The last time I saw Brandt, it was right after I'd gone blind and collapsed in a conference room at the Pentagon. Being in close proximity to all five knives had short circuited my wiring somehow. While the whole thing was freaking terrifying, I'd gotten better once Jorge spread everyone out. Brandt had laughed about it later, like it had been funny to see me splayed on the floor, unable to see.

Yeah, I wasn't sure how well we'd get along, either.

The other private led us to a tent on the far side of camp. "We set this up for you today, sir. You should have everything you need, but if I can assist in any way, my name's Cordry, sir."

"Thank you, Cordry," Johnson said. He turned to Lanningham. "Get us settled in. I need to see a man about a horse."

He walked off whistling and Lanningham , his eyebrow quirked, asked, "Horse?"

I grinned. "He's visiting the latrine."

I left the new guys to unpack and went to find our other wielder. Three soldiers came out of the tent I'd now call the "casino" for the duration of the mission and disappeared like scalded cats. Uncle Mike followed, clenching a muscle in his jaw, a sure sign someone had gotten chewed out. I was glad that it wasn't me for once.

"Thought I'd say hi to Brandt," I said, trying for casual, like I wasn't dying to know what had just happened.

Uncle Mike closed his eyes for a ten count. "Be my guest." He started toward our new tent. "And Matt? Show him how a real wielder behaves, would you?"

I nodded at Mike's back as he left. "It'd be my pleasure."

After waiting a respectful sixty seconds, I poked my head inside the casino. "Captain, what's up?"

Brandt cocked his head. He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, and he didn't look too happy to see me. "Aren't you supposed to call me *sir,' kid?"

"Not anymore," I said. "Guess the colonel didn't tell you that the rest of the team is supposed to treat me like an officer. Which also means you shouldn't call me *kid.'"

Now, Colonel Black hadn't exactly said anything of the sort, but what Brandt didn't know wouldn't kill him, right?

Brandt stood slowly. He hadn't changed much in the last year; he was still lean as a post, with close-cropped dark hair and perpetual smirk. He probably thought to be intimidating as he crossed the tent to stand toe-to-toe with me, but when he closed in, he had to look up to meet my eyes and shock wiped that cocky smile right off his face. It was always a rude awakening for these guys when they realized I'd become taller, bigger and likely stronger than they were.

I liked it that way.

"Have you grown?" he asked, staring at me like I was some kind of science experiment gone wrong. "No, really, were you this tall last year in D.C?"

"Nearly," I said, "but what you're probably seeing is the extra twenty pounds of muscle I put on since the wielders' summit. I run close to two-ten these days."

"Huh." Brandt took a step back. "Okay, so here's how this is going to be. My guys are mine. Major Tannen may be ranking officer, but he's on your team, not mine. I don't know what kind of agenda the colonel has here, but I've got my own thing working with the locals, so try not to screw it up."

His own thing? What was Brandt doing out here? "I don't take orders from anyone but the major or the knife-spirit."

"You still going on about that voodoo?" Brandt barked a laugh. "I got serious doubts about your sanity, Archer, because my knife ain't never done more than buzz, and it sure doesn't control my actions. It's a tool. A damned good tool, let's be clear, but it's not calling the shots." He flopped back on his cot, crossing his ankles. "I've heard about your little freak shows out in the field, when you get all possessed and stuff, and I'm not buying into your crazy."

Tink growled in my head and I heard a faint, contrite murmur off to the side. Great, that had to be Brandt's knife-spirit, apologizing for its giant assclown of a wielder. "That *crazy' might save your life someday, but if you want to believe it's all voodoo, be my guest. Maybe we'll luck out and your knife will transfer over to someone else."

"Like yours left the major for you?" Brant asked. "Yeah, because that's worked so well."

It has worked out well! Tink sounded scandalized, which was enough to tell me to get out of this tent before I lost my temperaor control of my own fists when she called on me to beat Brandt to a pulp.

I paused at the flap on my way out. "No wonder you haven't made progress here. If you don't believe in your knife, how can you be effective in the field? Given the lack of progress, I guess we have our answera"you can't."

