The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun) Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Shami Stovall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, titles, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by TCK Publishing

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  Get in touch with Shami and find out more at

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  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE: VERDUN

  CHAPTER TWO: GRAVE-MAKER GAS

  CHAPTER THREE: FORT BELLEVILLE

  CHAPTER FOUR: TEAM ASSESSMENTS

  CHAPTER FIVE: FORT SOUVILLE

  CHAPTER SIX: ZEPPELIN

  CHAPTER SEVEN: FORT DOUAUMONT

  CHAPTER EIGHT: TESTING GROUNDS

  CHAPTER NINE: FRATERNIZING

  CHAPTER TEN: OPERATION PROMETHEUS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: TEAM ASSIGNMENT

  CHAPTER TWELVE: TRAIN TICKETS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CAMARADERIE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE EVENING ROSE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ANTWERP, BELGIUM

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: INSPECTION

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: OCCUPATION

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE RESISTANCE

  CHAPTER TWENTY: LIÈGE, BELGIUM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: MUSEUM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: CHATEAU COPPENS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REGROUP

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: SPA, BELGIUM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: OHL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE MAGIC-TECHNOLOGY GENERAL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: DEFECTOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: REVELATION

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: ABOMINATION

  CHAPTER THIRTY: FLIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE WIRE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE NEW SCHIEFFEN PLAN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: ANTI-GAS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: THE PARIS GUNS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE FINAL ARGUMENT OF KINGS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE GREAT WAR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONNECT WITH SHAMI

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  ONE LAST THING...

  To John, for being the first to see.

  To Beka, for all her support.

  To Gail, for her unending enthusiasm.

  To Big John, for his fatherly advice.

  To Ann, my best friend.

  And to history, for being so interesting.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This novel takes place in an alternate history version of World War I. While many of the events herein are similar to reality, fictional characters and magic have been woven into the timeline, which changes a few things. If you read this series thinking you know every battle or how the Great War ultimately concludes, you may find yourself surprised.

  Without further ado, please enjoy the novel.

  CHAPTER ONE

  VERDUN

  THE MACHINE GUN FIRE WOULDN’T last forever.

  Florence Cavell held her Springfield rifle close as the bullets whistled overhead. Soon they would engage the enemy. Would there be landmines between her and the Germans? Zeppelins? Sorcerers? Florence didn’t know, but as her boots sank further into the trench mud, she pushed the thoughts from her mind.

  “Here comes our opening,” Cutter said, his voice sharp enough to pierce through the din of war. “You ready, Geist?”

  Geist. Her codename. Her true identity among allies.

  She gave a curt nod.

  “Good. You’re with me. We’ll rush the bunker and get the prisoners. Little Wick and Buttons will take the gunners.”

  “Understood,” she said.

  Geist and Cutter shared a quick smile and salute. Ice still gripped her heart, but Cutter’s presence thawed her anxiety. I’m a fool for worrying.

  The light of the full moon lit the battlefield despite the midnight hour. The enlisted men squeezed together in fraternal huddles throughout the trenches, keeping their heads low and their eyes to the ground. While Cutter tensed in preparation to leap, Little Wick held a hand to his heart and spoke aloud, defiance in his words.

  “Almighty and Everlasting God, by Whose grace Thy servants are enabled to fight the good fight and prove victorious, we humbly beseech Thee to inspire us! Save us and our foes, as they know not what they do. Lord our God, accept this prayer on behalf of all the wretched men of war. Amen.”

  And as though God himself had touched the enemy guns, the stream of bullets ceased.

  Cutter jumped up first, eagerness evident in his movements. Geist followed after, her fingers gripping the muddy edge of the trench without slipping. Little Wick, without a rifle, climbed the ladder out of the pit of French soldiers, a bag of shirt buttons hanging from his belt.

  The moments between the reloading of the machine guns were short. Geist had a narrow timeframe to cross the distance between trenches—No Man’s Land—a kingdom of death between men standing in shallow graves. The eerie gray landscape saw only the red of French trousers and the horizon-blue of infantry coats.

  The unblinking eyes of corpses unnerved Geist as she wove through the dangers of the desolate terrain. She controlled her breathing and focused on the drum of her heartbeat.

  Where barbed wire would stop normal men, it ripped at the edges of Geist’s uniform but passed through her flesh without harm. Even the bullets from German rifles tore her clothes but left her skin untouched.

  Geist had heard the rumors, but even the stories of ‘guardian angels on the battlefield’ didn’t come close to the truth. What ordinary soldier would believe that real, live sorcerers were fighting alongside mortal men in the trenches at Verdun?

  But they were real, real as the magic that flowed in her veins. A covert UK-US joint task force made up entirely of magic-users known as the Ethereal Squadron.

  Sorcerers going to war.

  Cutter ran the length of No Man’s Land with a sprinter’s enthusiasm and stamina. He leapt the barbed wire like hurdles, and when the hail of 7.92mm Mauser rifle bullets came to slow his progress, he met them head on. His laughter, loud enough to hear over the gunfire, echoed into the night. Soaked crimson and high on adrenaline, Cutter waded into the fray with a berserker’s smile on his pale American face.

