Free Pacific Fire by Greg van Eekhout

we’re counting on good luck,” Sam said to the doctor, lingering in the doorway.
    â€œGood or bad, luck is shorthand for what happens when intention meets chaos. I intend to cure him, and I think Daniel intends to live. Sometimes I forget what this boy’s already been through. And how well his father prepared him for it. So, I’d say our side is better armed.”
    â€œI tried to heal him with my own magic at the gas station. No luck.”
    â€œDon’t blame yourself. You’re a strong osteomancer.”
    â€œI’m not an osteomancer,” Sam said. “I don’t have the magic.”
    â€œYou have the Hierarch’s magic. You have all the magic.”
    â€œWell, yeah, I’m a big fizzy bottle of pop, but shake me up and I pour out flat.”
    â€œBetter that than the bottle explodes.”
    The doctor left him alone with Daniel.
    Daniel wasn’t a big man. Sam had outgrown him by the age of fifteen. He’d seen Daniel tired from long drives, and he’d seen him worn from his burdens. But he’d never seen Daniel weak. The first time Sam ever laid eyes on him was at the Magic Castle. Daniel had been only a few years older than Sam was now, and he’d just brought down a ceiling on the Hierarch. He’d bristled with electricity and exuded waves of redolent osteomancy. He was strong then, and he was strong when he took Sam’s hand and led him away from the burning wreckage of that battle. He was strong when he said good-bye to his friends and left his life behind to protect a boy he barely even knew. He was strong when he finished a sixteen-hour drive by building a campfire and cooking Sam an amazing meal out of salt, pepper, water, and whatever vegetables he could scrounge from remote desert grocery stores.
    Sam touched Daniel’s hand. It was damp and cold.
    â€œThank you,” he said.
    *   *   *
    Valuable things were kept in the attic. Sam determined this by noticing when people came and went with guns, ammunition, osteomantic materials for first-aid kits, and when he heard squeaking floorboards above his head.
    He went back to his room after midnight and took a pee. Use the bathroom when you can, Daniel always said. Then he slung his duffel over his shoulder and slid the window open. There were some dizzy moments as he climbed onto the eave, out into the chill desert air.
    Sam wasn’t much of a climber, but the house’s log construction gave him good hand- and footholds. He managed to get himself perched on the attic windowsill, but his feet didn’t quite fit, and the weight of his duffel bag threw off his balance. If there was a point at which he was going to fall to his death, it would be now. He gripped the window frame and wished he’d done more finger push-ups, or any, ever.
    He decided that Daniel had lied about all the second-story jobs and roof entries he’d bragged about. This was difficult .
    Praying to gods he didn’t believe in moments ago—and, if he was honest, wouldn’t believe in moments from now—he asked for strength and agility and skill before prying the window open with Daniel’s knife. He tumbled through the window to the attic floor and lay there, marveling that he hadn’t pancaked in the dirt and pine needles two stories below. Thank you, he thought to the gods who’d responded during his brief and now expired interval of faith.
    The beam of his pencil flashlight revealed a low, sloping ceiling, duct work, and insulation. Two wooden chairs faced each other in the middle of the floor. Nearby, a bucket. The arrangement suggested unpleasant conversation.
    Up against the wall stood three metal cabinets—gun lockers, Sam presumed. And beside them was a smallish safe.
    He examined it with his flashlight and scratched the dial with his knife. Smelling the blade, he picked up some sphinx-riddle oil, but nothing very complicated. On heists, Daniel had never