With that, I left him spluttering curses at my back.

"Wait, say that again," Johnson said, laughing. "What'd you just call Brandt?"

I grinned and stretched out on my cot. We'd finished a terse dinner outside with the combined group and beat a quick retreat to our own tent soon after. Tyson was the only one who stayed to mingle with Brandt's team. "A squib. You know, from Harry Potter. The wizards who can't do magic. He says his knife-spirit never talks to him, when everyone else can hear them. Only thing I can figure is that he's a knife-squib."

Uncle Mike heaved a sigh. "Matt, things are uneasy enough without you resorting to name calling. The captain's a jerk, we all know that, but his knife chose him over a dozen other men. There must be a reason he can wield it, even if he can't hear the spirit talking to him."

"Maybe so, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't keep an eye on him," I muttered. "He's trouble."

"Yes, well, I know someone else who's going to be in trouble, and that's you if you don't get to work on your lessons," Uncle Mike said, giving me a pointed glare. "Why don't you spend the next few hours conjugating some sentences rather than worrying about Brandt?"

Johnson grinned. "He said *conjugate.'"

"Here's a news flasha"juniors don't do that kind of thing." I grabbed my laptop and stalked to the other side of the tent, leaving them to decide exactly what I meant by that.

Two hours later, after I'd completed two Algebra II lessons (boring) and a section of chemistry (worse), I pulled my headphones out of my ears and realized everyone else had gone to sleep around me. Johnson's snores were raising the roof of the tent, so I put the headphones back in and let a history lesson on Millard Fillmore lull me to sleep.

The night passed without incident; I didn't even have nightmares for once. Maybe boring myself to sleep was the trick. Plus, for some weird reason, I woke up mulling over the fact that Daniel Webstera"not the dictionary guya"was Fillmore's Secretary of State. I didn't remember hearing that part of the lesson, but learning by osmosis was a definite bonus.

When I showed up for breakfast, Brandt called out, "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Archer."

I looked around. Only about half the team was assembled, and no one seemed ready to roll. Just Brandt being a jerkweed.

Ignoring the barb, I picked up my first MRE of the daya"breakfast sausages and hash browns, along with canned peachesa"and choked down my food. Eating MREs always made me think of Lieutenant Patterson. He told me the food sucked but that I couldn't run around on empty, so I had to eat. I'd taken his advice to heart, eating everything I was given even if I had to hold my nose to do it.

The thought of the men we lost made my hash browns stick in my throat a little. Mike said everyone knew the risks, and I thought I'd accepted the fact that the men in my unit were basically on point to die for me if necessary, but it still disturbed me. If I died, would the knife transfer to someone else?

"I can't let anybody else die for me, Tink." I stared hard at the red sand under my boots. "Not if someone else can do my job."

This is not your burden to carry. The knife-spirit's voice was calm this morning. Tink was in soothe mode. You are the one I searched for. I've told you before that we are bound together; there is no one else. The sacrifices are terrible, but necessary, and this morning, you'll find out why.

"What?" I gasped.

Soon. It's not time, yet.

Then the spirit clammed up, like usual.

My thoughts churned for a good half-hour while everyone else prepared to go. We were headed to the village Brandt had heard about, and traveling light, so it didn't take long to load up our equipment. Johnson, Lanningham and Uncle Mike came as my backup. Brandt brought two of his people as well; the rest would stay behind and guard camp.

"We're going to pick up a guide; a local I've been in contact with," Brandt said as we pulled out in the Humvee. "He knows the way out to the village. It's only about thirty miles from here, but the road is rough, so it'll take a good hour or more."

Twenty minutes later we caught up with Brandt's guide, a man named Twi who spoke decent English and seemed grateful for a ride. He met us at a crossroads between the main dirt track we'd been taking, and a much rougher trail that ran southwest away from camp. Twi told us he had walked six miles to the rendezvous point. Another reason to hate Brandta"why didn't he think to pick the guy up instead of making him walk?

