Call of Fire

by Beth Cato

  “When I draw on my power to make a bubble, I focus. I imagine the shape and flexibility and what I need it to do. For this . . . try to focus like the grandmother in that old story. Pour your intent and emotion into the kanji. I’ll do the same.”

  Cy dipped his pointer finger into the black paint and pressed his fingertip to the slope of her breast right above her heart. She nodded approval. The heart was a center of power and a good place to start.

  犬 was a simple character, like a cross with curved legs and a dot. As his finger dragged black paint to form the first stroke, a horizontal line with blunt ends, Ingrid called on the warmth stirring in her blood. She thought of Ambassador Blum and envisioned a dog powerful enough to make Blum tuck tail, literally and figuratively, and retreat.

  Cy’s finger stroked downward twice to draw sweeping ends, and as he dabbed the radical onto her skin, warm magic moved through her body. It slithered along her limbs and coiled itself within the kanji, briefly searing her nerves like a cattle brand. Ingrid angled her chin down to see if the magic was actually visible, but the figure was merely black paint against her brown skin.

  His eyes flicked to meet hers. “Do you feel anything? Is this working?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know. Keep writing. When I get my clothes on and start moving around, the paint’s bound to flake away. Better to be redundant.”

  Cy nodded. “More names, more power.” He shifted to her upper arms, inscribing the character on both, then moved to her torso and back. The first iterations of “inu” dried and stiffened her skin.

  She tried to repress her cold shivers. Japanese calligraphy was an art form—shodō—and certainly clarity and perfection could only enhance the magic inlaid in a word. Cy’s finger strokes were slow and deliberate. Each symbol was about three inches in height, the black paint thick. His intense concentration was evident in his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. If he could make this magic real by willpower alone, by God, he would.

  He knelt at her feet to adorn her thighs and the backs of her calves and stood again. “I’m recalling other stories now, too, like those about the golem in Jewish tales. The word of life adorns the golem’s forehead. That might be awkward for you in public, though.”

  “Near the brain does seem like a good place, but . . .” She wanted to tell him to hell with it. Write “inu” there. But while Blum was the biggest threat against them, death and abuse could also come in other forms, and labeling her face in such a way only invited trouble. She turned around. “Add one more on the back of my neck. My collar and coat should cover that, and the spine has to carry some symbolism.”

  He braced himself with a hand on her shoulder as he wrote the kanji with four swipes of his finger. Ingrid focused on the motions and was startled at the end when his lips brushed her other shoulder.

  “Oh, Cy,” she whispered.

  His lips rose to kiss her earlobe. “We’re in this together. Never forget that. Can you sense that kitsune at all?”

  Ingrid leaned as close to him as she dared while the paint still dried. “No. She’s not close right now. Knowing her, part of the fun might be that she can mosey along and catch me nevertheless.”

  “If she can track you from hundreds of miles away, she must have sensed your whereabouts in those minutes right after the sylphs tuckered out. I imagine we’ll soon have soldiers crawling around in our vicinity.”

  “Damn her to hell and back. She’ll probably say she’s searching for hidden Chinese or some such nonsense.” Ingrid stood, rigid and quivering from cold. “The sylphs hid me while I stood feet away from her at the dock. She was overseeing the matter with the auxiliary and blaming it all on the Chinese. The UP’s planning to strike Chinatown tonight with that as their excuse, but Blum knows Mr. Sakaguchi is there. She’s after him. More airships are coming in, too. I even saw an Imperial officer.”

  “An Imperial? Really? By protocol, they’re only supposed to be present on American soil in standard ambassadorial or prisoner custodial roles.” He went silent for a few breaths. “Ingrid, if Mr. Sakaguchi is placed in Japanese custody . . .”

  “I know. I know all too well.” Japan assumed guilt until innocence was proven, and quick executions were a hallmark of their justice system. “I don’t suppose there was a message from Lee?”

  She could tell by Cy’s posture that he was about to say something she didn’t like. “There hasn’t been any sign of him, Ingrid. The note you left was still on the door when we returned.”

  She opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say.

