Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Camp Devens, Massachusetts
ELLIOT NARROWLY AVOIDED THE small fist on a collision course with his face.
The moderate temperature and occasional brisk breeze did little to prevent sweat from sticking the olive wool of his uniform to his damp skin.
It restricted his movements as he twisted to grab at Cadet Winifred Bell, Bellona as he’d dubbed her for a Roman goddess of war.
She was the only woman in their program, and despite doubts, she’d proven time and again she belonged there. Precisely as she was doing once more.
Elliot’s fingers grazed her arm. She sucked in a sharp breath as he focused on a small burst of horror.
Flashing out of existence in front of him, she wasn’t gone for long.
A foot to the back of his knee knocked him off balance.
He turned his stumble into a spin and came back up facing her.
They panted and assessed one another for weakness.
Bellona’s raven hair was pulled into a tight bun.
Her face shone with perspiration; determination etched in every feature.
“Oh come, Stone, is that all you’ve got? I think I could win this in my sleep.” She flashed her teeth.
“I doubt that very much.” Elliot winked at her, turning to keep her in his sight as she circled him.
One moment Bellona was laughing at his theatrics, the next she appeared directly in front of him, using his surprise to shove him to the ground. She landed on his waist and scrambled to pin down his wrists.
Grunting at the impact, he tried to buck her off.
He managed to roll with her, any compunctions about fighting a woman lost over weeks of having his arse gleefully handed to him.
Elliot got a hand on her neck, and she went limp beneath him, admitting defeat.
Her eyes went watery like she might cry.
Was he hurting her? He relaxed his grip infinitesimally and suddenly found himself pressed face down in the dirt.
Her full weight on his back pinned him. Her hands crushed his wrists into the dirt.
If it didn’t hurt quite so much, he might have enjoyed the sensation of being helpless beneath a strong woman.
“All right,” he grumbled. “You’ve won. I can’t believe I fell for the sad eyes. Again.”
She snickered. “And you were so close, too.”
There was a hum of grudging approval from nearby.
Colonel Cooper. He’d been one of Bellona’s largest critics though he’d come to respect her abilities and grit, if not women in general.
Elliot couldn’t see how being a woman mattered a whit when she continued to prove herself capable, but he couldn’t deny most men believed they had no place in battle.
Most men simply didn’t pay enough attention to who the women around them were, or they would notice plenty more they oughtn’t underestimate.
“Excellent work, Cadet Bell. Cadet Stone, in the field, you finish the job. Let your guard down like that, you’ll be dead. I expect more from you, young man.”
Elliot held back his grimace; Cooper wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t afford to be sentimental when it came down to it. That didn’t make it feel any better to accept the criticism. “Yes, sir.”
“Go again.” He moved away to observe another sparring match.
By the time they were all dismissed to lunch, Elliot had scraped in a win by the tips of his fingers. Every muscle in his body protested its use.
After he helped Bellona to her feet, they wandered their separate ways to wash up before eating.
Cadet Swift, Ollie as he’d enthusiastically introduced himself at the first opportunity, joined Elliot on the walk, bumping his shoulder in a friendly gesture as they strolled.
His golden hair was shorn short. Attractive seafoam eyes sparkled above his bright white grin, set in a delicate, nearly feminine, face.
He was the first friend Elliot had made upon arrival, and one he was glad of.
He’d have been bored to tears if he hadn’t anyone to speak with.
“Better luck against her than me?” Swift asked, cocky with good reason.
“Tied. One win apiece. She’s scrappier than you, but at least she’s got a vulnerability.”
“Hey, I have one too,” Swift argued.
“Yes, but not when you’ve only yourself to worry about protecting.”
Flashing him another bright smile, Swift dipped his head in acknowledgement. “True.”
They’d sparred earlier. Elliot’s skills only functioned properly if his opponent lacked defenses against him.
He was forced into using horror more often than he liked.
Today, he’d attempted it to ascertain if it functioned in the face of Swift’s shielding since euphoria hadn’t.
The result was less than stellar. It left Elliot open to a well-timed knee in the groin that paved Swift’s path to victory.
Which was utterly humiliating since Elliot was not only a few inches taller than the boy, but Swift’s build was even slimmer than his.