The morning grew toasty as our Humvee bounced over holes and small stones and tough roots left by scrubby plants. The hour-long trip Brandt had promised stretched out to ninety minutesa"an agonizing, bone-jarring, teeth-rattling ninety minutes. From the consternated look on Brandt's face, he hadn't expected the trip to take this long, either, no matter what he told us before we left.

Based on what I'd seen so far, I started to think Brandt was cutting corners, not doing the recon the colonel expected. Had he actually met the people in the village where the medicine man lived, or was he dragging us to BFE based on a rumor ? Maybe I was right; maybe Africa's problems weren't only an unnaturally high concentration of monsters, but also because their assigned wielder didn't care. I vowed to find out the truth. The people here deserved better from us.

We finally pulled into the dusty village at ten-thirty, two hours after we picked up Twi. A dozen or so ramshackle huts ringed a small gathering area with a well and a fire pit. On the far side of camp, crops struggled to grow in the arid heat and a few thin cows tore up savannah grasses to eat. My heart sank; the villages I'd visited in Afghanistan looked cosmopolitan compared to this and I started to feel guilty for complaining about the quality of the food in my MREs.

"You sure this is the place?" Johnson asked, cutting Brandt a scathing glance. I wasn't the only one suspicious of the guy, apparently.

Twi nodded. "Ahmatku live here. His wife, she want to meet you. She been asking after Captain for a time now."

Asking for Brandt? Just how long had he kept this woman waiting?

Brandt spat some tobacco out, not looking the least bit bothered by Johnson's glare. "Well, better late than never, right?"

I'd never wanted to punch him so badly. "And let's not be a-holes about it, either."

"Matta" Mike said, warning me off. I shrugged. Johnson was starting to lose patience with Brandt. Mike would, too; hopefully before it was too late and we were surrounded by monsters because Brandt did something careless.

Twi led us into the encampment. A group of boys were playing soccer on a barren field outside the perimeter of the houses and their shouts rang out, loud and happy. It was so familiar I had to smilea"just a pickup game in the neighborhood. But the differences were striking. The boys wore mismatched clothing that didn't fit any of them wella"pants too short, shirts too baggya"and all of them went barefoot. I felt self-conscious in my thick-soled boots and custom-tailored camo.

They stopped the game to watch us file past. Every boy had light brown skin, dark eyes and a ready smile for the soldiers. Most of them were elementary or middle school aged and they stared at us with open curiosity, at least until I passed by.

One by one, the smiles left the boys' faces. I tried to look friendly, harmless, but their eyes widened and they stood utterly still, staring at me. Without a word, Twi stopped, holding his arm out so I couldn't go on.

"Greet them," he murmured.

For the first time, Twi lost his "I'm here to please" expression and tension radiated off of him in waves. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. Not wanting to start an international incident, I did what he asked. Feeling like a statue on display, I stood up straighter and faced the boys. "Hi, guys. What's up?"

The largest boy called something out to the others. They nodded and murmured to each other. Then the littlest guy, he couldn't have been more than seven, darted forward and saluteda"banging his small fist against his chest over his heart. I shot a look at Mike. He shook his head, mouthing, "no idea."

All the boys followed the little one's lead and saluted, too. Freaked, I said, "I don't know who you think I am, but youayou don't have to do this." I pointed at Mike and Brandt. "They're the ranking officers. I'm nobody important."

"Oh, but you are," a voice cracked with age said. "And we've been waiting ever so long."

Chapter Ten.

The woman had white hair, but her skin was smooth and wrinkle free. Still, I got the feeling she was older than any of us could guess, even if she didn't look it. The liveliness of her eyes and her proud, straight posture reminded me of someone, too. Or maybe it was the sense of power that surrounded her.

She reminded me of Jorge.

The boys darted past us and gathered around the woman, laughing. They jumped and bounced on their toes like a pile of puppies while reaching out to touch the hem of her patched shirt. In response, the woman laid two fingers on each boy's forehead. Once acknowledged, the boys ran for the huts, flashing bright teeth.

