Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“She’s scrappy, isn’t she?” Primal observed. “You could learn something from this young woman, Clay. She seems to have found the balls you misplaced.”

Clay was silent, his mime face smiling sadly into the insult.

Primal watched him for a moment more, then turned back to me. “So, you represent Misters Russo and Blindman, and you want to strike a compromise on their contract with us.”

“Actually, I’m here to effect their release from it.” “Release. I see. And why would I consider releasing either of them?”

“Quite simply because you have no choice. The contract is no longer binding. I’m here simply to inform you of that fact.”

All sound in the room stopped as if everyone in it had suddenly held their breath. Primal sat back in his throne and underwent a metamorphosis. His obsidian skin flushed with color until it seemed his entire body was cut from garnet.

“What do you mean, no longer binding? They signed the contract, Mr. Griffin. We signed the contract.”

“No. No one signed this contract,” I said, drawing the papers out of my jacket. I held them up before Primal’s bright gaze, which followed them as if they were a mesmerist’s charm. “This document and the stipulations in it have changed since the original was signed. Drastically. Those changes invalidate the agreement. In addition, I seriously doubt that you personally signed the original contract. If I’m not mistaken, you didn’t exist before the Change. At least not as you are now.”

I glanced down at the signatures on the page. “This contract was signed by Daniel Freemont, Glenford Blaker, and Shirley Cross. Are you one or more of those individuals?”

Primal changed aspect again, seeming to grow and inflate, his body blazing golden and glorious. “I AM PRIMAL.”

The voice was immense, room-shaking. Primal’s shadowy courtiers drew back in fear and Howard Russo cringed and quivered against my legs. I was struck with the absurd image of Dorothy and her three stalwarts quaking before the Wizard of Oz. Life imitates art. Except that I wasn’t going to rattle, cower, or shed my straw innards on Primal’s throne room floor.

“Irrelevant,” I said. “The legal fact remains: this contract is invalid. It is no longer binding on either Enid Blindman or Howard Russo.” I nudged Howard out from behind me and held the contract out to him. “Howard Russo, are you prepared to void this contract on behalf of yourself and your client?”

Howard blinked up at me and lifted an uncertain hand. Primal said, “DON’T,” with a voice in which wind howled and trees collapsed.

Howard squinted at the contract so hard his eyes watered. For a moment I thought he might run and hide. Instead he snatched the pages from my hand.

“DON’T.”

Howard stepped out of my shadow, faced the gleaming giant, held up the contract, and ripped it in two. It gave up a flash of sickly green light that lingered like the after-image of fireworks before weeping to the floor. This time the damn thing stayed torn. Howard grasped it with new vigor and ripped it again and again into tiny pieces. He flung them to the floor and danced on them. Then he pointed a finger up at Primal and said, “ Done with you! I am done with you!”

I steeled myself for an explosion from Primal-the tirade of a thwarted tyrant. Instead he sat back in his throne with a sound like the roll of low thunder. His eyes, half lidded, looked like twin suns. He guttered toward garnet. “So…” was all he said, and raised an arm the size of a tree trunk. Red mist cascaded down it. Howard flinched back a step, but there was no menace in Primal’s movement. “Not so hasty. This contract is voided, but might we not strike a new deal?”

Howard glanced at me, then back to Primal. “What deal?”

“I still want Enid Blindman. I still want… devas.” He might have been announcing that he craved chocolate. “Why?” I asked.

“I like having my very own pantheon of little gods and goddesses. I like the way they gleam through the darkness. They soothe my troubled breast.” He folded a ruby hand to where a heart might have beat were he human. “They… light up my life.”

“Wow,” said Goldie. “I’m impressed. Half-assed literary allusions, bad song title puns. We could be twins. I think you and the flares protect each other.”

“You again. You’re annoying. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Protection. Isn’t that why you’ve enslaved the flares… and the musicians?” Goldie pressed.

“There are no slaves here. The flares, as you call them, are my guests. The musicians… are in protective custody.” “Why?” I asked.

“Their music is dangerous-to themselves and to others. Surely you’ve realized that. You’ve seen what Enid’s music does. It not only depletes him, it bends things. Reshapes them. Makes them hideous. I don’t like hideous things.” He rolled a glance toward Howard, who bared his teeth. “I bring the musicians here and I channel their abilities. So they can’t hurt themselves or anyone else. A noble cause, don’t you “You use them to imprison the flares,” Goldie accused.

I put a hand on his arm and squeezed, my eyes on Primal.

“The music only feeds back because of the contract.” Primal’s perfect head moved slowly back and forth. “Because of the Source.”

“No. The Source gave the music power; the contract made it dangerous.”

For the first time, Primal’s lips moved, showing teeth that might have been made of diamonds. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

I ignored the question. “No one’s going to cut a deal with you.”

“Oh, Howard will. Howard’s always ready to make a deal. And Howard wants what’s best for his client… and for himself. He’ll convince Enid to stay under contract.”

“Fuck you,” said Howard, then turned and shuffled toward the door.

“You haven’t heard what I’m offering you in return.”

Howard wheeled, beating at his chest with balled fists. “Can you take this back? Make me human? You can’t do that. Nobody can do that.” He flipped Primal a pointed gesture and trundled away.

“I think we got what we came for,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Goldie shook himself as if we were waking from sleep. “What we came for,” he murmured. “No, no, we don’t have that.” He stepped in front of me and looked up into the full blast of Primal’s gaze. “The seventh floor.”

Primal seemed to freeze, and Clay said, “There’s nothing on the seventh floor.”

“Yes, there is,” Goldie insisted. “There is .”

I tried to pull him back. “Goldie, come on. We’re done here.” I ignored the wraiths hovering around us. Ignored what leaving them here in this state might mean. We had to go on. If we could break the Source, this trap, too, might be sprung.

Goldie shook me off. “There’s something on the seventh floor, Cal. Something he doesn’t want us to see.”

Primal opened his mouth and an earthquake rolled out. “GET OUT!”

Goldie’s aura was suddenly bright enough to make me blink. There was an even more dazzling concentration of light building up in his hands. I lunged at him, grabbing his forearms, desperate to keep him from doing something deadly. He turned his head to look at me. The moment our eyes touched, I was struck with the stark, horrific image of Tina, floating like a Lorelei in an aquarium, listless, almost lifeless, her eyes empty, her fine, pale hair fanned out on the ether. One prisoner among many.

The seventh floor .

I let go of Goldie. His lightning went off like a fragment of Armageddon, filling the room with stark white flash-fire. I was blinded. He shoved me toward the door.