Magic more than made up the difference between them.
Elliot vastly preferred when euphoria provided a sufficient distraction to gain the upper hand. None of the cadets had the reaction Warren had that night in the lounge, only the typical extreme burst of happiness or a lesser form of giddiness depending on their susceptibility.
Was it something particular about Warren that had caused such a response in him? Or was it that he—or more accurately they—had been thinking rather sordid thoughts from the moment their gazes first met? Elliot wasn’t sure which notion he preferred. Self-preservation insisted he not dwell on either.
Walking on, Swift chatted idly about the rest of his morning.
As they passed a company of soldiers resting in groups, Elliot’s gaze met familiar hazel eyes, brownish-green more dazzling in the full sunlight.
He almost tripped over his feet. Undefined mangled emotion rose in his chest. His heart tumbled.
Surprise, followed rapidly by something warm crossed Warren’s face, and Elliot wished he could walk over, simply say hello and discover how he was faring.
He appeared healthy if not quite happy. Who would be in these conditions?
Under no circumstances could Elliot do so. It wasn’t safe. It was bad enough they were staring at each other like this. Someone was bound to notice.
“Stone?” Swift’s voice was slightly exasperated. Elliot realized he must have missed a question. He looked away from Warren with a pang of regret and apologized for his lack of attention.
Lunch consisted of bland fare that Elliot forced himself to eat.
If he was to spend the entire afternoon in a classroom, listening to lectures on battle strategy and theories of warfare, he required sufficient fuel.
Early on, he’d been informed he ought to get used to the quality.
It was only likely to deteriorate overseas.
Listening idly to the voices surrounding him, he pulled a face at the texture of overcooked meat and limp vegetables. Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a meal made by Mrs. Roberts. Her succulent roast duck was heavenly. If he imagined it strongly enough, might the memory block his sense of taste?
“Still too good for the food, huh?” Hoffman asked, voice husky from disuse.
He was in his thirties, and broad shouldered.
He was average in height and appearance with a slightly crooked nose—which Elliot had to assume had been broken when he’d been rude to the wrong person—and dark, intent eyes.
Perhaps in another life Elliot would’ve found him alluring in a hateful-fucking sort of way.
However, he was all but certain Hoffman wasn’t interested in men, and secondly, in no form was he interested in Elliot.
Nor was Elliot interested in him, the bore.
“The food’s still rubbish. I happen to believe rodents are too good for it as well, if it makes a difference,” Elliot said, deliberately haughty.
“At least you’re actually eating it, even if you look like you’d rather die than take another bite.”
Elliot pushed his lips out as if he were considering it, and Hoffman glanced at the ceiling, presumably searching for patience.
“Oh, leave him alone Hoffman,” Bellona said, seated on Elliot’s right. “Just because your tastebuds clearly died decades ago, doesn’t mean Stone’s wrong.”
Cracking a grin, Elliot nodded at her. “As she said.”
Hoffman’s lips quirked at that. My god, was that actually a sense of humor peeking out?
Conversation from a nearby group of cadets filled the momentary silence at their table.
“Of course the German’s have got skilled soldiers at the front, you dolt! My brother’s over there fighting with the French and he said in a letter they’re even using them out in the open sometimes.”
“If that’s true, how come all of Europe don’t know about magic?”
“Reporters aren’t allowed at the front much for one.
For two, my brother says they come up with ways to spin what happened so the troops don’t get all freaked out.
Like, he said one time there was a necromancer and when she raised the freshly dead, everyone got told the Germans came up with a drug to delay death for a few minutes. ”
“And people believed that bull?”
The cadet shrugged. “People don’t want to believe in magic, do they? They want to believe in the world as they know it.”
Bellona drew Elliot’s attention back to the table when she said, “My brother is over there too. He’s a pilot for the French Army. He flew over a pyrokinetic once who almost caused him to crash.”
Swift sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I’m glad he didn’t. Is he—?”
“Perfectly fine, according to his last letter.” There was concern in Bellona’s voice. “If they’re using those kinds of skills out in the open, imagine what they’re doing where we can’t see.”
That grim thought silenced them all. Elliot grimaced at his food and sighed, appetite vanished.