  The German front had two parallel trenches that ran to each horizon. A multitude of smaller ditches connected everything like a maze with no beginning or end. In between muddy furrows sat giant machine gun turrets and mountains of sandbags stacked chest high. The sentry posts, stationed every hundred yards, lit up with the burst of rifle fire from the men on duty.

  Geist stepped up to the edge of the first German trench and pointed her rifle down. Surprised soldiers could only half-lift their weapons as she fired. One soldier, tucked away in the shadows, his face muddy and his hands unsteady, managed to fire on Geist before she could ready her rifle for another round.

  His shot pierced the collar of her uniform but flew off into the night, her power momentarily causing her skin to shimmer and fade.

  “Geist,” the soldier mouthed. German for ghost.
She had earned the codename from a hundred men murmuring the same thing just before they died.

  Geist stabbed down with her bayonet, plunging it deep into the soldier’s neck and lifting up. The short knife snapped off her rifle as the German stumbled backward, his back hitting the dirt wall of the trench as he choked on blood and panic.

  Cutter, his rifle too slow for his bloodlust, jumped into the German frontline trench with nothing but a Bowie knife. He bled from scores of bullet holes, yet his body refused to succumb to his wounds. Each injury stitched itself back together with superhuman speed, never allowing Cutter to fall.

  As he advanced, sharp claws sprouted at the end of his fingertips. He slashed with a knife in one hand and boney talons on the other, tearing through enemy soldiers and staining their dark green uniforms with hot blood.

  Geist took advantage of the Germans’ stunned disbelief. Like her namesake, she slid through the moonlight shadows, leaping over the trench and firing from behind, catching them at their most vulnerable. Watching Cutter with terror in their eyes, they never saw her coming.

  Little Wick, slow to cross the horror of No Man’s Land, arrived with a grim expression etched onto his face.

  “Fear not,” he said, “for our Lord is a consuming fire.”

  With a wave of his hand, flames erupted. They scorched the mud and chalk and panels of the trenches, lighting everything in deep, hellish reds. The fire answered Little Wick’s every thought and gesture, dancing at his command and tearing through the enemy lines unimpeded. Ash swept over the battle as he set the sentry posts ablaze, creating a pyre for the soldiers trapped within.

  Little Wick grimaced each time a German fell. “Forgive me, please. Forgive me.”

  The reloaded machine guns swiveled into place. Everyone but Cutter—even the Germans—raced for cover as the orange-yellow burst of fire erupted from the barrel of the nearest turret.

  Little Wick tossed a shirt button over the machine gunner’s bunker and ducked away. The button, nearly invisible in the darkness, landed behind the German soldiers. A man slipped into reality right where the piece of apparel had landed—Buttons, last of the Ethereal Squadron’s trench cleaners, had arrived. Geist smiled. His khaki British uniform marked him as an ally.

  Buttons stood and seemed to get his bearings, then pulled a Webley revolver from his holster and shot the machine gunner in the chest. Moving to wield the machine gun himself, Buttons swiveled the heavy weapon to the edge of its arc, firing into the western German trenches, pulping the sandbags and ripping the supports for the enemy ditches apart.

  The Germans scrambled through their narrow labyrinth, falling back to defensible positions. The hundreds of dead at their feet slowed their progress as they stumbled and slipped through the mud at the bottom of the trench.

  Geist pursued, her intangibility allowing her to navigate through the sea of corpses with ease. Even amidst the chaos of battle, she kept her wits about her. Rigorous training had killed idle fear years ago.

  Four sorcerers versus a platoon of normal men? Geist wasn’t surprised it had ended in a massacre. She ran through wave after wave of bullets, her confidence building.

  The enemy soldiers might see her magic in action, but they wouldn’t live to tell the tale. And those lucky few who survived would be accused of hallucinating—nightmares brought on by the horror of war.

  Geist turned her gaze to the enemy command bunker. The closer she got, the colder the air seemed to become. Magic could always feel the presence of magic. And Ethereal Squadron sorcerers had gone missing, and intelligence said they were trapped in the frontline bunkers.

  Why keep prisoners so close to the front? Geist asked herself as she sprinted towards the building. A trap? She shook the thought from her mind. Even if there was a possibility the information was false, she wouldn’t risk leaving a teammate behind.

  Cutter waded through the quagmire of combat, far behind but awash in enemy blood. Geist thought she could hear him laughing.

  I shouldn’t wait. I’ll have to go in alone.

  Geist kicked through the door and dove into the room with her rifle at the ready. German soldiers fired Luger pistols, tearing more tiny holes in her uniform. Geist moved between them, using their panic to her advantage as they shot each other through her shimmering form. The last soldier standing emptied his gun but kept firing, the empty gun clicking limply. Geist leveled her rifle and fired, and the Luger fell to the floor just before he did.

  She turned and ran down the bunker hall and stopped at the first door she came upon. A pile of corpses sat shoved into the corner of the room. Each body—once a man—had been stripped down to their drawers and discarded. Their skin had a waxy sheen under the dim lighting of an oil lantern, as though they were made of candle wax and partially melted.

