Blood in the Water Read online

  US copyright ©2015 by Tash McAdam

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

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  Published in the United States by Glass House Press, LLC, 2014. GLASS HOUSE PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Glass House Press, LLC.

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  ISBN 978-0-9816768-3-8

  Library Of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication is on file with the publisher.

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  Cover by West Coast Design

  Book Design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

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  First Edition

  Chapter 1: ORIGIN

  Chapter 2: EMERGENCY

  Chapter 3: COMMAND

  Chapter 4: PREPARATION

  Chapter 5: SUBMERSION

  Chapter 6: DISASTER

  Chapter 7: SURVIVAL

  About Tash

  “WHAT WE CALL BREACHES ARE, in reality, tears in the veil between our dimension and those that surround us. These doors are a constant threat. Beasts from other worlds seek them, longing to sneak through and feast on the fat of human complacency. Some want our flesh, as food or entertainment … some want our minds. There are even species that feed on our dreams!”

  The professor gesticulates wildly, caught up in her own grandiosity, her gray hair fluttering as she shouts into the microphone on the wooden desk. She ignores the squeal of electronic feedback from the device, though the students sitting near the speakers flinch and mutter in complaint.

  “You, young and idiotic as you are, have been awoken as the next generation of protectors. You have been gifted with special skills and abilities that are never to be taken lightly or abused. The price you pay for misuse of power is terrible...”

  The lecture room is stuffy and holds a mishmash of sprawling teenagers across a wide age range. Some are actually watching the elderly woman, who is now gesturing at an unresponsive screen with a smart-board control, not seeming to realize it’s turned off.

  I am not, however, paying much attention. Lost in my own thoughts—a situation that’s fairly standard for me—I pick at the battered corner of my maroon tablet cover, half-slumped over the desk. Short black hair escapes from behind my ear and flops into my large brown eyes. Exasperated, I puff it out the way and scratch my upturned nose, which is peeling from a day-old sunburn.

  We’ve been taking this stupid class for weeks, and it’s all very heavy on the doom and gloom, without ever getting down to the nuts and bolts. I have so many questions, but no one will let me ask. The guy in charge of us weavers is nice enough, but he can’t focus on the real world for five minutes. I can actually see his eyes glaze over when I start talking. Which, in all fairness, I do a lot of. Still, it’s not getting me any answers, and that’s … frustrating.

  Suddenly a bird caws loudly outside the window, making me jump, and I huff. I keep trying to ask about bird demons. I bet loads of flying demons come through little breaches that are too high to get to, and just zoom off into the skies. And what about under water? Seventy percent of the earth’s surface is water! And it’s deep. How could anyone hope to find every rip and get there in time to stop anything coming through, or catch the stuff that does? Are we supposed to scuba dive? I refuse to believe that no one has come up with a better system than ‘follow techno-magic to the holes in reality.’

  After all, surely the massive computer lab—whose primary purpose is to scan for rifts and let us know when they’re happening—can make mistakes. Miss breaches. Which is dangerous. Because a lot of those breaches are filled with monsters that want nothing more than access to the blind-to-magic population on Earth.

  The professor hits the desk with the flat of her hand, regaining my attention. “Some of you are now fierce warriors, given fighting skills beyond your wildest dreams. You are stronger and faster than you ever believed possible. You are superheroes. You could be champions at any sport; you could be famous and rich.

  “But you never will be, so put aside your childish dreams of glory. Warriors, you have been chosen for your valorous hearts, and should you abuse the power you’ve been given, your very bones will blacken and crack inside you. The Warp has gifted you, but it will punish you horribly if you prove yourselves unworthy.”

  I wonder what it would have been like to be woken as a warrior instead of a weaver. I guess I don’t have a ‘valorous heart.’ I heard from Donnie, another weaver, that we’re called for our ‘intuition,’ but I’m not sure whether it’s a general thing, or something specific—something that allows us to hone a weaver’s awareness, our foreknowledge of a breach-yet-to-be, allowing warriors and warlocks time to prepare. I wouldn’t have described myself as particularly intuitive, although I’ve always had a knack for talking my way out of trouble. I don’t think that was enough to make them ‘pick’ me.

  Supposedly, the Warp magic is inside every single human on the planet. Anyone can be woken at any minute, a ‘holy’ duty thrust upon them with no warning. Without any convenient sign or dramatic music signaling that it’s happened. Just some people who might be crazy trying to awkwardly explain that you’re needed to save the world.

  The way the professors talk about it, you’d think the Warp was God, or at least a sentient, all-powerful sort of thing. Choosing champions from the populace to protect the walls between realities. But from what I’ve seen, it chooses rather strangely. We certainly don’t look very heroic. Most of us are in our teens, but there are stories about old people and even children being given power for short periods of time, in great emergencies. Those people don’t get to keep their power for long; as soon as the emergency is over, they forget about it entirely. And even people who are ‘chosen’ usually fade out and lose their gifts by their late twenties. I guess middle-aged people aren’t that handy in the war against chaos. So I’m probably in it for the long haul; I might be thirty by the time I stop acting like a magical Geiger counter and magnet. I’ll be stuck with this lot for the next fifteen years. Until then, our job is to prevent the different dimensions from bleeding into one another until everything is dark and destroyed.

