Mark Del Franco - Unperfect Souls

“Troll work,” I said.

“Congress Street Bridge is gone, too,” Rand said. He wheeled the car around in the intersection and turned down A Street.

“Why the hell would trolls destroy the bridges?” I wondered aloud.

Eorla leaned toward her window. “I’m getting confused reports of fighting throughout the neighborhood.”

More National Guardsmen blocked the street two blocks ahead. As we approached, essence-fire cut across our path. Rand hit the brakes and spun the car.

“They are not responding to my sendings, ma’am,” Rand said.

Eorla’s gaze shifted back and forth as she watched the running crowd. “Let’s go to the power plant. Guild staff should be present there,” Eorla said.

“Guild staff just fired on us, Eorla,” I said.

She looked out the rear window. “They’re following orders. I’ll get us through at the plant.”

Eorla’s calm reactions impressed me. I supposed they shouldn’t have. She was an Old One, an eyewitness to more war and danger than I had ever seen or probably ever would. “You’re enjoying this,” I said.

She shook her head. “I don’t enjoy pointless bloodshed, Connor. The Guild will need to be held accountable for this.”

“The Consortium isn’t blameless,” I said.

She nodded. “True. The Consortium has its own crimes to answer for.”

Summer Street became impassable as the crowd changed direction again and streamed back toward the channel. Rand cut through an alley and headed down Old Northern toward the power plant. More fires had sprung up, whether set by angry residents or spread from existing ones, I didn’t know. It would be a long investigation when it was over.

“Ma’am, we have a problem,” Rand said.

Rand brought the car to a slow stop near B Street. Ahead, Old Northern ran into a gauntlet of fire. From the city’s World Trade Center on the left to a series of empty warehouses on the right, flames and smoke filled the air. Fire trucks hung back, but it didn’t look like they were going to make much difference if they got through. “Find a way around it, Rand,” Eorla said.

Glowing embers floated on the air, wind whipping them in a dance of orange lights. Rand backed the car. A single mote of yellow floated down, then dove toward us. It hit the windshield, popped inside, and plunged into my forehead.

D and Northern. Vize here. Need help .

Murdock. The essence faded with the message, but his body signature was unmistakable.

“Wait! Murdock’s up ahead there. We have to go through it,” I said.

Rand stopped the car and looked at Eorla in the rearview mirror.

Eorla’s eyebrows drew together. “We can’t risk it, Connor. We have to go around.”

I stared at her. “You said I’m free to go anytime. If we don’t go through, I will get out and walk through that fire if I have to.”

Her eyes flashed with anger, exposing the temper I knew she had. She shifted in the seat and leaned back. “Rand, I will bond the car. Drive through when I’m finished.”

His expression read disagreement, but he shifted his focus to the fire. Eorla closed her eyes and chanted. Pale blue essence welled out of her and spread through the car. The essence seeped through windows and doors, indifferent to the metal. When it surrounded us from end to end, Rand hit the gas.

We skidded on ice before the wheels caught. The car raced toward the wall of flame and pierced it like an arrow. The car rocked violently in the firestorm, the temperature spiking incredibly fast. Indigo cracks appeared in Eorla’s barrier, but she maintained her chanting. In a funnel of burning air, we shot out of the fire into a clear space. Rand slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a mass of people on the other side.

Eorla caught her breath. “That wasn’t as bad as I imagined it would be.”

Solitaires and the Dead battled in the street. Essence raked the air, streams and spikes of amber, burgundy, yellow, and white. Green streaks of elf-shot poured in from all sides, and the blue spark of essence bombs flashed and burned. Twisting and turning through the fighting, a sickly green fog with black mottling undulated. The Taint clung to everyone, goading them, boosting their own essences and overwhelming their minds. The malevolent essence glowed in the faces of the Dead, bonded to their body signatures like a second skin.

I flicked an eyebrow up. “I’m afraid to know what you imagined.”

A fire truck sat on the sidewalk. Several dozen humans used it as a vantage point—firefighters, police officers, and National Guardsmen. When the solitaries were not attacking the Dead, they kept their distance from the truck but took random shots at it. The humans were not shy about shooting back. Whenever anyone came too close, the firefighters directed high-pressure truck hoses to push them back. That would only last until the water ran out.

“Do you see your friend?” Eorla asked.

The sight lines from the backseat made it difficult to see much of anyone. “I have to get out.”

Behind the car, the firestorm roared with fury. The night sky lit red and orange with the reflected glow. Eorla opened her door and got out.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “The fire’s advancing. Rand, get her out of here.”

Rand got out, but Eorla raised her hand. “I’ll keep the fire back while you find your friend.”

I was about to turn away, when Brokke’s words came back to me. Something was going to happen to her because of me. He was sure of it. “Eorla, you don’t have to do that. Get out of here. I’ll find my own way.”

She smiled. “And I, mine. I want to ensure that you are safe before we part.”

“Rand,” I said.

“Rand”—Eorla interrupted—“answers to me alone. Go, before neither of us survives this.”

She raised her arms and chanted, a fierce neon green essence welling up in her hands. I locked eyes with Rand. “If things go wrong, you make sure she gets out whether I’m back or not. No matter what she says, got it?”

He glanced at Eorla to see if she was looking, then nodded once before I ran from the car. A cluster of the Dead marched up the street as a unit, a mix of fairies and elves shooting their way through the melee. A blaze of red essence flared to my left. Another group was entering the fray. Murdock was leading several officers in. Gerry and Bar Murdock guarded their rear flank. Officers leveled their guns at me, but Gerry held his hand out. “He’s okay,” he shouted.

I fell in next to him. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

Gerry nodded ahead. “Leo says we have to take down the guy they’re protecting.”

The fire truck showered water across the path of the Dead. The street was slick with wet ice as I pushed my way through the knot of men. At the front, Leo carried guns in both hands. His body essence flared like a crimson shield that covered people to either side of him. “Leo, the solitaries will kill you if you try to take Vize,” I shouted above the noise.

He waved one of his guns. “The Dead guys already have him. Cashel has him.”

I ducked my head around him to see through the crowd. Jark led the Dead fey down the street, knocking aside anyone who got in his way. In the middle of the group, Vize stumbled, his arms bound to his sides with essence bindings. Moira walked behind him, holding the bindings like a leash.

“That’s even worse, Leo. Cashel can knock this whole group down with one hand,” I said.

Determination set in on his face. “Then she’ll have to do that. Those two caused this. My father’s dead because of them.”

Rage poured off him like a vapor. I’d seen that look before on people. It was commitment and anger driven by vengeance, and there was no talking him out of it. I took a deep breath. “Give me a gun,” I said.