The Fire Rose em-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  The whole street was rising, like an ocean wave, and more waves followed behind it. The street billowed as if it was a rug and a housewife was vigorously shaking it. As it billowed, buildings swayed and began to shake apart.

  For some reason she herself could not have afterwards explained, she ran into the nearest hotel doorway, which was a small side-entrance that was almost certainly locked to the outside, and reached that spot just as the first wave struck.

  She braced herself in the doorway with her hands and legs as the earth began an insane gigue. Around her, up and down Market Street, walls, chimneys, and entire buildings were toppling. Church bells rang with cacophonous fury, as if an enormous child had grasped each tower in its fist and was shaking it. Under the ringing of the bells, the earth roared defiance so deafening that Rose could not even hear herself screaming, although her mouth was open and she felt herself to be howling in fear. The cornices of buildings about her fell to the ground in a deadly hail of masonry; chimneys collapsed with killing force, crashing down into their own buildings or the ones next to them. There were no words for the terror that filled her; anything she had experienced before this was as nothing. There was only mind-numbing fear, and the sound of Judgment Day.

  Then, finally, it all stopped.

  She took a breath; another. She dared to think that it was over.

  It began again.

  She honestly thought, as the second quake struck, that she was going to die of fright.

  Finally, after an eternity almost as long as the first quake, it was truly over. There were several small pulses, diminishing in strength, then-quiet. A hush as deathly as the roar had been settled over the street.

  Then the screaming began.

  The quake bucked and kicked like an untamed stallion, but Cameron's home and grounds had been made as safe as Pao's Earth Magick could make them, as Pao's home in China-town had been made as fire-resistant as a Firemaster could guarantee. All over the house, furniture and ornaments crashed to the floor in a paroxysm of destruction, but the house itself remained intact. With the sure instinct of one who had ridden out smaller quakes, Cameron dived beneath his desk, a sturdy piece of furniture that would shelter him if any of the rest of his possessions or parts of the ceiling came crashing down upon him.

  The huge mirror flung itself from the wall and hurled itself at the desk just after he dove beneath it, shattering into a thousand splinters. Out in the stable, Sunset and Brownie screamed their terror, but they were safer than he was. There was no furniture in the stable to come hurtling at them.

  There was a pause of about ten seconds, then the second quake hit, shaking the house with the fury of a dog killing a rat. If anything, the second quake was worse than the first.

  Then, after an interlude of terror too long to be time, it was over.

  Cameron had only a single thought, and it was for Rose. If she had, in her fear, run out into the street, she was now almost certainly crushed beneath tons of brick and masonry!

  But he looked out from beneath the sheltering bulk of the desk, to see small fires everywhere there had been lamps or candles, and he put that thought aside for the few seconds it took to summon his Salamanders and send them all over the house and grounds, extinguishing flames wherever they found them.

  Then he snatched up a shard of mirror, cutting his hand a little, and breathed his Magick on it.

  He was just in time to see her getting slowly to her feet, sheltered in precisely the correct place, a sturdy servants' entrance to the hotel, her black clothing now grey with the dust that choked the air. The mirror was too small to give him much of a view, but she cocked her head to one side, then hiked her skirts up to her knee and began to run shakily up Market toward Third.

  At that moment, he knew one thing, and one thing only.

  It did not matter what he was, or who saw him. It did not matter what she thought of him, or about him. He had to get to her, if he died trying. And there was one way-on a horse that would not tire, would not stop, and would run faster than poor Sunset ever dreamed of doing. It would take his every resource, and would even require his own blood, but he could reach her within the hour. He had done this before, and it had left him with little in the way of resources, but it was his only hope.

  Pushing fallen debris aside with the strength born of fear for her, he ran to his Work Room, to transform the most trusted of his Salamanders to a new form, the only one which could cross this now-broken country at the speed he required. And if his Salamanders had not been his trusted friends, but had been coerced, this Conjuration would, in these conditions, almost certainly be deadly.

  He was going to Conjure the Firemare.

  The screaming was coming from the area of Third and Mission; that was all she was certain of. Somehow she had retained her glasses through all of the heaving and tossing, but dust hung so thickly in the air it was hard to see clearly. But the buildings south of Market were mostly of frame or brick, and the earthquake had wrought terrible damage to them. From a block past the Palace Hotel on down towards the Waterfront and down Third to the south, the buildings were twisted and collapsed like so many constructions of paper and matchsticks. It was from there that the screaming of the trapped and injured came. Why there should be so much damage there, and so relatively little where she had stood, she had no idea. There must have been a reason, but it didn't much matter at the moment. Up ahead, people were trapped, hurt, possibly dying, and she ran to help them.