  “We have to leave,” he said gently. “Blum’s hunting for you and we can’t rely on the dog sorcery to work or to hold her off for long.”

  “I know that, damn it, but I can’t go. You can’t expect me to go. It’s not just because of all the hopes that Ojisan and Mr. Roosevelt pinned on him, it’s because he’s Lee. I can’t . . . Cy. He promised me he’d get word to me somehow about where he was if he didn’t come back. He’s going to get word to me. He could even be with Mr. Sakaguchi right now.” She said it with conviction.

  “How long do you dare wait, Ingrid?” Cy softly asked. “Think of what Lee would want. Think of what your capture would mean to him.”

  She wavered there, eyes half shut.

  If she were tortured, it would shatter Lee, especially if he knew she’d been captured because of him.

  If she were tortured, it would be in order to use her as a weapon to shatter Lee’s people.

  Cy tapped the fresher paint spots on her body, the pressure more clinical than affectionate. “Looks like you’re dry. Let’s get you clothed before you’re chilled through again.”

  There was a tender intimacy to his fumbling fingers as he did his best to assist her and help preserve the paint that would keep her alive. Despite the care in its application, Ingrid noticed that the paint had already started to crackle. How long would this enchantment hold—if it worked at all? What more could they do? There had to be tattoo artists around who could permanently ink the word onto her skin—it was an abhorrent thought, that permanent label of “dog” upon her skin—but she also knew that tattoos hurt. If she had to resort to that, it needed to be done while aloft in an airship or some metal structure high off the ground.

  “I really don’t know what to do, Cy. I want to wait here for Lee, but I can’t wait here for Blum.” She shrugged on her coat. Rain suddenly roared on the corrugated iron roof as if in response to her mood.

  “I know. There are no easy answers.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “How long until the Bug’s ready to leave?” she asked.

  “Let’s check with Fenris. As far as we know, he’s determined everything is hopelessly broken again during our time in here.”

  Tired and scared as Ingrid was, she couldn’t help but smile as the sylphs welcomed her to the shadow of the Palmetto Bug. They swirled around her like a thick gray ribbon, leaving her momentarily dizzy, and made slight clicking sounds all the while.

  “Well,” she said, “I think they liked their bread. They even look plumper. How many rolls did he feed them?” She needed to feed herself soon, too.

  “Ingrid? Cy?” Fenris called from inside the Bug.

  “We’re out here,” said Cy, standing by the ladder. “We need to figure out our plan of action, and fast.”

  “We have a problem.” Fenris climbed down the hatch stairs and with a hop transitioned to the ladder. He faced them, his olive-toned skin strangely blanched. “There’s something on board. I don’t know what it is. It looks like a dragon, but it’s not. It’s in the hallway between the racks. It seems like it’s on fire but there’s no smoke.” He looked composed and yet panicked all at once.

  Ingrid and Cy stared at Fenris, and then looked at each other. “I need to get up there,” she finally said. “Can you help me make the climb?”

  Fenris went up first. Ingrid took a deep breath and followed. She kept her gaze on the next rung up and inched her way upward.
The transition to the stairs was worst of all, but she knew Cy was right below in case she slipped. At the top, Fenris extended a hand to help her inside. She accepted it with a nod of deep gratitude, knowing all too well how Fenris avoided such contact.

  The minute she was on board, heat caressed her skin, and it was like nothing she had felt before. It wasn’t the bludgeoning presence of Blum or the thunderbird, or the tingle that warned her of other fantastics in proximity. This felt like the way a harp sounded. Gentle. It felt like soft grass against her bare skin, it smelled like honeysuckle on a morning breeze. Ingrid pivoted on her knees to face the being at the far end of the hall.

  The creature was the size of a fawn, its slim body formed of shimmering gold scales licked by shallow yellow flames. Its burning was mesmerizing to behold, each flicker scarcely an inch in height. Fenris was right; there was no smoke or sign of fire damage, and the tatami mat it stood on was certainly flammable. Delicately tapered legs led to feathery fetlocks and dainty cloven hooves. The head was like that of a dragon but with two small antlers extending from the forehead. A frilly mane lined the jaw and trailed down its neck. Thickly lashed amber eyes solemnly considered Ingrid.