  No problem.

  A student who hums with barely contained energy sighs loudly enough to get my attention, presumably at the professor’s words, and slumps back into her padded seat at the woman’s reminder that she is never going to compete in the Olympics. The lecturer raises a pointed eyebrow and looks sternly over her half-moon glasses for a long moment before continuing.

  “Some of you were chosen for your intellect and strength of mind, and have therefore been touched with esoteric magics. You will be trained as warlocks, taught to use spells to help your companions against the encroaching darkness. You will develop your skills until we find the elements in which you excel, and then you will be put to work researching as well as taking the fight to the field itself. Leave the right path—the choice to protect your species—and you will be rewarded by slipping into idiocy, and become gibbering, drooling wrecks. The magics that mark you are unassailable. They give you the ability to change the world, but should you falter, they will strip you of everything that made you special. You will march at your companions’ sides until you are unable to do so. Don’t be so arrogant as to believe that for you, there may be a different route. Your spells and potions are nothing compared to the raw power of the Warp.”

  The warlocks in the room, three fem
ale and two male, are identifiable by the thick archaic volumes—carried everywhere at all times—balanced on the corners of the tiny desks they’re squashed behind. They all look exceptionally studious.

  Isn’t a warlock a bloke? I guess the Protectorate is pro gender-neutral terms, I observe with an inner snigger. Like Americans saying ‘server’ instead of ‘waitress’ and ‘waiter,’ now. Funny.

  I perk up as the professor moves on to the last kind of student at the Protectorate. Weavers. Me.

  “And finally, the weavers, with the ability to shut the doors between our world and others. Your responsibility is great; without you the veils between dimensions would tear open irreparably, and allow Earth to be overrun. Not even the warriors and warlocks could stand against the hells that would be unleashed, should you fail in your duty. While some dimensions pose no threat to us, others try to open doorways big enough for an invasion. Without you, the demon armies could march, unchecked, across our world. Billions would die screaming, and others would live only as slaves. Our land would be a blackened wreck, empty and void of life.”

  Does she have to be this dramatic? I idly rub my thumb across the four black and red tattoos marking the inside of my wrist—one for each dimensional tear to which I’ve been exposed, and subsequently closed. As soon as I’m in range, the tattoos start coalescing—black marks where magic is being pulled through my skin by a rift opening, and then words I can’t read, forming faint on my flesh. Once I’ve closed the breach, I get a red seal around the edges, which means the door is shut, and the stitch is complete. The red outlines the black marks like fineliner around watercolours. When a mark—‘stitch’—is sealed, it means the weaver has a sort of bond with that particular dimension, and can open the doorway again. Intentionally.

  That might seem weird, wanting to open a dimensional doorway, but sometimes it’s the only way to gain an advantage. If there’s a big pitched battle, for example—some demons trying to get through a large opening—sending troops around to flank them might be our best chance to push them back. If that happens, it takes a weaver with a full stitch to manipulate the Warp, open a tear, and push the troops through.

  All of my stitches are closed now, so I can force rifts to those four dimensions. I check the marks all the time, just in case something has changed. The stitches contain the magic—they’re how I channel the energy of the Warp—but the human body isn’t made to withstand magic burning through it. Things can go wrong; the power can escape and burn you up. They tell me that unsealed stitches are more likely to burst, letting the magic out, and that’s reason enough for me to want every single one closed.

  I clench my fist. My first stitch is a little darker than the others, because I’ve been close to that particular dimension three times now. Every time I’m near a breach on the same frequency, the stitch will blacken further, whether or not it’s closed. Older weavers have tattoos so dark they look like pieces of coal framed in blood. The seal—closing the tear, and therefore the stitch—gives you more time before the magic escapes. But if I’m exposed to too many breaches on the same frequency, or all at once, the stitches will burst open, flooding my body with magic. My blood will change to acid, and burn me from the inside out.

  I’ve seen a picture of a weaver fraying. That’s what they call it when the tattoos spread out too far. It’s as though the marks somehow trap the different frequencies of magic inside you, keeping them organized so you can follow each thread to its home dimension. But if they touch each other, they set off a chain reaction. In the picture, the boy was screaming and his hands were jet black. Not a natural kind of black—a lightless void. It was blossoming up his arms like it was sucking the life out of him.

  I shiver. Every time I’ve been near a breach so far, I’ve been with a senior weaver—someone who could ensure that I didn’t make a mistake. I’m a little intimidated by the idea of being out on my own, which could happen any day now.

  Suddenly the professor moves on to a topic that interests me. “And as for water breaches...” I perk up. Would demons who came through water breaches be mermaids? I totally want to meet mermaids. But if a breach opens under water, would the water all drain through into a different dimension, like a giant, mystical plughole? Is there a department to make sure that doesn’t happen? The Department of Interdimensional Water Levels. Hey, that could explain the rising oceans; maybe the ‘global warming is a hoax’ people know something we don’t and really we’re just getting shafted by some poxy dimension dropping all its water onto us!

