He looked at Noah, finally. Noah looked stunned. “I… I don’t know. I hadn’t thought to try.”
“Might be that’s our next order of business, then.”
Noah continued to look stunned.
Saint started walking again. “Then again, we are on beautiful historic Cuba Street,” he said, “there’s sure to be some kind of shop here. Picture that. Hello shopkeep, yes, I am here for necromancy.”
Noah laughed.
“Where do you keep the dead goats, I have this really pressing sacrifice to make,” Saint said.
“Hello, yes,” Noah said, “I’d like to visit the land of Hinenui-te-pō where the dead ones gather, and also purchase some fried potatoes.”
Saint grinned. “Hello sir can I purchase a perfect replica of a human body – oh no it’s not for me, it’s for my friend Noah.”
“Shoptender, do you happen to have a sense of decorum and tact in stock? No, no, it’s not for me, it’s for my friend Saint.”
“Good luck with that,” Saint said, laughing, “no one ever believes that ‘Saint’ is an actual real name. Not even when it’s me that’s telling them. I think most people think it’s some sort of ironic statement, if they think about it at all.”
“I don’t know much about naming conventions in the present day, I must admit,” Noah said. “Is yours unusual?”
“Ish? It’s not my real real name, though. My given name’s Santiago. But obviously I’m not going to go around calling myself Santiago.”
“Obviously,” said Noah, looking amused.
“So I could be Saint, or I could be Sante – and I don’t want to be associated with a chocolate bar, thank you very much! At least not most of the time, I mean, there are extenuating – anyway, I could be Saint or Sante or I could be, I don’t know, Santa or Iago, and I couldn’t really be either of those, I’m a bit rubbish at beards.” He gave a casual shrug. “So there you have it. The fascinating chronicle of my name.”
“Your tangents are thrilling, as always.”
“Your sarcasm wounds me to the core. Like a spear of ice. Like – damn it, why did I have to say ice, now I’m cold.”
“Mwahaha?” Noah said hesitantly.
“You learn, grasshopper. You learn.” He could just light a fire or something, but he couldn’t exactly do that on a crowded street. He thought warmth, trying to will himself warm, but apparently it didn’t work that way. “… Would you mind terribly if I pause this conversation to grab a coffee or something?”
“No?”
Saint grinned at the uncertainty in his tone. Ridiculous lost shadow of a man. “It’s fine, it won’t take long,” he said, swaggering towards the nearest café, which was, annoyingly, the same one he’d visited Steff at yesterday. “Cafés are ten-a-street here, come on. Wellington is like, café city. It is all about cafés… ”
He stopped walking.
Noah continued for a few metres then stopped and looked back at him, stepping slightly to one side so a middle-aged couple didn’t walk right through him. “Saint? Why did you stop?”
Saint wished he could grab him by the shoulders and shake him, he was that excited. He restrained himself to walking forward and pushing his face very close to Noah’s, grinning broad and excitable. “Cafés,” he said.
Noah looked more confused than anything else. “What about them?” he said, and then he caught on. His eyes widened. “Oh. Cafés.”
Saint bounced. “Does that help?”
“I’ll go look now,” Noah said, distracted already; he was trailing into wisps. “There are many likely spots, but I can be in several different places at once if I care to. Now I know what I’m looking for it’ll be simple enough to – that is, if you don’t mind pausing the conversation?”
“Nah. Plenty of time to talk later.”
“Farewell for now, then,” Noah said, and he was gone.
Saint amused himself by scorching rude doodles into the paving stones and trying not to look like he was loitering. Which wasn’t that hard: it was drizzly and damp and generally unpleasant that day, so someone hanging around undercover wasn’t too inexplicable, though it’d make more sense for them to hang around inside. Ah well.
Just as he was putting the final touches on his unloiter he ruined it by bumping into a girl. Well, she bumped into him, really, and knocked him clean over. He sprawled on the ground for a second, confused. She’d fallen over too, rather more elegantly.