  It was waiting for her. Ingrid knew this as surely as she knew the sun would rise again.

  “A kirin,” Cy said with a gasp. He pulled himself into the hallway and knelt at Ingrid’s side.

  “That’s a better-known name for it these days, but I have a hunch this one might prefer the term used in its home, by its people,” said Ingrid. She crawled forward so she had room to humble herself before a celestial being. “Greetings, qilin.”

  Chapter 17

  Ingrid peeked to see if the qilin acknowledged her, even as she worried that directly gazing upon it was a horrible breach of etiquette. Fantastic creatures were known to be persnickety by nature, and the last thing she wanted was to give offense to a being this powerful, this incredible.

  To her relief, the qilin granted her a regal nod.

  “A qilin on my airship. Very well.” Fenris paused. “What the hell is a qilin?”

  “One of the most powerful fantastics throughout Asia, ranked alongside dragons and phoenixes.” Cy kept his voice low, his gaze humble. “You see their image everywhere, Fenris. There was a statue of one at the auxiliary today. Greetings, qilin,” he said, louder.

  “Oh. Pardon.” Fenris cleared his throat. “It—you—looked a bit different depicted as a statue. Boxier. Bulkier—”

  “Fenris,” growled Cy.

  “Yes, well.” His knees scuffed on the floor on the other side of the hatch. “It’s not going to burn up my airship, is it?” he whispered.

  “They rarely attack people in the stories,” Ingrid murmured as she sat up, her trembling hands clutched in her lap.

  The qilin hadn’t acknowledged Cy and Fenris at all. Its steady gaze focused on Ingrid.

  “We’re honored by your visit,” Ingrid said, fighting to keep her voice level. If only Lee were here! “I want to make sure I am addressing you correctly. You prefer qilin, not kirin?”

  “I am qilin. I am not my slumbering cousin, though we may utilize the same idols as we view the world.” The syllables were accompanied by the gentle sound of chimes. The scent of honeysuckle shifted to rose. Ingrid couldn’t help but breathe in deeper. It smelled comforting. Like the little sachets that Mama made to tuck into linen drawers.

  “There is only one of you?” At that, the qilin nodded. So this was the same being that guided her to the Crescent Blade. The same one who had come to Lee. Ingrid opened her mouth to ask what it meant by sharing idols, but the qilin spoke first.

  “Ingrid Carmichael.” She felt her name more than she heard it. She had the sudden, inexplicable need to sob. Not in sadness, but as a catharsis. “The one you know as Lee Fong vowed that word would come to you, and lo, I am here, but not as a mere messenger.”

  “No,” said Ingrid, her voice tight. “There is nothing mere about you, qilin.” Cy shifted to look at her, his expression puzzled, and Ingrid was stunned to realize that she was the only one who could hear the qilin’s speech.

  “I am a signet. A sign. I am dawn on a deep winter’s day.” The chimed words carried a poetic melody. “I am a cloud that weeps upon land scarred and poisoned, where the soil is tilled by foreign hands, where my people fertilize earth with their own flesh and bone.”

  Ingrid thought of propaganda posters put forth about Manchukuo, of smiling Japanese faces and perspective lines of green crops leading to a red rising sun on the horizon. The original Chinese settlers were not depicted. They didn’t belong in this new vision of an ancient land.

  “Your people are enduring torment here in America, too,” Ingrid said. “We are hoping to stop that, but we have no idea how to go about it. Too many have died on all sides.”

  “I do not want Lee Fong to die,” said the qilin, the words stoking its flames to flare gold. Its wide eyes narrowed as it scrutinized her. “You possess the heat of potential, of the very force of the earth.”

  “I— Yes. I do. But I don’t understand my own potential, qilin. My body struggles to contain and use this power.”

  “If your body could cope with such power, you would not be human. You would be a god, and this is not an era for new gods.”

  Ingrid flashed back to Papa’s words on that very subject. “What is this the time for, then, qilin?”

  “Peace. Before all is lost, for all people. You are a fulcrum, Ingrid Carmichael. Much is balanced upon you.”