  Other people were emerging, mostly still gowned in their nightclothes, from buildings on either side of her. They were shaken, white and subdued, talking in whispers, looking towards the distant sounds of screaming. She had not gotten far before another quake-smaller, but no less terrifying-sent her down to her knees again.

  But she was on her feet as soon as it had passed, and the continuing screams drove her onward. Finally, though, hampered by petticoats and skirt, she stopped in the middle of the street. Oblivious to anyone watching, she pulled her petticoats off, and ripped the side seams of the skirts to the knee. She started to discard the useless underthings, then thought better of the idea; she slung them over her shoulder and began running again.

  Other people, mostly men, and some in shirtsleeves or nightshirts, began to respond to the sounds of terror. It was soon apparent what their goal was. Here, in the area that San Franciscans called "South of the Slot," the buildings were all wood and frame. Had been, rather-now they were twisted matchsticks and splinters. Many had been inexpensive hotels and rooming houses, and it was towards one of these that she and other people were running.

  It was very clear the moment she reached the spot that she would be useless in rescue work, even with her skirts tied up above her knees. Rescue work consisted of clearing rubble and wrenching timbers loose until you reached a body-hopefully, a living body-then waiting until others took it away before beginning again. That was the job of strong men; even in a frenzy of hysterical strength she could not have lifted a single one of those splintered boards. But if she could not rescue, she could perform rough first-aid, and she did.

  The living were laid out in the street, waiting for other folk to find a cart or some other means to get them to a hospital; she and two or three other women began to tend injuries better suited to a battlefield. A few folk were relatively uninjured, but the rest were bloody, battered, with limbs crushed or slashed by glass, heads gashed open. Blood was everywhere, and one woman, wiser in the ways of wounds than Rose, was going first from victim to victim, applying rough tourniquets to stop the bleeding.

  Rose's petticoats were soon gone, torn into strips for rough bandages. This had been a rooming house, and as she ran out of bandaging material, she would dart into the wreckage to snatch another sheet out of the discarded rubble and begin again. There was no room in this terrible work for fear, revulsion, or horror. She lost track of how many people she tended, and a certain grim numbness began to set in as twisted and broken body after body was also pulled out to be se
t out of sight of the living. People emerged from their houses with more sheets to make into bandages for the survivors, and blankets to cover the still forms of the dead. She stopped for a dipper-full of water offered by a disheveled child to realize with a start that morning was well under way. She glanced down at her watch for the time. It was only seven o'clock. It felt as if she had been working for hours.

  She coughed a little, and drank another sip to clear her throat-harsh, acrid smoke had begun to wreathe its way through the buildings. There must be fires everywhere.

  Thank God the San Francisco Fire Department is one of the finest in the nation. They would have their hands full this day.

  She handed the dipper back to the little girl, who was still in her nightdress, and just as she bent down to tear another strip of sheet for a bandage, a hand seized her wrist. She looked up again, sudden anger rising through her numbness at the audacity of whoever it was.

  It was Simon Beltaire, and whatever words she was about to speak died on her lips as he stared down at her with those glittering black eyes.

  He was dressed impeccably in a fine suit and hat, and looked utterly untouched by anything that was around him. Even the dust had not settled on him.

  "Miss Hawkins," he said, with uncanny calm. "Please come with me. You can do nothing that matters here."

  "Nothing that matters?" she spat, snatching her hand away from him. "Are you insane? Look in front of you! There are people trapped and dying in there-why aren't you helping rescue them? For God's sake-you are a Firemaster, at least begin helping to control the fires!"

  He looked at the mass of wreckage, covered with men pulling away at debris like so many ants, and smiled cruelly, as if they meant no more to him than insects. The smile chilled her to the bone, for it was quite, quite unhuman. That was when she knew what it was-or rather, who-he reminded her of. Mephistopheles, from Faust.

  "These strangers mean nothing to me," he said coolly. "I have no care for their welfare."

  She rose to her feet and backed away from him a pace or two. "So the well-being of strangers does not concern you?" she asked, with a curious detachment. "You have no particular interest in whether they live or die?"

