Pocket Full of Tinder

by Jill Archer

  “The old keep at Stone Pointe in the Shallows, where Noon’s first field assignment was.”

  “Were you her Guardian then?”

  “No. Raphael Sinclair was.”

  “Ah,” Sartabella said and then fell silent. I’d never been able to work out whether Sartabella knew Rafe beyond what I’d told her during my fittings. I glanced up, wary about standing under so many rows of razor-sharp teeth even if they were an illusion. Of course, my memory of what had happened in the old Stone Pointe keep contributed mightily to my sense of unease. Though she couldn’t sense my state of mind with her magic, Sartabella was highly intuitive when it came to reading her clients’ mental states. Instantly, she knew this place felt toxic to me and she demanded to know what had happened. As with previous fittings, I kept my answer short and basically told her I had a run-in with a drakon here.

  I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face. “Run-in” didn’t even begin to describe the horror I’d felt when I saw Ari involuntarily shift into a drakon right in front of me – or the devastation I’d felt when I realized that he’d been lying to me for months about who and what he was – or the fury I’d felt when I realized that he might have gone on lying to me forever if Rafe hadn’t unintentionally revealed him to be a demon in our midst.

  “Oops, my bad” didn’t cut it when your sin was being a demon and you didn’t tell your girlfriend about it.

  On the fitting platform, I clenched my fists and banked my fire.

  Sartabella, who missed nothing, frowned.

  “Did the drakon try to kill you?”

  “No.” My emotional state caused me to answer more forcefully than I might have otherwise. But the word was no less truthful for its emphatic delivery. Ari had saved my life, not tried to end it.

  “Did you try to kill it?”

  “No!”

  “But encountering it was traumatic for you.”

  “Wouldn’t encountering a drakon be traumatic for anyone?”

  “But for you, Ms. Onyx? I don’t understand why this particular demon seemed so dangerous…”

  “Well, at the time, I hadn’t done all of the things I’ve done now.”

  “Naturally,” Sartabella agreed wryly. She arched her brows and cocked her head, waiting for more of an explanation.

  “Encountering the drakon was a surprise,” I finally said, unable to even look at Fara now.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And the… ah… well, the drakon killed another demon while we were there.”

  “And how did that come about?”

  “He… bit the other demon’s head off.”

  “Did he… eat the other demon?”

  “No!” Another emphatic negative. I was becoming just the least little bit unhinged. These fittings often made me feel that way, but this one was worse than the others. Maybe Sartabella was practicing more magic on me than she’d declared, which would be highly illegal.

  But just when I thought the tension couldn’t get any higher, it crested and troughed.

  “What happened after that?” Sartabella asked.

  “He flew off.”

  “Not many demons fly.”

  I shrugged.

  “Have you ever flown?”

  “How could I have? I’m not a demon who can shift into a winged form.”

  “But you told me during another fitting that you rode a barghest shaped from waning magic.”

  “So?”

  “I thought perhaps… after your encounter with the drakon… you might have tried it.”

  “Tried what?”

  “Flying,” she said, exasperated. “By riding a drakon shaped out of waning magic,” she said, as if that sort of thing was attempted every day.

  I stared at her. The idea had never even occurred to me.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Have you ever wanted to do half the things you’ve told me you’ve done?”

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. But Sartabella, being an Angel, was never at a loss for words.

  “I think I know what your last item needs to be.”

  2

  HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION

  Halja was populated mostly with Hyrkes. But there were a significant number of us with magic, which came in three types: waning, waxing, or faith. Waning and waxing magic users were the descendants of Lucifer’s army, which made us all sound like bloodthirsty banshees.

  And some of us were. Just as some of those who practiced faith magic (or no magic) were. As I reminded myself nearly every day, my ancestors may have been violent, barbaric people, but that didn’t mean I needed to be—or at least, not all of the time.

