Magisterium by Jeff Hirsch Page B

fever through the thin fabric. His eyes flickered behind his lids.
    “Will he be well enough to travel?”
    “Kirzal willing.”
    Glenn was about to ask what he meant, but then she realized, Of course. They still have gods here.
    Glenn lay on her side next to Kevin, her back to Aamon, and drew the blanket over her. She tried to sleep but it was as if a nest of snakes was twisting and turning in her stomach.
    Aamon was lying by the fire, eyes closed. She felt his claws on her wrist and remembered as he looked from the bracelet to her face and back again — that strange expression in his eyes that she couldn’t place.
    What was it?
    As soon as she asked herself the question the answer came to her.
    Fear.

    Despite the warmth of the fire, a chill moved through Glenn.
    Aamon was afraid of removing the bracelet from her wrist. It seemed ludicrous. What could make someone like Aamon Marta afraid?
    Glenn placed her hand on the warm metal. If what her father said was true, it was the only thing that separated her from the reality of the Magisterium. The Magisterium changed Hopkins into Aamon , Glenn thought. Maybe Aamon knows what it would do to me.
     
    Glenn opened her eyes as the first rays of sunlight came in through the window. Aamon was gone. In his place sat a tray filled with a plate of bread and cheese and a pot of tea.
    Kevin still slept beneath the pile of blankets. His green Mohawk was flattened against his skull, and his usually brown skin had a waxy gray cast to it. Glenn moved closer and pulled aside the blankets. He was shirtless underneath, and he smelled of old sweat. There was no blood or swelling around his wound and Glenn was surprised to see that the edges of the puncture were already knitting together.
    “Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist a peek.”
    Startled, Glenn looked up and found Kevin’s puffy eyes half open, a wry smile playing across his lips.
    “Kapoor?!”
    “In the fle—”
    Glenn scooped him up in her arms.
    “Ow!”
    “Oh! Sorry!” Glenn eased him down and leaned over him. There was a hot rush in her chest. Her throat ached.
    “It’s okay, Morgan,” he said. “I’m okay.”
    Kevin’s hand rested on her back with a reassuring weight. Their faces were mere inches from each other. His eyes, warm and gleaming, settled on her.
    “You must be hungry,” Glenn said, pulling the tray between them.
    “It looks like there’s tea. I could —”
    “Thanks,” Kevin said. He grunted as he sat up, bracing himself against the wall. The blanket fell away and exposed his thin chest.
    Glenn handed him a sandwich and then busied herself with the tea things on the tray.
    “How does it feel?” she asked. “Your …”
    “Gunshot wound?” Kevin asked brightly. He dropped his
    sandwich and pulled down the blanket to inspect the train track of stitches that curled upward from his waist to his rib cage. “It’s okay, I guess. That old guy — what’s his name? Decker? He came this morning and wiped some of that smelly crap off me. Guess that’s what made me all not dead and stuff.”
    Glenn handed him a mug of tea and he took a deep drink.
    “Thanks. So where are we, anyway?”
    “Other side of the border,” she said. “A town called Haymarket.
    It’s part of something they call the Magisterium.”
    Kevin craned his neck around to survey the inside of the house.
    In the light of morning it seemed warm and friendly, all pale wood and stone. He turned back to Glenn with a grin. “Well, Morgan, this certainly is one nicely appointed wasteland.”
    Glenn ignored him. “Kevin, look, I’m really —”
    “Forget it.”
    “Forget it? You were shot!”
    “Exactly. And how many sixteen-year-olds can say they’ve been shot while fleeing Authority agents? In some ways this is the most awesome thing that’s ever happened to me. I should be thanking you for this experience!”
    “Well, the experience is over.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean you’re going back.