Runebinder

* * *

They raced beneath the waves of the lake. Magic wrapped around them, pushing them through the water at breakneck speed. Tenn’s lungs burned as they rocketed away from the shore, heading deeper and deeper into the depths of the lake, far out of Matthias’s sight. He couldn’t see anything through the darkness, couldn’t tell how deep they were diving. But he could feel the cold pressure of the water, the endless expanse of the lake, as his own magic-fueled senses stretched out. Dreya’s hands were still tight on his arm; he tried to fight her off. He had to get back to them. Had to save them. Had to keep them from killing themselves over him. But Dreya’s hands were a vise, the magic and water pressing him tight to her. Try as he might, he couldn’t break free. His lungs and limbs burned with the effort.

When he couldn’t take any more, he took a frantic breath. Air filled his lungs. He didn’t even bother to be surprised.

He gave up the struggle.

Deep in the darkest pits of his heart, he knew it was already too late. His comrades were dead or Howls now. Matthias wouldn’t have delayed the slaughter. If anything, Tenn’s leaving probably hurried it.

The only consolation was the tingle of magic nearby. The slight halo of energy that ringed the others who fled beside him. The hazy halo of blue emanating from Devon: Water and Air, just like Dreya. And just like Dreya, he carried another. He could sense the shape of the figure with Water’s power. Jarrett.

It shouldn’t have made his heart warm, but it did.

He expected the dark water to erupt into flame, expected Matthias to drop down into the depths and kill them. Matthias had to be close behind. He had to be following them, enraged, and Tenn could only imagine what would happen to them when they were caught. The ash of Derrick’s body still seemed to cling to Tenn’s lungs, making him want to gag. Derrick’s image stuttered like a broken movie reel, shadowed by the flares in the fog, the silhouettes of his comrades as they fought against Matthias. As they died for him.

Because of him.

Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes ebbed to hours. Tenn lost track of how long they fled, and the depths gave no hint of the time. There was nothing to distract him from the memories, from the smell of his comrades’ burning flesh. Nothing to distract him as Water regurgitated the battle scenes, meshed them with all the horrors of the past few years. Every once in a while, his attention would flick back to the water surging around them. Back to the hands holding him tight.

Back to the awareness that Jarrett was nearby. Safe.

Why did that make him feel better?

Why did it keep reminding him of a past he’d tried so hard to forget?

After what felt like days, the water around them lightened. The sun must have been rising; they were still so deep he couldn’t see more than a tinge to the black. A tinge that illuminated great shapes below them. The Sphere of Water filled in the rest. Massive blocks stretched through the darkness like shipwrecks, forms of concrete and steel. Some glinted slightly in the sun. Others were dark, pitted and cavernous.

He jolted as they abruptly changed course. Dreya dragged him up, away from the structures below, and in seconds, they plunged into the air. Only a few moments of weightlessness, the shock of light after so much dark, and then they landed on top of a crumbling concrete slab. For a while, he just lay there, gasping, as the water pooled and cold air soaked to his bones. He couldn’t focus on what was happening. Couldn’t force his mind to kick-start and work again. All he could do was focus on the cold and his breath and the pain. Every muscle in Tenn’s body ached, but he didn’t open to Earth. He wanted to feel the hurt. After everything that had just been sacrificed for him, it was the least he could do.

He closed his eyes, let his focus drift in and out. Shreds of conversation drifted through his clouded mind. Finally, he forced himself to sitting and looked around, wincing from the effort. The morning was cold and clear, the sun streaking across the horizon. Beautiful, if not for the nightmare still plaguing him. No land in sight. Just sparkling waves and broken plinths rising from the surf. Things clicked with a disgusting snap. He knew precisely where they were. This was all that was left of Chicago. And the water had once been Lake Michigan.

“What the hell are we doing here?” he asked.

The twins stood farther off, conferring with Jarrett. All of them were dry. Tenn very much was not.

Jarrett looked over and the twins went silent.

He knew the three of them could kill him in an instant, knew it was them who should be questioning him. But the pain in his heart was too much. Water raged. He let it. It was easier than thinking about what he’d done. Easier than thinking about the deaths. Or Tomás. “What the hell is going on?”