She was cute as a button, with a cheerfully chaotic tangle of dark hair and a big battered duffel-coat and bright pink gumboots. Aside from the gumboots she was dressed mainly in greens and browns. She sprang to her feet immediately, and gained a few points in Saint’s eyes when the first thing she did was offer him her hand, despite the fact that she’d been carrying several bags of shopping that were now scattered all around them.
Saint took her hand and she pulled him up with surprising ease. He gave her a charming look. “Sorry about that,” he said, “I was busy musing artistically.” Then he added, “Nice boots,” because they were.
She dimpled at him. “Nice coat!”
They grinned at each other for a second or two, the pleased, vaguely conspiratorial grins of those who have just found people of like mind. “I think,” Saint said. “That we are going to be friends.”
“Gosh, I hope so,” the girl said, and she snatched up her bags with one hand and held out the other. “I’m Tony!”
Instead of shaking he bowed with a flourish. “Saint, at your service,” he said. Hey, look, something they had in common: bizarre names. “Your parents must’ve hated you.”
“What? Oh, no. Mum just loves Marvel.” Tony sighed. “It could’ve been worse! I mean, I could’ve been Xavier or Steve or something.”
“You would make a perfectly charming Xavier,” Saint assured her.
Tony giggled. “I’m sorry about getting your clothes all wrinkledy,” she said.
“Oh, no, I was… like that already.” Saint coughed. “I’m not quite my usual sterling self just at present. In my defence, it’s been a long few days.”
Tony heaved a sigh. “Man, do I know that feeling,” she said. “Oh, uh – my friend’s waiting for me, I should probably –”
“Yeah, I have plans today too. But we should, y’know, do an activity? Snag a beverage or something, at some point in time. Is what I’m saying.”
“It’s a date!” she chirped. “Oh, wait, not to imply –”
“No, no, assuredly platonic –”
“Yeah um –”
“Yes.” He picked up her last bag and handed it to her. “Cheerio, then.”
She snorted, but affectionately. “Toodlepip,” she said grandly, and bounced off. She moved in cheerful clumsy skips and jumps and almost-stumbles, like walking was far too dull. Saint decided he rather liked her. Nice to have an interlude from dreaded monster-slaying and risk-taking to chat to a pretty girl.
Noah returned just as Saint was perfecting his unloiter, which involved staring anxiously up the street and making occasional small dashes into the rain and then quick dashes back, as though testing whether the rain was, indeed, still wet. He was rather proud of it. It had, he felt, an air of authenticity.
“Is that some sort of strange dance?” said Noah. “People are staring at you.”
Saint stopped and sighed. “Some people have no appreciation for proper infiltration techniques,” he mourned, before remembering to put his hand to his ear. “So you found it?”
“Yes! It’s hidden on a – ramp of sorts, next to the library. You enter it in the space between two pillars. Simple enough.” Noah was eager and excited, half-grinning. “So all you need to do now is –” He broke off. “What’s that?”
Saint turned to follow the direction of his gaze. Noah was staring at a fellow sitting on a ledge and busking. He was dressed in neat old-fashioned clothes, a jacket with patched elbows worn over a shabby waistcoat. As Saint watched, the man in the jacket looked up and met Saint’s gaze. He seemed su
rprised. He dusted off his jeans and stood.
“Some guy?” Saint said.
“Look,” Noah said.
Saint looked. Instead of a head the man had a radio – quite a nice one, shiny and boxy and black. Rain had misted the plastic.
“Some radio head guy?” Saint said. He curled one hand into a loose fist, clicking his fingers restlessly together to make small sparks. “Guess that makes us the karma police.”
Radioheaded Thing stepped toward him. “Hey, sorry,” he – it – said, “but you seem… I don’t know.” It crossed its arms. If a radio could look stern, this one did. “Were you burning those paving stones just now?”