  I’d be more likely to believe that if science didn’t show that the ice caps are actually melting. Something to think about, though. Maybe we could drain some water to help with the inevitable flooding.

  Sadly, the mention of water breaches is not accompanied by answers to my questions; it’s just a brief reminder that openings can and do happen anywhere. I sigh as the tufty-haired professor starts droning on and on about the dangers of letting even one demon run amok through London’s oblivious population.

  Jeez, woman. Obviously letting monsters go and kill people is a terrible idea, especially if it’s a proper bad guy—a spy for one of the warlike clans or something. Honestly, are the students you get here mostly idiots? My eyes light on a warlock boy in front of me, who is leaning over and diligently writing in his notepad. Are you seriously taking notes? You need to write this down so you don’t forget? I bet you have your name sewn into your undies, too.

  Bemused, I crinkle my nose and click the power button on my phone to check the time. Forty minutes left. Ugh. I roll my eyes and resist the urge to head-butt the desk. Barely. Ever since I arrived at the Protectorate’s London campus a month ago, I’ve felt strongly that the curriculum needs a revamp. Shouldn’t learning about demons and magic and ancient wars be fun? It is absolutely beyond me how anyone could make this stuff boring. Math is more fun than this! Math.

  When I’d found out I was joining an ancient sect that was sworn to protect humanity against monsters, I thought it would be much more exciting. But it’s all transpired to be horribly like regular school: dates and species and facts to remember, mixed with military training, which is like PE, but worse. Angrier instructors. At least shooting guns is kind of satisfying, in a slightly scary way. I get to do that, though I don’t have a lot of physical training. The warriors have a much heavier focus on martial arts and weaponry, while the warlocks have even more studying to do, as they memorize reams of spells and ingredients. On top of the classes we all share—history, geography, physics, and math, mostly—I’m required to do focus activities, such as the ever-fascinating ‘music note identification class.’ Something to do with dimensions having a certain ‘sound,’ and learning to tell the difference between them quickly. Bo-ring.

  I consider for a moment whether I’m likely to get caught if I play a game on my phone, and wonder what the punishment could be, but decide against it on the grounds that the last time I got busted not paying attention, I had to take care of the compost. I smelled like moldy bread and tea leaves for a week.

  Instead, I start doodling tiny dinosaurs on the pristine sheet of paper waiting for my notes. An ice skating brontosaurus kills the better part of five minutes.

  Then movement to my right catches my attention. Cam, my stocky best friend at the Protectorate, pushes a wisp of long, ashy blonde hair behind her ear and slides a scrap of paper across to my desk in a single movement, almost too fast for the eye to track.

  Flipping warriors, always showing off. Just ‘cause they’re faster and stronger, have better reactions and incredible balance… Though I guess that comes in handy for the ‘fighting giant demonic creatures who want to enslave the human race’ thing.

  The silent grumble is affectionate, and I cover the note with my hand, slipping it onto my lap to avoid being noticed. It’s pretty easy to get caught messing around in class, as there are only sixteen people taking this course. Orientation, they call it officially. Newbie Torture, according to everyone else.

/>   I look down to see that Cam has written ‘Wanna play hooky?’ in large, childish letters. I snort and nod in reply, not as subtly as I should have.

  “Something to add, Hallisandra?”

  It’s Hallie! I cringe at the sound of my full name, and make a face before I reply. “No, Ms. Llewellyn, just agreeing with your point.” Please don’t ask what the point was, please don’t ask what the point was...

  “And what point was that, precisely?” The professor doesn’t sound convinced that I have an answer, and I open my mouth, glancing futilely at the blank board. If you actually turned the computer on, maybe I’d know!

  Beside me, Cam’s huge shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter, and I glare at her before venturing a response. “About our responsibility and what it means to be part of this great organization!” I fill my voice with as much awe and excitement as I can. Responsibility is usually a safe bet in this class.

  Llewellyn flattens her wild hair with a palm, staring daggers at me as though waiting for me to fold. I blink, doe-eyed, and finally the woman turns away, returning to the smart board and actually noticing it’s blank. Her face pinkens as she clicks the power button and scrolls through some text-heavy slides before pulling an image onto it—a faded map of London, marked with orange streaks and swirls. It looks like a weather map.

  “Human cities are always hot spots for interdimensional flux, and as you can see, there are certain points that draw more breaches than others. Large gatherings—situations where emotions are high. You have to remember that every single human on the planet is imbued with some level of magic. Most of them will never realize it, though a few will be woken and join us here. But when the general population is crowded together, the magic in their blood can call breaches by accident. Some people, especially weavers, have a propensity to act as focal points, which is why it’s imperative that they learn their craft quickly and efficiently.”

  Next up is a picture of the city centre, featuring people screaming and running from a four-armed, blue creature I think is called a Fest—one of humanity’s biggest enemies. They consistently try to break through the dimensional walls, but fortunately aren’t very good at accessing the Warp magic. Probably ‘cause they’re evil.