Tenn stood as he spoke, realizing he’d lost his staff somewhere along the way, and tried not to sway too much when he did so. Everything was quiet and pastoral, save for the lulling wash of waves. He wanted to scream. Scream because it was too picturesque, too quiet, and his comrades were either dead or dying and here he was, alive and well, for absolutely no reason. He wanted to get back to them. He had to. He had to give himself up.

Jarrett stepped forward and reached out.

“Tenn, let me explain.”

“No. No, don’t touch me. Tell me why you were sent.”

“You know why we’re here,” Jarrett said slowly. As though Tenn had lost his mind in the battle. “We were sent to protect your troop.”

“Bullshit!” Tenn yelled. Water pulsed in his gut, and waves crashed higher against the building. Shakily, he pushed the power away. He couldn’t trust himself with it. “If you were just sent to protect us, why didn’t you stay with them? Why did you...?” He could barely force down the tears. Why did you save me? Why didn’t you save everyone else? Why am I here, when the rest of them are dead?

Jarrett looked back to the twins. Dreya shrugged. Devon studiously looked away. When he turned back to Tenn, Jarrett wore an expression Tenn couldn’t place.

“You have to understand, Tenn. We’re just trying to protect you.”

Tenn shook his head. “Why? Why me? Why didn’t you save everyone else? You could have saved everyone else.”

“We could not,” Dreya said. She stepped forward. Devon moved at her side. A shadow. “We would not have had the strength to carry so many. To do so would have risked us all. We would have been followed.”

“But why me?” I’m no one. I’m worth nothing.

“Because we were sent to find you,” Jarrett said.

Hearing him say it was a kick in the stomach.

“Why?”

Jarrett opened his mouth, but Dreya put a hand on his shoulder and stepped forward.

“You are being targeted by the Kin,” she said.

Tenn’s heart lurched to his throat. Did she know about Tomás?

“Dreya, don’t—” Jarrett began, but she waved her hand and continued, anyway.

“It is not a statement you wish to hear. Any sane man would feel the same. But it is the truth. The Kin desire you, and they will stop at nothing to take you. That is why we were sent.”

He went silent. Having the Kin after him wasn’t a shock after all that had happened. The shock was that others knew about it. The shock was that these three had let the rest of his troop die for it. For him.

“You should have let Matthias take me,” Tenn whispered. “I’m not worth their lives.”

“Do you really think Matthias would have let us go?” Jarrett asked. Suddenly, there was a hand under Tenn’s chin; Jarrett tilted Tenn’s head up to meet his gaze. “Matthias is a necromancer, Tenn. He would have taken you and killed the rest of us, anyway. At least this way... At least now you’re safe.”

Tenn wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Jarrett’s gaze held him, as surely as Jarrett’s touch sent flames racing through his chest.

“Why? What makes me special? Why do they want me?”

Jarrett grinned.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out by keeping you alive. The Prophets told us to protect you. Personally, I’d guess it’s tied to your Spheres acting up. I’ve never heard of that happening before.”

Tenn couldn’t take his eyes off Jarrett’s. They were so warm. So familiar. He was acutely aware of Jarrett’s fingers under his chin, of their closeness, of the warmth Jarrett gave. A warmth, and a confidence. He could have stayed there forever. Instead, he pushed the warmth away and stepped back, letting Water slosh through his veins in a cold curse.

He hated himself. For being alive when the rest of his troop was dead. For being the reason his troop was dead. But mostly, he hated himself because, right then, he didn’t hate himself. There was something about being in Jarrett’s gravity that made him feel alive. That made the last few years of bloodshed and regret fade away.

Something clanked beneath Jarrett’s coat as Tenn stepped away.

“What’s that?” Tenn asked, pulled from his thoughts.

“Something I picked up,” he said.

Jarrett pulled the object from inside his pocket. Tenn gasped and stepped back. It was the jar the necromancer had held, the one with the flickering flame.

“Why—”

“I thought it might come in handy,” Jarrett said.

The twins stepped forward, peering over Jarrett’s shoulder silently. But Tenn wasn’t watching them. He couldn’t take his eyes off the jar.