“You are the weirdest thing I have ever seen,” Saint said. “I mean that.” He scratched the back of his head. “Ah… Noah, a little help?” He glanced at Noah. Noah stood there, staring.
“What on earth,” Noah said, “is that thing?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Saint said. Radiohead crackled sharply at him, a noise like static, and took a step forward.
“This is my street,” it said. “You’re intruding. I won’t let you harm anyone here.”
“Oh, come on, I didn’t even nick anything this time,” Saint said, and just then a shock of not-right feeling shivered through his arm. Noah had moved behind him, like he was afraid – though what protection Saint could offer to him, and what protection someone intangible could possibly need, he didn’t know. It was quite annoying though, as Noah seemed inclined to keep rather too close, like a child tugging at its parent’s sleeve, except tingly and painful.
“Saint,” Noah said, plaintive. “What the hell is that thing?”
“You’d know better than me, aren’t you the atua expert?”
“It can’t possibly be… ” Noah said, and then he drew in breath sharply and unnecessarily. “Oh.”
Saint turned. The wairua looked grim, and – disgusted? Disgusted. Not disgusted like someone who disapproves of eating mustard with ice cream; much worse than that, the real kind of disgust, disgust that went gut-deep. Like someone faced with a person who makes dolls out of animal corpses.
Saint frowned at the creature. “My friend seems pretty upset by you. What are you, exactly?”
“Your friend?” Radiohead said blankly. “In any case.” It squared its shoulders. “I told you. This is my street. You are no longer welcome here.”
Saint shrugged. “Hey, no one died and made you king of Wellington. I go where I want.”
“Saint,” Noah said, thready and weak and panicked. Saint frowned at him. He’d pat him on the shoulder if he could – the guy looked really rough. “Do you realise what this means?” Saint just shrugged again. Noah glared. “Look at him, idiot, look past. You’re outside enough of things to be able to do that at the very least. Come on!”
Saint, obligingly, looked at the creature; it was an odd thing playing at human, but it was also… Huh. It was hard to tell, actually. Saint just got a vague impression of – of lights, in the darkness, of the murmur of crowds, of people waiting at intersections, crowded shops busy with the echoes of people who had visited once. And bright colours, sunlight shining on red and yellowish cobblestones. All kinds of music spilling out into the air, guitar and Chinese violin and Western violin and smooth jazz. Trams and underneath that horses and carts and muddied streets.
Saint blinked. “Okaaay,” he said. “This means what, exactly?”
“It ruins everything,” Noah said, then repeated it, hollow: “It ruins everything. Kill it, you… it… this thing shouldn’t be alive, it, no, no no no no no kill it make it be gone –”
Saint frowned. “Hm.” He tossed a little fireball from hand to hand, pensive. The day had been going really nicely. He hadn’t especially wanted to kill anything today, and he had the feeling that this guy wouldn’t die easy. “But he’s like, a street spirit, so it’d follow that he gets energy from the street. This street. This is the worst possible place to fight him.”
“No, no, no,” Noah said, shaking his head, frantic, “no no no he can’t be – he’s some upjumped lost atua that clung to this street, that’s all. He can’t come from here. That’s impossible.”
“Well improbable, sure, but after the last few days I’m willing to –”
“No. I mean it,” Noah said, and he stepped around Saint to examine the spirit, then lost his nerve, backtracking fast, so agitated that he went right through Saint, and Saint was still shuddering from that when Noah went on. “It’s impossible. In the old days, yes, we had spirits of things, because the land was alive then, everything was alive, so there were tree spirits, island spirits – that’s what atua start off as, you know, here and everywhere else: spirits of mist and wood and sea, and then they gain shape as people believe in them and as stories are told and as the land grows with them – but this. This.” He stopped, looking achingly lost. “He’s the spirit of a street. You can have spirits of trees or rocks, of territories, but, but a spirit in the city, grown naturally from it, this – this is impossible, it has to be, don’t you see? Don’t you see what this means?”
