BooksBarbecue
Back Max
Chapters (83)
  1. Copyright Page
  2. Prologue
  3. Part One
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. Part Two
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. Epilogue
  82. A Preview of "Witch & Wizard"
  83. 1

Iggy fingered the khaki cloth of his uniform pants. “This is not a good color for me. I’m really more of a ‘winter.’ ”

Frankly, it wasn’t a good color on any of us. And it was downright odd on Fang, who normally wore only dark clothes. I was glad, though, that Nudge wasn’t here asking if her uniform came in cute pink camo or had a matching headband.

Ensign Workman gasped audibly when I pulled out a pocketknife and started slashing long slits in the backs of our new shirts.

“You’re defacing property of the United States Navy!” he said, shocked.

“Gotta let the wings out, man,” said Iggy.

Gazzy took no pity on Ensign Workman and proceeded to snap his wings out, right there. Ten feet of authority-defying feathers and bones, attached to a grinning mutant bird kid.

Ensign Workman turned white, which, as you can imagine, only made his uniform look even worse.

The BS grounds were separated from the rest of the base by a seven-foot chain-link fence. A tall, chisel-faced man stood at the entrance, holding a clipboard and wearing a frown. Ensign Workman silently turned us over to him, then slunk away, no doubt hoping never to see us again. It’s weird how many people feel that way about us.

“The classroom is aft of those trees!” the guy barked. “March!”

I know this will surprise you, but we’re not good marchers. We’re not even good at staying in line. And if you’ve skimmed any of my previous adventures, you’ve already figured out how well we respond to orders.

Of any kind.

33

I WAS ALREADY SEETHING as we trooped through the doors into a small, linoleum-tiled classroom. A classroom. People trying to stick me in classrooms was becoming as predictable and annoying as people trying to kill me, but with less-fun results.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting at a freaking desk when my mom is tied up on a submarine somewhere!” I exploded. “This is total crap!”

“Sit down!” snapped our instructor.

With great difficulty, I forced myself to sit on a plastic chair attached to a metal desk. I was calculating how much force I’d need to hurl one of these desks through a window when several other students, male and female, dressed in khaki, looking young and impressionable, filed in silently and immediately took their seats. They tried hard to ignore us, already well on their way to the whole stiff-upper-lip thing, but I felt them sneaking glances.

The man was writing on the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. “LTC Palmer.”

He dropped some files on the desk and turned to regard the class with loathing.