At first, he thought it was badly scratched, but the more he stared at it, the more the markings that flickered in the sun and from the inner fire became, well, if not legible, at least uniform. Definitely symbols. Harsh and angular. They seemed to whisper in his head, like reading a foreign language he could almost place. The weight of a void, the dark center of a star, the raging heat of space, consuming, consuming...

“What?” Jarrett asked.

Tenn looked up. He didn’t realize he’d been moving his lips.

“Can you read them?” Dreya asked.

Tenn stepped back and looked away. “No. I just... No.”

He caught the twins looking at Jarrett. He caught Jarrett’s furrowed brow. He caught the slightly stronger glow coming from within the jar. Or maybe it was just the sun.

“It sounded like you were reading it,” Jarrett ventured.

“No. I was just making it up.”

Jarrett’s next words were slow. Confused. “Are you—”

“We should be moving,” Dreya interrupted.

Jarrett seemed to snap back to reality. He looked to Dreya, shoving the jar back inside his pocket.

The moment it was hidden, the whispers in Tenn’s mind quieted. He hadn’t even realized they were still there.

“Are you recharged?” Jarrett asked.

“Not fully,” she said. “But we do not have time to waste. Especially if you are carrying that.”

“Where are we going?” Tenn asked. Jarrett was still looking at him curiously, like he wanted to ask him a thousand questions. Questions, he knew, that had nothing to do with the symbol-covered jar.

“Outer Chicago,” Jarrett replied. His words were still guarded.

Tenn looked to Dreya. He could feel the warmth of Jarrett’s gaze. It lingered in his chest, thawing the cold places. And sending a dozen more questions racing through his brain.

“Why?” he asked.

Dreya sighed. She kept looking to the horizon, to the way they’d come from. “Outer Chicago is safe. Mostly.”

Did she mean that he would be safe there? Or that keeping him there would make it safe for others? Either way, Tenn knew he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t turn them down even if he wanted to. But the truth was, he didn’t want to fight them, and not just because of Jarrett. Tenn had planned to spend the rest of his short life wandering between outposts, fighting the undead until he died for a cause. But now, knowing that he was a danger to those around him...

Or were they just bringing him back so they could experiment on him? He looked from Jarrett to Dreya to her silent brother, Devon. Tenn wanted to believe they were on his side. He couldn’t afford that luxury.

The truth was, though, it didn’t matter what their motives were: he had one of his own. He didn’t have anyone left to fight for, but what he did have was an ax to grind. If what was happening to him—the strangeness of Water, the attraction of the Kin—could be used against the Howls, he would embrace it. If only so he could use it against those who had destroyed his life.

“Let’s go, then,” he said. He opened to Water. Memories flooded to the surface—Derrick, curling into flame; his bedroom, dripping blood—but he was ready for them. He grappled them down with a well-practiced hand. “But I’m not letting you drag me there.”

“He has spark,” Jarrett mused.

“And you have no tact,” Dreya replied.

She opened to Water. Devon opened at the same time. He felt the twins wrap their power around Jarrett, the barest flicker of blue in the sun.

Jarrett just chuckled and leaped over the building, swan-diving into the lake. Dreya followed close behind.

Devon, however, stood there for a moment, hands crossed at his chest and his eyebrows furrowed.

“You still hear them, don’t you?” His voice was gruffer than Tenn expected.

“Who?”

“The dead.”

Tenn’s blood went cold. He could only nod.

“I hear them, too. Every day. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even me anymore. Or just all the dead I carry around.”

Devon shook his head, then tightened the scarf around his face and leaped into the water.

Tenn walked over to the edge. Stared down into the waves. They were already jetting off, cutting beneath the waves like spears of light. Devon’s words lingered, curled around the base of his skull. The last thing he wondered before jumping in was if Jarrett and the rest would save him, or if they’d just be three more names on the list of the dead he carried on his soul.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they reached the shores of Outer Chicago. The water grew shallower, until they were able to trudge up through the waves toward the shore. The lake lapped at the highway stretching before them, slowly eating at the asphalt, turning it to sand and stone. He wondered if the destruction had been intentional—some necromancer trying to drown the whole city—or if it was just the Earth rebelling, eating itself alive to escape the madness magic had wrought. The aftershocks of the Resurrection had struck deep, and humans weren’t the only ones to receive the blowback.