“You really are gonna have to elaborate on that, pet,” Saint said. “In simple sentences that explain how I can kill the blasted thing?”
“Who are you talking to… ” said Radiohead, and then it took a step back. “Oh, God. You’re him.” It was shaking, its voice barely discernible over the panicky squeal of feedback. “Oh, God, you’re going to kill me… ” It stood straighter, squared its shoulders. “Kill me if you have to, but –” It flung out an arm to indicate the people passing by, some stopping to stare at them, most used enough to Cuba Street’s oddities that they walked on without pausing. “Leave these people alone. All right? Kill no one!”
“What? I wouldn’t just kill random people… ” Saint said, and trailed off. So the atua had heard that he was killing them – that explained the ponaturi ambush. But did they truly think he was so cold-hearted that he’d kill random humans? Like he was the monster? Huh. That was… useful, actually. That was probably why he hadn’t met any more organised resistance thus far, though he wouldn’t be willing to bet on that continuing, which was why he had to burn up their headquarters quickfast, before it could occur to them that they were scary and dangerous and strong and he was only one man.
Radiohead changed its stance so it stood like a boxer, sidelong, fists raised. “No,” it said grimly. “You won’t.”
“Wow. Okay.” Saint took a step back and shot a grin at Noah. “Hey, wanna do that thing you did when we first met? With the birds? C’mon, together we can take it easy.” He could take this creature on his own perfectly easily, as well, but Noah seemed to need cheering up.
“Hm?” Noah said, blankly, and then looked at him. “Oh. No,” he said, distractedly. “I don’t… I’m not sure if that’s the best… ”
“Right.” Saint ran a hand through his hair, thoughtful. Radiohead was still standing, wary and defensive, and it really wasn’t a good idea to fight this thing on its home turf, being here made it stronger –
Oh. Ha.
He was standing next to a smallish boutique, expensive clothes on display behind a glass window. Saint turned toward it and raised his hands and thought fire, and felt it, actually felt the fire coursing through his blood, like strong liquor or ecstasy or the very best adrenaline rush, intoxicating and painful all at once, almost too much to feel, the scorch of it, the burn and bright.
He lowered his hands, panting.
The door, the glass, all of it was gone. The store now had a big open space on one side, which, hey, maybe that’d even help business, fresh air and all that. He’d kept it under control, of course, so that the fire hadn’t burnt anything out of that little area. The lady behind the shop counter gaped at him through the sudden gaping hole.
Saint whirled back around to face the city spirit and Noah. Noah, still all starey and horrified, thankfully didn’t even need to do his magic wind-is-life-or-whatever powers; Radiohead had fallen to its k
nees, looking pale. It gripped its side. It was bleeding, Saint noticed, blood soaking through its tweedy jacket, but the blood disappeared before it hit the ground. The spirit’s ‘face’ was twitching, the shiny panel on the front of the radio flashing with coloured columns, but the creature itself made no sound.
“Yeah, that’s what you get,” Saint told it. “You’re an abomination, apparently. Stop using power that doesn’t belong to you or whatever.” Radiohead started struggling to its feet, and it was bleeding less now, and Saint shot his cuffs and sent a spear of flame right into its heart.
The creature lost its balance and fell, hitting the ground hard. There was the crack of plastic, and the colours died.
Saint turned to shoot Noah a grin, but the wairua was still panicky. His eyes were wide and white and frenzied. Saint frowned a bit, at that.
Later he’d have time to worry about Noah properly; at the moment he had himself to think about. He had no idea what the people around him had seen, but judging by the stares and muttering and the looks of fear on some people’s faces, it hadn’t been a nice and flattering interpretation like with those two he’d saved from the maero. He’d best be going.
Saint adjusted his coat and ran like the blazes. It was pretty fun, dashing down streets all helter-skelter, fire scorching through his veins and sirens wailing through the air somewhere behind him. Finally he ran out of energy and jogged to a stop, somewhere down Abel Smith Street. He leaned against a wall.
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