  Waning magic users were usually men – Host sons who were sent to prestigious demon law schools like St. Luck’s where they were trained as Maegesters. Waxing magic users, on the other hand, were usually women – Host daughters who were sent south to apprentice with a Mederi tribe. Mederies weren’t violent or barbaric. And they definitely weren’t bloodthirsty. No, they used Luck’s chthonic forces to heal and grow.

  So why had I, a Host daughter, been born with waning magic?

  They say “be careful what you wish for” but maybe it should be “be careful who you pray to.” Twenty-two years ago, during a difficult pregnancy, my mother had prayed to the Angels’ god, Mica, to save my twin brother and me. Of course, being Host, she’d pleaded to Luck too.

  Maybe the Lost Lords fought over us in the womb. Maybe only one of them heard my mother’s appeal, but was piqued that she’d tried to play both sides.

  Who knows what really happened?

  The only thing I knew for sure is that I didn’t obsess about it the way I used to. Life was short, especially for Haljan Maegesters, and I wasn’t going to waste mine worrying about things that had happened before I was born.

  So what was I going to worry about?

  My next assignment.

  All second-year Maegesters-in-Training were required to do a six-month externship their fourth semester with a potential future employer. Most Maegesters secured positions with the Demon Council when they graduated, but some joined small practices that catered to minor demons with minor matters, while others found employment by working directly for a patron as their consigliere. Consigs were legal advisors, of course, but we were also a bit more. Oh, we weren’t bodyguards or assassins… exactly. The martial aspects of the job were to ensure our own safety and impartiality. In theory, we represented the interests of both Council and patron, advising the patron on follower affairs, interactions with other regulares, tithes, sacrifices, and other commercial and municipal matters in accordance with Council policy.

  Obviously, it was a job where conflicts of interest could arise.

  Even more so in my case, since my externship employer happened to be my ex-boyfriend.

  Who’d lied to me about being a demon (as hereinbefore mentioned) and who possibly (okay, probably) still had feelings for me. But there was no getting out of it. I’d agreed to go.

  So how did I deal with all these complications?

  By concentrating on:

  My. Next. Assignment.

  Ahem.

  Rockthorn Gorge. That’s where I was headed tomorrow. The bustling mountain town where Ari now resided as patron. The bustling mountain town where so many other demons lived, it was often called “a demonic anthill.” Which was why the very last item on my To Do List before I left should have been “Get a Good Night’s Sleep” but was actually “Meet with Faculty Advisor.” He’d left a note in my mailbox instructing me and my Guardian to be at Bone Hill in Myriostos, a tiny, cramped slum in New Babylon’s southeast sector, by sundown.

  After a twenty-minute cab ride from St. Luck’s, a fifteen-minute rickshaw ride through the narrow streets of Ragland, and then an even longer walk through the inaptly named Paradise, we finally saw the gate to Myriostos – although “gate” was probably too grand a term for the rickety assortment of rusting rods that had been
welded together at the beginning of two parallel lines of pilings rising up from the trash-strewn ground in front of us. Looking south along this unusual main street toward the Lethe, I realized that Paradise had not, perhaps, been inaptly named after all. Because anything, compared to Myriostos, would have qualified as Paradise.

  Centuries ago this area had been outside city limits. In fact, it hadn’t even been land at all. It had been part of the river and it was where New Babylon’s waste had been dumped – downstream and out of sight. Apparently, a few hundred years had made solid, if not stable, ground out of rubbish and rubble. I opened the gate and stepped from Paradise into Myriostos.

  To our left and right were an incalculable number of stacked shacks and spliced lean-tos. My second semester I’d traveled to a poor fishing community on the eastern Lethe, so I’d seen Haljan poverty before, but never anything like this. The Shallows had been full of mud and rust and huts that were drafty and leaked. That outpost had been dirty, even smelly at times, with a distressingly unpredictable food supply. Its settlers had battled disease and other medical emergencies with no Mederi. But I realized, as I walked deeper and deeper into Myriostos, how lucky they were compared to these people. The Shallows settlers had land and lots of it. They had fresh air and flowing water. They had room for their children to run. They didn’t have to light fires in their highly combustible homes to cook their food. Looking around, I guessed that, rogares or no, any one of these New Babylonians would gladly have traded places with any one of those Shallows settlers.