Dreya slumped heavily against Jarrett as they made their way into the sprawling suburb. She had used the last of her magic to drain the water from their clothes. Devon held her hand.

Both of them were crying.

Gray clouds streaked through the slate blue sky, and the horizon was heavy with the promise of rain. Tenn glanced up and shuddered. Late December in the Midwest and still no snow—another reminder of how much they’d fucked everything up. The summer had been unbearably hot and dry, and it seemed to be continuing into the winter here, too.

If the servants of the Dark Lady didn’t kill them all, then Mother Nature would pick up the slack.

None of them spoke as they made their way through the abandoned streets. The air was still and perfectly silent, save for the twins’ occasional muffled sobs. After the roar of battle and water in his ears, the hush made Tenn’s head ring, like he’d stepped from a crowded school dance into the night air. This was the type of silence that always, always, foretold disaster.

He focused instead on the city, or what was left of it. They’d already passed over the ruins of Chicago, and this was all that remained of the once-thriving metropolis. Countless streets of empty houses, broken and gaping like corpses, all stretched out in a disrupted grid. The place looked like something out of a disaster movie: browned yards tangled with faded clothes and toys, overturned cars and pileups at every intersection, charred houses, and craters carved into the concrete. Even three years later, death and absence hung in the place like a ghost. He expected to hear the wails of the dead, to smell the smoke of burning bodies, a scent other than rain. Hundreds of thousands of people had tried to escape the city during the Resurrection.

Hundreds of thousands of people had failed.

But even here, there were no bodies. The necromancers had turned those they could into Howls, while the rest were devoured by the loved ones that had been turned. The cities were always the worst.

He shuddered and forced down the bile in the back of his throat.

“Did you ever come here?” Jarrett asked, breaking the silence. “Before...”

Tenn nodded. “I went to school nearby.”

“Silveron?”

Tenn’s heart hitched with the name and Water pulsed with recognition. Too many memories were attached to it. Too many ghosts. He nodded again. He couldn’t get any words out around the pain.

“I did, too.”

Tenn looked to Jarrett, opened his mouth to ask more. How had he not recognized Jarrett? Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? But Jarrett gestured, and around the corner Tenn saw what was left of true human civilization.

A smooth, black-earth wall rose from the street, stretching four stories above the pavement. Its surface glinted in the dull light like obsidian, impossibly slick and impossible to scale. Great metal spikes stuck out from the highest ramparts, all angled down to impale anything dumb enough to try climbing over. It stretched beyond eyesight, cutting through the remains of the suburb in a protective ring.

When the four approached, Jarrett called out in a loud, clear voice.

“I am Jarrett Townsend, commander of Troop Omega, requesting permission to enter.”

Something shifted on the high wall. A figure peered over the top.

“Are you untouched?” the guard called.

As one, the three of them opened to their Spheres. Jarrett glanced at Tenn and quirked an eyebrow; abashed, Tenn opened only to Earth. He didn’t want to risk Water, not after so much use.

The guard disappeared from sight and, moments later, a chunk of the wall in front of them shivered. Like the waves of a mirage, the stone faded from sight, revealing a large door of rusted steel and heavy girders. It slowly parted with a shrill scream and the rumble of machinery.

They slipped through before the entrance fully opened.

“Welcome back, commander,” the guard said. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen, yet she carried a bow and arrow and sword, and her face was crossed with scars. She nodded deferentially to the twins, but when her eyes caught on Tenn, suspicion clouded her face. “You found him?”

Jarrett nodded. Tenn’s stomach lurched; how many people knew him?

“I knew I would,” Jarrett said.

The guard didn’t linger. She was already turning a great gear that slid the entry shut behind them. Apparently, he was worth noticing, but not much beyond that. At least it saved him from answering any questions.

