I sat at the table, staring out the window. It had been five months since I got the message about Jack. The cabin had been cleaned and reorganized immediately, as if order could hold everything else together.

  Jack had promised I’d hear from him. I’d made sure he used a P.O. box when he enlisted.

  Then the robots took over.

  “Chores will help,” I muttered.

  Order kept my mind focused. Work kept worry at bay.

  It would be so much easier if the robots just killed humans.

  I pushed up from the table and caught my reflection in the mantle mirror.

  Flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  Well-worn jeans.

  Work boots I wore every day.

  My dark brown beard was shot with gray now, neater than I felt. My green eyes looked tired. Older.

  Like a man getting ready to look for a son who might already be dead.

  I wasn’t ready to believe that.

  I huffed out a breath and turned away.

  It would be nice if I could mentally force myself to leave my property.

  I grabbed the ax from beside the door as I stepped out.

  “Safer not to leave,” I muttered.

  My routines were here. They kept my mind quiet.

  I never forced those strict routines on Jack. He was flexible in a way I could never be.

  Kathy was buried here.

  Jack’s mom—who had looked so forward to his birth.

  It wasn’t Jack’s fault.

  It was mine.

  She should’ve gone to a hospital, but—

  My grip tightened on the ax.

  Chopping wood would help.

  Don’t think about it.

  I made my way to the splitting stump in the clearing.

  The house looked down on it—solar panels on the roof, a vegetable garden to the right.

  I should’ve kept animals, but they were too hard to track. Meat came from hunting.

  One of the few times I ever let myself lose control.

  My memory turned foggy when I hunted.

  Like someone else took over.

  I reached the stump and paused.

  I raised the ax in both hands and glanced around.

  Someone had knocked over my woodpile.

  The sight made something in me twitch.

  “Who’s here?!” I shouted.

  Robots would have just found me.

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  This was a human.

  Cold laughter drifted out of the woods. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  “Carl. I believe we once served together,” said a voice I recognized.

  Taro Ohanko.

  Afghanistan.

  “You shouldn’t be able to find me.”

  No one should.

  I’d left the military for a reason.

  He stepped out of the trees in a pressed black suit, a white Japanese-style dress shirt beneath it. His long hair was tied in a top knot, his dark eyes cold in sharp Asian features.

  “Magic makes finding people easier,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

  “Some acquaintances of mine”—his laugh unsettled me—“think they will be the first to unlock your powers.”

  He fixed me with a stare that made my skin crawl.

  “They are fools,” he said softly.

  Magic.

  I took a step back.

  My hands tightened around the axe handle.

  My breath came faster.

  “I see you remember the first time you experienced true power,” Taro grinned, stepping toward me.

  “Your first taste of magic,” he added softly. “It tends to linger.”

  And I fell into memory.

  Men turning into wolves.

  Others into lions.

  Ambushers hurling lightning—fire—raw energy.

  My company screaming.

  Taro was suddenly right in front of me.

  I jerked and dropped the axe.

  A stream of curses spilled out—too fast to catch, too stupid to stop.

  He grabbed my arm—

  and the past swallowed me whole.

  Men pinning me down.

  Magic clawing into my skull.

  Voices demanding information.

  Control slipping.

  Taro’s needle sliding into my vein.

  Barton Carmichael.

  Another time.

  Same needle.

  He was talking.

  Barton had too.

  but I couldn’t hear him.

  Another skip.

  Shouting.

  Heat.

  Pain.

  Something strange flooding through my blood.

  Run.

  I tore free—

  drove my knee into his groin.

  He grunted.

  An uppercut as he sagged.

  He crumpled.

  Forest.

  My territory now.

  I bolted into the trees.

  I’d knocked Taro out in a bar fight before.

  He wouldn’t stay down long.

  I felt hot.

  I felt cold.

  Whatever he’d injected into me was chewing through my veins.

  I knew that man’s sense of smell.

  He could track.

  Water.

  I needed water—

  No.

  A creek wasn’t enough. Not for him.

  In normal forests, dogs fail because the air is wrong.

  Wind tunnels between the trees scatter scent.

  Dry leaves trap it in pockets.

  Sun-warmed soil makes scent rise and drift.

  Animals cross your trail a dozen times and tear it to shreds.

  A forest eats scent trails alive.

  For normal trackers.

  But not for Taro.

  He always followed heat signatures, micro-disturbances, displaced soil—things dogs couldn’t even register.

  He’d accidentally shifted once.

  Ever try calming a pissed-off Chinese fire dragon?

  No.

  Good.

  He’d have my trail already.

  I needed confusion.

  Noise.

  A place where smell, sound, and sight all twisted the same way.

  Somewhere the forest itself scrambled the rules.

  And I knew exactly where to go.

  The forest had swampy patches scattered everywhere.

  Good thing about Ohio.

  We had random bogs, marshes, and half-sunk tree roots in places no sane person expected.

  My father used to say Ohio had even more swamps before they drained the land.

  Whole counties of mud and reeds.

  Places horses disappeared into.

  That was exactly what I needed.

  A roar that didn’t sound human came from the direction of my cabin.

  Not good.

  That was pissed-off Taro, in his Chinese dragon form.

  I raced deeper into the woods, wincing as mud squelched around my boots.

  I ground my teeth together.

  Survival mattered more than my aversion to getting dirty.

  Hide, a voice that sounded like me—gruffer, older, more ancient—echoed through my head.

  Water seeped into my work boots.

  The feeling of wet socks made me shudder.

  Ignore it.

  Push it down.

  I slowed, easing my way through dense brush as the swampy ground sucked greedily at my boots.

  The slimy mud wasn’t… pleasant.

  Roars echoed above me, and I hunched low.

  Keeping my body close to the ground, I angled toward a hollowed-out hill.

  Hill?

  More like a rise.

  Kentucky boys knew real hills.

  Roots dangled from the exposed dirt as I slipped behind them, pushing past hanging branches and moving toward the back of the hollow.

  My heart pounded in my chest.

  Sweat beaded across my brow.

  My whole body was shaking.

  What the hell had he injected me with?

  I found a mostly dry patch of ground and slid down into a sitting position.

  Forced myself to listen.

  No wing beats.

  Just frustrated roars echoing overhead.

  I smirked despite myself.

  City dragon.

  He used to brag about it when our unit camped at night.

  Country boys weren’t stupid.

  Mud sucked at the soles of my boots as I sat, cold and heavy.

  My breath fogged in the cool air.

  The injection made everything too bright, too loud.

  I tried to steady my breathing.

  Routine helped.

  Counting helped.

  Thinking helped—barely.

  Heaviness pulled at my limbs.

  Couldn’t sleep.

  Had to stay awake.

  Hidden, but not safe.

  Rest. I’ll make sure we’re not found.

  Who?

  Sleep. Your dragon needs to come out.

  Dragons did not mean control.

  My body betrayed me anyway, and darkness swallowed me whole.

  Not that a voice in my head meant control, either.

  Bastard.