deep within, a pale, empty color. I narrow my eyes, and for a moment, it flashes purple, veining with strength and rage. But I have nothing to aim at yet. Lightning, no matter how powerful, is useless without a target.
“The force is marching behind the storm, closing the distance,” Lory calls, confirming our worst fears. “They’re coming.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mare
The wind howls. It buffets the walls and ramparts, blowing more than a few back from their position. Rain freezes on the stonework, making our footing precarious. The first casualty is a fall. A Red soldier, one of Townsend’s. The wind catches his jacket, blowing him backward along the slick walkway. He shouts as he goes over the edge, plunging thirty feet—before sailing skyward, born of a gravitron’s concentration. He lands hard on the wall, colliding with a sickening crack. The gravitron didn’t have enough control. But the soldier is alive. Injured, but alive.