In stark contrast to outside, the town within the stronghold’s walls was packed and thriving, like some modern reinvention of a Renaissance fair. Houses had been converted to apartments. Apartments had been built upon and converted into multilevel units. Laundry stretched from roof to roof, flapping like flags above stalls selling the last of the season’s fruits and vegetables. He inhaled deep. There was even the scent of baked bread. Three years had passed, and with the Resurrection had come the fall of modern man: no more smartphones, no more internet, no more technology. All of it had been rendered useless with the onslaught of magic. But here, in Outer Chicago, humanity actually seemed to be doing more than holding on. It seemed to be crawling forward.

His cheerfulness cut short when he stepped in a pile of crap. He glanced down, nose instantly wrinkling, and wondered if it was human or dog. He hadn’t seen a dog in years.

“Careful where you step,” Jarrett muttered. He didn’t seem amused.

Even though they were surrounded by people, and even though the guard had very clearly known them, no one in the city met their eye. People walked about in a crazy mismatch of fashion: high-end coats and shabby jeans, dresses layered with parkas, piles of jewelry amid rags. Like they’d just raided whatever shops they could, and had been stuck with it ever since. The citizens all milled or argued or hurried past. They talked to each other, but it felt like Tenn and his comrades were invisible.

Someone elbowed him in the side as they rushed past. Tenn started, but Jarrett’s hand was on his shoulder before he could react.

“Don’t bother,” Jarrett said, his voice still a low grumble. He was watching the crowd with outright animosity. “To them, we’re as bad as the Howls. We keep them alive, but we still use the magic that put them here.”

Tenn kept his head down and his eyes peeled after that, feeling the weight of the city press against his shoulders. He’d experienced this before, in smaller communes. Hunters used magic; civilians didn’t. And even though Hunters fought off the Howls and the necromancers, even though Hunters were sworn to defy the servants of the Dark Lady, they were still viewed as the cause of the Resurrection. With so much spite concentrated in one spot, he was surprised there wasn’t a riot.

He wanted to scream at them as his group pushed their way through the crowd. He wanted to yell at them just how many good men and women had died to keep them all safe, the names and faces that would go unmourned, unburied. Worse, he wanted to tell them about the Farms, where unturned humans were kept as cattle, and how much worse their lives could be. But he didn’t. He feared what speaking up would do. There might not be a riot now, but he knew the desire for vengeance like a bad taste in the air.

Water churned in Tenn’s stomach, twisting with guilt and fear. Water wanted to show them all, too. There was so much pain in this city, and it resonated in Tenn’s gut like a minor key. He kept the power forced down. Was it even safe for him to be here? Even without Matthias and the Kin, he could barely trust himself with Water’s urgings. Maybe these people had been right all along...maybe he was a danger.

He glanced at Devon, heard the guy’s words filter through his head. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m even me anymore...

What the hell am I?

The only thing keeping him grounded was Jarrett’s hand on his shoulder. The guy’s grip was strong. Heavy. For an Air user, he had a weight, a presence, that snared all of Tenn’s senses like a sun.

Right before they rounded the block, Jarrett leaned in and whispered into Tenn’s ear, “Whatever you do, don’t kill him. The council looks down on that sort of thing. Even if it’s Caius.”

Chills raced down Tenn’s neck at the feeling of Jarrett’s breath on his skin. It didn’t take him long to figure out what he was talking about.

A man stood on a pedestal in the center of the street. He wore a faded three-piece suit that barely covered his potbelly, his messy gray hair unsuccessfully slicked back with grease. He reminded Tenn of Matthias, albeit much less refined. Despite the man’s ragged appearance, he still had a crowd. It was the only part of the city that didn’t seem to be moving. People crowded around the dais like sheep as he spoke, his words cutting above the din of the city around them.

Whatever rant or sermon he had been on cut short when Tenn and the others rounded the corner. The man sneered over at them from his perch, causing more than one head to turn. Their venom was palpable.

Water seethed.

“So, the child army returns,” the man said. He had the voice of a man who used to smoke a pack or twelve a day.

Adult mages existed, but were rare; for some reason, kids seemed more adept at attuning to and using the Spheres than adults. Although Matthias seemed to be a terrifying exception to the rule. As it was, very few people lived beyond their twenties: if you could wield magic and fight, you would probably die in battle. And if you couldn’t fight, you were probably already a Howl, or food for one.