Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“No!” Magritte cried. Primal’s bright hand, wrapped around her neck, squeezed off any further protest.

“Stop,” Primal repeated.

Behind me Goldie made a choking sound.

Enid held the flares before him for a second more, then sagged against the door frame in defeat. They turned and began their journey back toward Primal. Magritte’s eyes, desperate, locked on them.

“No. This can’t happen.” Goldie pulled himself to his full height and staggered toward Primal, flames leaping from his hands. They spread wildly up his arms, over his head. He was turning himself into an incendiary device. In a matter of seconds his entire body was cloaked in arcane fire.

Magritte’s eyes were filled with it. Then she, too, seemed to burn brighter in Primal’s hands, her aura swelling into a blazing sphere. In seconds her nova was so intense I had to turn my head away and screw my eyes shut.

There was a flash of unbearable brilliance, a whoosh of sound, a burst of heat, and the room was plunged into chilly gloom.

I opened my eyes. Primal had faded from ruby to bronze and stood frozen, his empty hands extended before him. Magritte had crumpled to the floor in front of him, her halo dimmed nearly to nonexistence. Goldie was beside her in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She sagged against him, strength gone.

That was the opening I needed. I leapt into motion, sword swinging, while from the darkness to my right came a flash of real fire. Colleen’s third shot buried itself in Primal’s neck in the same moment I lashed out with my sword. The blade sang through the air in a radiant arc, catching Primal thigh high. Sparks exploded. The blow was bone jarring, as if I’d hacked into one of the oozing walls rather than a living thing. Bits of something hard flew in all directions. But the blade sliced through the leg, severing it. There was no blood.

Primal toppled, clutching at Colleen’s bolt. He fell backward in slow motion, into the spiderweb of light from the cracked window. The thick glass sagged, gaps widening, lengthening, and then the whole thing gave way, sending the monster and several hundred pounds of glass shard down seven floors onto the sidewalk. Ruddy sunlight poured through the yawning hole.

The world around us took a deep breath.

Then we converged on Goldie and Magritte, Enid hovering protectively, Doc immediately falling into the medic’s drill: check eyes, check pulse, check respiration. She was spent but conscious.

“Damn!” Colleen stopped in front of me, shaking her head. “I thought that thing would never die. That was my last shot.”

“Tough cookie,” muttered Howard.

I looked down at Magritte. She glowed a bit brighter now, seemed to rest more lightly in Goldie’s arms. “Can we move her?”

Doc flashed me a glance, nodded.

“Oh, shit. That can’t be good.” Colleen said the words so softly I barely heard them. She was staring at a spot behind me and over my head.

I followed her gaze. The flares hung in limbo in the middle of the room, still bound to each other and to their prison with blazing manacles. There was still power here. The building around us pulsed with it. I felt its oily static on my skin.

“They’re still trapped,” I said. “But by what?”

Magritte’s eyes widened. “Didn’t get all of it,” she said. “Still something …” She shook her head. “Weird. Flare. A flare, but… but not .”

“Oh, son of a bitch,” said Colleen. “It’s Clay.” She flung her useless crossbow aside to clatter and skid across the floor. She paced after it, swearing.

I followed her. “What’s Clay? Colleen, what’s Clay?” “Our puppet master, that’s what. The power behind the fucking throne. Why didn’t I see it?”

I shook my head in confusion. “She said a flare .”

“But not . Shit, I didn’t even think to tell anybody-if you wipe off his dazzle paint, Clay glows like a damned lightning bug.”

“But he doesn’t fly; his eyes aren’t-”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s the not part. Oh, damn, why didn’t I see it?” She grabbed my arm so hard I gasped. “We’ve got to find him, Cal. Find him before he can-”

She was cut off by the sound of applause from a single pair of hands. We both turned toward the middle of the room.

Clay stood there in the wash of muted sunlight, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, clapping slowly, rhythmically. He was wearing what looked like an orange hazmat suit, and the flesh of his face and hands gleamed greenish white. His hair, uncovered, was long and curling and had a similar tint. And although he didn’t fly, I caught, not for the first time, the strangeness of his gait. Gliding, as if he merely skimmed the ground he walked.

As he moved toward us he drew the flares down from their dark aerie. They bobbed about him, tethered, as they had been tethered to Primal. He stopped applauding and clasped his hands together over his heart. “Oh, Colleen, you are such a clever girl. I had no idea. None of my normals are nearly as clever as you and your friends. You’ve been quite an amusement. I’m sorry this has to end.”

“That makes one of us,” Colleen returned acidly. She fidgeted, in her own unique way, rolling the haft of her knife over and over in her hand. “We’re nothing to you. Why don’t you just let us go?”

“You’re not going anywhere. None of you. Oh, well, maybe Howard. He’s pretty much outlived his usefulness. But the rest of you are going to stay to populate the king’s court with life, laughter… and love,” he added, affording Colleen a wry leer.

“Like hell,” Colleen assured him.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Clay asked. “I’m not the loser here. You are. You destroyed a figurehead, an effigy. You killed a machine.” His eyes swept the walls around us, lips curving in a smile. “No-you killed part of a machine. And the master of the machine is very much alive. You still have to deal with me .” He slapped a palm to his narrow chest, pulled out a bright green ball of energy, and balanced it on the palm of his hand. “Which one of you gets this?” he asked, then swung gracefully toward me, puckering up to blow the thing in my direction.

“You are so fucking predictable,” Colleen said.

Clay pivoted. The blazing orb caught her in the chest and flung her across the floor. She skidded almost to the gaping window and rolled into a fetal position.

Adrenaline sang in my veins. I took a wild slash at Clay with my sword, but he was too quick. He dodged lightly out of reach, laughing. I kept after him, parrying, thrusting, keeping his attention on me. From the corner of my eye I saw Enid hovering uncertainly behind Doc, harmonica still in his hand.

“Enid!” I shouted, keeping my eyes on Clay. “Enid, the flares!”

Familiar melody rose around me. Enid’s refugee song. He broke away from the group gathered around Magritte and moved toward the flares, harmonica wailing out the very depths of his soul. It was a siren song; the flares melted to it, turning their bright eyes away from their master. Their auras changed subtly, shedding reds, shading toward aqua. Playing, Enid headed for the doorway, the harmonica’s haunting voice echoing through the hollow room. The flares moved with him, the cords or conduits that connected them to the building dissolving. Behind the walls the bright veins of light dimmed.

The building shuddered, and panic flashed in Clay’s eyes. He shot a sphere of light at Enid. It hit the barrier of Enid’s music and melted harmlessly away. He lobbed a second salvo at me. I met it with my sword. It fizzled in a shower of golden sparks.

I went straight at him. He released a barrage of arcane grapeshot. I caught the brilliant pebbles with the blade, swept them aside, and advanced, careless of where they landed. Enid and the flares receded into the darkness; the Tower sighed and moaned. Clay laughed and danced away from me. But he sweated now, his eyes wild.