She smiled as the last boy scampered away, shaking her head. "Always so eager for blessing. Their youth is a gift." She turned to me. "Welcome. I am called Zenka. My husband was a chief to this village. I carry on in his place."

Her English was heavily accented, but I understood her perfectly. The others seemed to be straining to catch what she was saying, though. I nudged the knife-spirit. "You translating for me?"

Something like innocent whistling filled my head.

"Yeah, right," I muttered. "And that thing about *you're going to find out soon' from earlier? Does Zenka have anything to do with that?"

More whistling, but this time Tink sounded gleeful, like I'd been caught in a practical joke. Zenka watched me with a knowing smile, almost as if she was in on it. Kind of unnerving, to tell the truth.

"Your name, child?" she asked.

"Yeah, uh, hi. I'm Matt Archer, and I'm part of a special paranormal division for the U.S. Army."

"A wielder," she said. "We've heard of you."

A little shiver ran down my back. "Um, okay."

As I introduced the rest of the crew, Zenka's gaze rested on Brandt longer than the others. She studied his face, much as she studied mine when she first walked up. I don't know how, but it seemed like she recognized us. I shared an uneasy glance with Brandt. Something very strange was going on.

Zenka led us into the village, taking us to a hut at the edge of the circle. It was small, made of old wood, and smelled of smoke, even from outside. We wouldn't all fit inside, so she had us wait out front while she rummaged around.

She came back out carrying a walking stick. "Better. Come, I have much to show you. We'll talk on the way."

"Where are we going?" Uncle Mike asked. None of us liked to walk blind into anything, especially with some strange lady we just met. We'd learned too many hard lessons that way.

"The caves." Zenka patted Uncle Mike's arm. "You have nothing to fear. Come, come."

Without another question, Mike shouldered his pack and followed Zenka. The others gave him wary glances and Lanningham asked, "Sir? Would you like me to do a sweep first?"

A tingling at the base of my neck told me to go with her. "The knife says it's okay."

The others shrugged and followed Mike's lead. I didn't bother to tell everyone the knife-spirit wasn't always a hundred-percent trustworthy; she'd just get offended and give me a headache. Plus, we'd waste time. Zenka was weird, but she knew something important and I wanted to hear what it was.

We left the village, heading into deep grasslands. The paths were narrow, and the grass heads kept getting caught on my pack, my knife's handle, my clothes. From the muttered cursing behind me, I gathered everyone else had the same problem. Zenka glided through the waves of grass without so much as a snag. Oh, yeah, she was definitely like Jorge in that respect. Nature got out of her way.

"Ahmatku, my husband, he saw visions of times coming. Of people, too." Zenka said over her shoulder. "They were grounded in stories foretold long ago. That's why I'm taking you to the caves. To show you what our people prophesied in the days before history.

"There are symbols there, things that tell of approaching darkness. Ahmatku went to the caves again and again, seeking meaning. I believe he found it just before he died. It all goes back to the symbols."

"How did your husband die?" I asked. I knew, but I wanted to hear it from her.

"The darkness killed him," Zenka said, her bright eyes fixed on mine. "In the shape of a lion that walkeda"and spokea"like a man."

That confirmed it. Brandt had failed his mission here; the monsters found the shaman before we did. Would we ever find out what this man wanted us to know? Or was it lost now? And, if so, was that because Brandt didn't do the legwork he was supposed to do? Or was his faith in the knife-spirit too weak?

We topped a small hill. Thirty yards ahead was a series of small caves, their mouths barely big enough for one man to pass through at a time. Caves and I had a bad history, and I shuddered, but that was nothing compared to Lanningham's reaction. His eyes went wide and wild and he backed away several steps, stumbling into Johnson.

"Maybe I should stay out here," he said. His voice was higher than normal, cracking at the end.

Brandt snickered. "Sergeant, you're too big to be scared of the dark."

I shot a glare at him. He had no right to poke fun. Had Major Ramirez been here, Brandt would've seen what a real fear of caves wasaand for good reason. Ramirez probably would've smacked Brandt down for his asinine comment, too.