  It seemed impossible, but the farther we walked, the higher and more numerous the shanties on either side of us were piled. I craned my neck, scanning the irregular skyline. By evening it was no more than a thin, jagged line of indigo crisscrossed by countless black wires.

  Here and there, faces stared back at us – children playing on stairs, women watching from windows, men standing in doorways. Every now and then the unusual quiet would be broken by a bang, a cry, or a shout. But there were no screams. The few people who passed us look more ragged than dangerous. As hungry and dirty as the settlers from the Shallows had been, but more exhausted. Compared to the fierce, resilient fishermen and their families, these “middensteaders” seemed listless and without hope.

  Wolfram had told me that Bone Hill was a small mound located in the approximate center of the slum where its sinners were punished or executed. I’d just spotted a tottering pillory near its top when a trio of rough-looking men started walking toward us. They made me nervous. Not because I was worried they’d harm us, but because I didn’t know what their intentions were. Fara and I were clearly outsiders – two women – without obvious weapons, wearing what looked like expensive clothing (Fara’s mantle was an illusion, but how were they to know?). The last thing I wanted to do was shape a weapon here. It would be like striking a match in a neighborhood made of tissue paper.

  Where was Wolfram?

  Although they were roughly the same brawny size, it was easy enough to tell the men apart. One had a diagonal scar running from his right eyebrow to his left cheek, another had a long, braided beard, and the third was carrying an ax. The ax-wielder’s scowl was the most menacing, but I kept my face impassive as he approached.

  “Who are you?”

  “Nouiomo Onyx. I’m supposed to meet Ralla Wolfram here at sundown.”

  The man’s scowl relaxed into a frown, but then he looked up toward the sky and his expression became… worried, which seemed strange. I didn’t look that intimidating. Maybe they recognized my last name…? Even in Myriostos, residents were bound to have heard of Karanos Onyx, Executive to the Demon Council.

  “Wolfram’s not here.”

  I clenched my jaw, momentarily forgetting about the burly trio. My faculty advisor had been notoriously hard to track down this semester. In fact, I’d only ever met him one other time. He was NEVER around. And now he’d stood me up. Again.

  In front of us, the men were eyeing the sky.

  What were they afraid of?

  Due to our earlier discussion at Sartabella’s, my thoughts gravitated toward those few demon species in Halja that fly – the biggest of which was a drakon.

  But here?

  Ari was in Rockthorn Gorge, and drakons were nearly as rare as women with waning magic.

  Before I could puzzle it out, the black wires above us started buzzing and crackling. The narrow slit of violet sky sizzled and the entire street flickered as the neighborhood’s power turned on. Glow lights flashed then dimmed, then brightened again. Finally, the wall of buildings on either side of us flared with electric light. The air seemed to hum and sparks raced across the sky-top wires. They reminded me of fireflies – deadly fireflies capable of starting a real fire.

  The men’s gazes were also drawn to the sparks, following them as if hypnotized. They were afraid of fire, alright, but not the kind that drakons bring.

  A shout in the distance reminded us that, even in Halja, one simple, charged particle can wreak just as much havoc as a demon.

  The men started running and we followed. I felt a few defensive spells slip into place as we entered a building. Even with electric power, the light inside was poor and we lost the men almost immediately. Myriostos’ tenements were worse than a labyrinth. The only things we saw inside the doorway were trash, graffiti, two sets of stairs, and nearly a dozen doors.

  Another scream told us which direction to head – to our left, up the nearest set of stairs, round a corner, up another flight, through an open doorway, and out onto a rooftop. Then, a flash of movement. It was the men from the street.