  What… happened?

  A twist of pain knotted her gut. Geist recognized two of the distorted faces as sorcerers of the Ethereal Squadron, codenames Lock and Chorus. The sight of their deformed corpses sent shivers down her spine.

  I’m too late. They’ve been mutilated.

  She took a step back when she realized she wasn’t alone. One man lay atop a gurney in a shadowy corner of the room. His chest heaved, and she could hear unsteady breaths rattling his lungs. Geist slung her rifle over her shoulder and rushed to his side, thankful that at least one soldier would make it out.

  The sorcerer on the gurney had a cold aura. He writhed as though caught in a night terror, his eyes squeezed closed. Unlike the corpses, he wore a pair of trousers and boots, his circular ID tags flat on his bare chest. His skin wasn’t distorted, and Geist couldn’t find any injuries, but icy sweat seeped from his every pore.

  “Wake up,” Geist said, giving him a shake.

  The man took in gulps of air and opened his eyes, his gaze locked to the ceiling.

  “I’m Geist—with the Ethereal Squadron in Verdun. What’s your name?” she asked.

  For a moment the man struggled to lift himself onto his elbows. “Wilhelm Richter,” he muttered, his pronunciation German in every regard.

  Geist glanced at his ID tag. Nationality: American. Name: William Black.

  Before she could question him further, an enemy soldier entered the bunker room, a Luger pistol in his hands.

  Geist turned as the soldier lifted his weapon. In the fraction of a second she had to think, she realized becoming intangible would result in the bullet passing through her and striking Wilhelm. Instead, she drew her Colt .45 and remained corporeal, hoping to beat the soldier on the draw.

  They both fired.

  Geist’s bullet pierced the soldier’s skull, but her enemy managed to strike her right side just below the ribs. He hit the floor and Geist staggered back into the gurney, pain surging through her body.

  She glanced back at Wilhelm, relieved to find him unharmed, but it didn’t ease the hot agony pounding her ribs. He stared at her, his eyebrows knit together as he took another deep breath.

  “You…”

  “I’m going to get you out of here,” Geist said through her teeth.

  She stepped away from the gurney. Warm blood soaked into the bottom of her khaki tunic and the top of her trousers. Geist’s hands shook as she opened her medical pouch and withdrew a small handful of Cellucotton and gauze. She knew she had to stop her bleeding, but removing her tunic would reveal her identity as a woman…

  Geist pressed a hand over the injury and gave Wilhelm a sidelong glance. With each beat of her heart, her pain intensified.

  Wilhelm grabbed his forehead and returned her stare with one eye tightly shut.

  Geist took a deep breath. Duty came first. Duty always came first. Her orders were to rescue the prisoners, and Geist would save them—even if it meant dragging them from hell itself.

  I can’t hesitate. And searching for a private room would take too long… If we’re both to survive, I’ve got to act right now!

  CHAPTER TWO

  GRAVE-MAKER

  GAS

&n
bsp; GEIST RIPPED OFF HER TUNIC, exposing the taut binding over her chest, and applied the Cellucotton to both the entry and exit injury. The enemy’s bullet had passed straight through—the Luger pistol’s 9mm rounds were smaller than her Colt .45, which meant less potential damage—but this gave Geist little comfort.

  Muscle memory took over as she wrapped the gauze around her waist. Geist had done it so many times to her chest that the entire process took less than thirty seconds to complete, despite the dim lighting and slick blood.

  Wilhelm groaned and shook his head. “You’re a…” He spoke in English, staring with narrowed eyes.

  Geist snatched up her tunic and pulled it over her head, her right side ablaze with every move. Her chest tightened at the thought of dealing with just what the soldier had seen. But perhaps Wilhelm could be convinced he was hallucinating.

  “Come,” she said, breathless. “We need to go.”

  Wilhelm slid off the gurney and stood on unsteady feet. Geist held her side and motioned for him to follow. Together they strode down the bunker hall, stepped around the German corpses, and made it back to the trenches.

  “Abscheuliche Soldaten,” Wilhelm whispered, drawing Geist’s attention.

  A group of men ran into the battlefield from the German side. They were soldiers unlike the disbelieving men in the trenches; they were Abscheuliche Soldaten, Abomination Soldiers. German sorcerers meant to deal with the likes of her.

  Geist slung her rifle off her shoulder and unloaded.

  The group of enemy sorcerers broke apart and returned fire—two running to deal with Cutter in the trenches, one to deal with Little Wick by the sentry posts, one for Buttons at the mounted machine gun—but the commander turned for Geist.

  “Kill these Huns quick,” Cutter shouted from down below, his voice ringing with excitement. “Tonight we break their lines!”

  Buttons belted out a laugh. “Hear, hear!”

  He fired another hurricane of ammunition, but Geist didn’t have time to watch. The commander of the Verdun Abomination Soldiers met her on the field in a matter of seconds. She pushed the unarmed Wilhelm away and clenched her jaw.