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Malachi suspects something—has suspected, it’s clear to me now, since the raid on Medea Coven. I can see it in his eyes as we stare at each other across the War Wagon: something cool, dispassionate (even behind the smoked lenses of his gas mask), predatory, like a cat. He is on to something, he knows.
My headset crackles as the driver updates our status: “Fifteen minutes to target. Check your belts and harnesses—it’s going to get bumpy.”
I check my belt and harness, the wagon starting to rock, our tanks clinking and sloshing. Jeremiah offers me a stick of gum—but I shake my head. Nobody says anything.
“Remember, we’re going in fast and we’re going in hot,” crackles Patrobus (as though he has taken up residence in our very minds), “Look sharp. And don’t get so preoccupied with
