Marc Zicree - Angelfire

Freed, I cover the space between us in two strides, but she is being lifted toward the ceiling, the Storm’s dark fingers tugging at her. I leap and lock my arms around her; her hands tangle in my hair.

We fall.

Enid sings, desperately, as if his life depends on it. Which it does. No less does mine. I concentrate everything I have on holding Magritte, on shielding her, dragging her so deep inside Herman Goldman that the Source will lose her and I won’t. The Voices shriek at us to let go, to give up and give in.

To come home.

Maggie shudders, her back arching, and screams again, obscuring the beat of her heart-the sound I’m focused on.

“What is it?” Colleen is shouting. She has a crossbow in her hands-useless against this.

Cal and Doc are frozen, watching. They know what it is. They also know they are defenseless against it. Only Enid and I are armed for this enemy.

When I think we’re too late, Magritte relaxes and goes nearly limp in my arms. The darkness subsides; the predator growls and returns to its lair. Where? God, we could be right on top of it.

When I can breathe and think again, I’m still lying on the floor with Magritte trembling beneath me. I’m trembling, too, because I’ve felt that black, slimy touch before and because we now know how much a momentary lapse of concentration can cost.

I utter uncounted I’m sorrys to Magritte for having abandoned her in a careless moment of rage, but she blames herself. “Wasn’t thinking,” she murmurs over and over. “I let go. I let go.”

She can’t stop shaking, and nothing either Enid or I can do seems capable of erasing the terror in her eyes. It bleeds all over both of us, making us quake inside and share furtive, guilty glances.

We commandeer Russo’s bedroom and install her in it on his ludicrously king-size bed. Enid vows he will sit up all night and sing to her if he has to. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed-guitar in his lap, harmonica in his pocket-he’s ready if she needs him to sing. I pick a deity and pray he won’t have to sing-again. And that the notes he’s let loose already haven’t found a living target.

I lie down beside Magritte, not touching her, but close enough to feel her warmth. I’m afraid to touch her. Remembering Russo’s filth is one thing, but the Source, I know, reaches beyond the body and lays hands on the soul. But from where?

She doesn’t sleep, but she seems to drowse, even to dream, her eyes moving behind the nearly translucent lids.

Time passes. Enid mumbles to himself, trying to stay awake. His fingers brush the strings of his guitar now and again, sending up a yearning whisper of notes. I prop myself against the headboard, and get lost in memories- mine or Maggie’s; they’re indistinguishable. They’re dark memories, gray memories, punctuated by periods of colorful, inexplicable elation and stark, bleak pain. As I sort my way through them I look down at her and find her watching me.

“Enid,” she says, without looking away. “Go get some sleep.”

He shifts position with the squeak of strings. “Mags, I promised.”

“Enid, please. It’s okay. Goldie’s here.”

He stands, turning to look at her-at us. She returns his gaze and something passes silently between them.

“It’s what you want?” he asks.

Her eyes come back to meet mine. “It’s what I need.” Enid gives me the briefest of glances before he slips from the room and closes the door behind him.

“Why?” I ask, wanting to know before reason is completely blotted out by something much stronger.

“You know why.” She puts a hand up and brushes the tangle of hair away from my eyes so she can read them. “I want to be clean again. And so do you.”

“Maggie, I’m …” I’m what-unstable? Crazy? Dangerous?

“What I need,” she repeats.

Through the long night the words echo in my head, until I find myself speaking them, whispering them to her again and again. And somewhere in there, “need” transforms into “love.” Transforms like a lunatic turned wizard, or a hooker turned angel. And I half believe that what we do really is stronger than the Storm.

DOC

During the frantic moments in which Enid and Goldie battled the Source for Magritte, Howard Russo slunk away into his office like a cowering animal. I found him there, barricaded behind his desk in a swivel chair that dwarfed him. He was reading in the dim glow of a lamp over which he had draped a sweater. The feeble light reflected in the lenses of wire-rimmed glasses balanced precariously on a nose barely capable of holding them.

My surprise did not escape him. He held up the book. “Dostoevsky,” he said. “ Crime and Punishment. Reading helps me hold onto myself.”

I came a bit farther into the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Hold onto yourself?”

His face pulled into a rueful leer. “Didn’t always look like this,” he said. “Feel like this.”

There was a howl from the street, the sound of trash cans falling, rolling, followed by strange, guttural laughter.

Russo flinched visibly and bared his teeth. “Every night,” he said. “They come out. Not always so noisy. But I know. I feel them.” He chuckled, a gravelly echo of the laughter from the street. “Can Howie come out to play?”

I moved to sit on the sofa across from the desk. “And do you want to … go out and play?”

The street erupted with what might have been the yap-pings of wild animals… or something else.

Russo slanted a look at the window then turned his face to me. “I don’t want to become that.” The words were clear and deliberate. The voice almost fully human.

“So you read.”

He stroked the pages of the book. “My head clears out when I read. I feel… like myself.” He shrugged. “Probably only a matter of time, though … This place you guys came from-there are really people like me there?”

“Yes. And like you, they don’t want to become… something else.”

The door swung open then, and Cal stood in the doorway, light from the other room flooding in around him.

Russo blinked and shielded his eyes. “Do you mind?”

Cal hesitated, then closed the door and stepped into the office. “You have any preferences about where we sleep?”

Russo shrugged. “Anywhere’s fine. Sofas are pretty comfy.”

“Where were you going to sleep?”

“I sleep down below. In the daytime.”

“You said you knew how to get into the Bubble,” Cal said. “How?”

“There are people inside. They have to eat. Stuff has to go in. Wagons, whatever.”

“So, what-we just walk in?”

To this, Russo offered a broad leer. “Only if you have something they want, counselor. Which you do.”

Cal glanced at me, then shook his head. “What could we have that they’d want?”

“Angelfire.”

“Magritte?”

Russo nodded.

I stood, cold to the core. “Why? Why would they want flares?”

Russo shrugged. “Don’t know. But I’ve never seen one turned back.”

Cal took a quick step toward the grunter, who flinched back as if he feared violence. “But you’ve seen flares go in? Angelfire. You’re sure? How many? When?”

“Some,” said Russo warily. “Now and again. I try not to go up that way. Messes with my head.”

“Messes with your head,” Cal repeated. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Place sucks at you. Makes you itch.”

I thought of the Black Tower in my dreams and understood him. “You’ve seen flares go in. Have you ever seen one come out?”

He shook his head.

“What happens to them in there, Howard?” Cal asked.