  Good grief, but the qilin spoke like a sphinx, all innuendo and riddles and prophecies. “Qilin, where is Lee?”

  “Lee Fong is here.”

  Ingrid knew from the weight on the last word that the qilin didn’t mean within the airship. And as she thought this, her view of the hallway dissolved. Instead of the narrow confines of the Bug, she was looking at a muddy street she had never seen before. It seemed real. As if she could step forward and walk right into a puddle.

  Fantastics had spoken to Ingrid with images before, images that were like flickering moving pictures on grainy film; this vision was reality in everything but smell. Garbage stood ankle deep along both sides of the street, the bare surface marred by mud, puddles, and deep wheel tracks. Bony chickens pecked at debris. The flanking buildings were tall and mostly wood, fire hazards all, the roofs curved and paint peeling. Disrepair and despair had soaked into the scene as sure as rainwater.

  Chinatown. It had a different look and feel from the grotto she had known in San Francisco, yet it was recognizable all the same.

  A haphazardly constructed brick-and-log wall blocked off one end of the street. Spikes at the top angled outward. It was no marvel of modern construction, but the effort of terrified people to throw up a barricade to ward away monsters. The angle of her view turned as if she were flying straight up. A map sprawled below. Ingrid recognized Elliott Bay and various airship docks and the lines of streets she couldn’t name. She had no idea she’d been so close to Chinatown all the while. It wasn’t even a mile from the old rink building, and was far closer to Blum.

  The view dropped again. The qilin guided her around corners, twisting and turning along lanes of dirt and waste, only to stop at a three-story building. Its irimoya roof and balconies sagged like old skin.

  A statue of a qilin listed by a back door. It was cracked almost in half, its gaze cockeyed from the split, its antlers pathetic nubs.

  “This is wrong,” the qilin announced, the words lit by fierce chimes. Ingrid nodded, even though she had no physical presence. A qilin statue was placed as a guardian and to grant good luck—and only in appropriate places. It should never be someplace like a gambling or opium den, but at a family home or a temple. “However, the broken reflection of my kind will be your guide. It has shown me this place, and in turn, I show you.”

  Ingrid filed this away in her memory: these statues truly acted as guardians of property bearing their image, though that didn’t mean the domicile had their blessing.
Mr. Sakaguchi would be delighted at the knowledge!

  “Is Lee there? What do I do?” Ingrid asked.

  The vision pivoted to focus on the blue balcony high above the statue. “Fate is not tidy. It is a flash flood in a desert, forcing channels through lowlands and sand. It can be guided, to an extent, but water goes where it will. As does fate.”

  The view glided through the door and a creepy hallway rendered gray by lack of light and streaks of mold, past a downward stairwell, and to a stark room. In the middle, a wooden chair had been bolted to the floor. Lee sat there. His head was tilted forward, but she could see by the bruises on his cheeks that he’d been beaten again. Ingrid cried out.

  Surely Uncle Moon hadn’t done this? He could manipulate life energy within a body. If he were to torture someone, he wouldn’t leave a bruise.

  A blink later, and Ingrid found herself kneeling on the tatami mat within the Palmetto Bug. She no longer sat by the hatch, but in the hallway between the racks. The qilin gazed at her from inches away. Its thickly lidded eyes blinked but otherwise the creature didn’t waver. Its breath was composed of cozy warmth and brilliant jasmine, like the vines Mama once loved in Mr. Sakaguchi’s front yard. The heat of the qilin’s presence scalded her without pain; it was magical and so much more, like the guandao. Holy.

  “You are energy bound within a fragile vessel. Your actions may allow Lee Fong to live, but you cannot sacrifice yourself in the process or the world will know only more woe.”

  Ingrid’s awe faded, replaced by frustration. “And how should I go about that in a safe and efficient manner, qilin? What am I?”

  “You already know the answer to this question, but you need to hear the confirmation. You are indeed the granddaughter of Pele. Her blood runs molten through your veins. You feel her legacy in the heat of your rage even now.”

  Ingrid absorbed that answer, breathless. “How can I learn to handle this power?”