  “Cast Maiden’s Thread over them!” I yelled to Fara. It was somewhat risky. Unless a crime was being committed, Angels weren’t supposed to cast spells over a target absent their permission, but Fara didn’t hesitate. Instantly, a gossamer-thin thread of light showed us which direction they’d gone.

  More twists, turns, skidding on dusty surfaces… I couldn’t help wondering if we were being led somewhere for some nefarious purpose. But as we raced across high, narrow boards, leapt from rooftops, and ran between spaces of dim light and darkness, two constants remained: the screams got louder and the light grew brighter.

  By the time we arrived at the source of the fire, one entire room was engulfed in flames. Billowing clouds of soot puffed out. Every day I wielded precisely shaped weapons forged from fire… which were nothing like this. This was chaos. The fire in front of me seemed like a living monster, made as much from black smoke as orange-red flames.

  Scores of people were on the rooftop with us. Some were throwing small buckets of water on the fire. Others were trying to drag a large hose up another set of stairs. Still others were nursing burns – theirs or others’. Two of the men we’d followed were among the crowd, but the glowing thread attached to the third—Fara’s casting—led directly into the blazing inferno.

  I ran into the flames, leeching oxygen from the air as I went. But the fire, fat on cardboard, plywood, reeds, and rushes, continued to rage. I pleaded to Luck that the whole block wouldn’t be blown to kingdom come in a dust explosion.

  Fara followed me in. I realized, later, how brave she’d been. Although her scars were due to a botched spell, they were the remnants of burns. It was hard enough for me to walk into a burning building. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.

  The heat inside was so oppressive it was difficult to process anything else. It felt like we’d walked into a kiln. I’d battled many opponents by now – each of them capable of generating heat, shaping fiery weapons, and throwing blasts of pure kinetic energy, but nothing I’d experienced either in the field or the sparring ring had prepared me for this. It felt like I was being burned at the stake, but I forced myself to concentrate on the search.

  Where was the ax-wielding man? Was anyone else in here?

  Fara and I slowed to a walk. The floor could give way at any minute, I thought. I could leech oxygen, but I couldn’t fix broken bones. I also couldn’t cool t
hings that were already hot. Which meant that even though I was making good headway putting the fire out, the air was still singeing my lungs.

  Beside me, Fara was casting something chilly and preternaturally badass. Without her spell casting, we’d surely have succumbed to the heat, flames, and fumes.

  We found the ax-wielder in the next room, collapsed on the floor next to a woman and her child. Fara cast the rudimentary spell Carry over the man and woman and we slung them over our shoulders. I picked up the child and we made it out of the burning portion of the building exactly 2.5 seconds before it exploded.

  Between our magic and the water, we were able to extinguish the fire. Fara healed those who had suffered burns and smoke inhalation and, miraculously, everyone survived. After making sure the newly homeless had places to shelter and sleep, we left.

  After returning from Myriostos, we were sooty, sweaty, and exhausted. Fara headed back to the Joshua School to feed Virtus and I went to Marduk’s to meet Fitz and collect Nova. I expected to see Ivy there too, so I girded myself for a tearful discussion about how I was no longer welcome at Megiddo.

  There had to be some way I could repair my ex-dormater’s table… make it what it once was?

  But instead of Ivy or Fitz, I ran into Wolfram, of all people, who was sitting alone in a booth with a messenger bag and five empty beer bottles for company. He waved me over, motioned for me to sit, and hailed a waiter. He ordered another beer and I asked for bangers and mash with water.

  “Water?” Wolfram said, pointing to the sign above the door.

  GRAPES ARE SWEET

  APPLES ARE NEAT

  BUT IT'S BARLEY AND WHEAT

  THAT CAN'T BE BEAT!

  “Come on, Onyx, it’s my treat,” and then he guffawed at his rhyme adding, “After all, we may never meet… again.”