  "Of course not," he replied with a touch of impatience. "These are mere drones, their lives had no meaning before this earthquake, and have no meaning now. We should concern ourselves with our own welfare, not that of people we do not know."

  Oddly enough, it was his words that freed her from his fascination, and confirmed what she had deduced about him before the quake. He cared no more for her than for these poor people. She was nothing more than a tool to him, to be used to destroy Jason, and then discarded. "Interesting that you should say that, Master Beltaire," she replied, just as coolly, "since you met me less than twenty-four hours ago, and spoke to me for scarcely more than an hour of time. I would hardly call us anything other than strangers. Surely even you would not pretend to a closer acquaintance than that!"

  All this time she had been edging away, attempting to put as much distance between herself and the frantic rescue-work going on as possible. If Beltaire erupted into violence, she did not want to involve innocents-

  Now I'm beginning to sound like Jason....

  He started, looked oddly shocked for a moment, then composed himself He laughed, and held out a hand to her. "Oh, really, Miss Hawkins. Do be sensible. You are hardly going to equate yourself with these-"

  "Less than a year ago I was living in a boarding house exactly like this, with people exactly like this, and looking forward-if it can be termed that-to a career very similar to theirs," she replied, her own tone icy cold now. She stumbled a little over some rubble and fell, but picked herself up and continued backing away. But the fall had been deliberate, and in her hand, hidden by her skirt, was a nice-sized chunk of brick from a chimney. "I think perhaps you had better leave me alone, Master Beltaire. I would rather take my chances beside Jason Cameron than with you. I have the feeling that I would be much, much safer."

  It took him a moment to digest her words-then his face twisted into a snarl that absolutely transformed him. Now she saw what really lurked beneath the urbane mask.

  She did not wait for him to lunge for her. She threw the brick at his face, turned, and ran.

  Smoke had begun to billow in thick curtains through the streets; there were the signs that there were fires everywhere, and she hoped to use the smoke to hide her. She should have known better than to think that would help against a Firemaster.

  She had run about fifty paces when he appeared before her, looming out of the smoke, his handsome face disfigured by a broken and bleeding nose. Somehow he had outflanked her! She tried to turn to run from him, but he grabbed her by the arm and swung her towards him before she had a chance to use the tactic that had worked with du Mond. His strength was enormous, and she felt like a rag in his hands.

  He delivered a closed-fist, backhanded blow to her face that drove her to the ground and sent her glasses spinning away. The pain in her jaw was incredible, and he came very near to knocking her senseless. She fought for consciousness and held it, as her knees hit the ground with force enough to bruise and cut. Now all but blind, she could only try to scramble away on hands and knees, devastated by her sense of sudden helplessness. He strode over to her and grabbed her again, trying to haul her to her feet as her head spun. Now, though, she could use what had worked against du Mond; she went limp and kicked out at his legs.

  But he was quicker and stronger than du Mond. With an audible snarl, he snatched her up, then hurled her full strength against the wreckage of a building, knocking the wind out of her. She fell to the ground, trying desperately to get her breath, and he strode towards her, an angry black shape against the billowing smoke.

  "You little hellcat!" he howled. "Du Mond was right! You listen to me, you worthless bitch! You either help me, or I'll beat you to death with my own two hands, right here in the-""Get away from her, Beltaire!"

  The voice sent thrills down her back, but they were chills of fear rather than of joy "Jason!" she screamed, jaw turning red-hot with pain, turning blindly towards the sound of the voice. "Don't! Leave me! He's only using me as a trap to get you!"

  "I'm perfectly well aware of that, Rose." She couldn't make out anything clearly, but Jason Cameron was not alone. There was a large, fiery mass beside him and several small golden masses levitating all about him. The Salamanders-and what else?

  "You come armed, I see." Beltaire was all coolness now-but he was also close enough to Rose that he could, if he chose, reach her before Jason could stop him. "A Firemare? You changed one of your Salamanders to a Firemare? Jason, that must have cost you dearly. Too dearly, perhaps-"

  "Turn around and leave, and this doesn't have to be a confrontation, Beltaire," Jason rasped. "I've already taken du Mond out of the picture. You don't have an Apprentice to feed off of, now."

  Beltaire chuckled. "The better to deal with you. Killing du Mond must have cost you as much as Summoning the Firemare. Is that what brought your little wilted flower running into the city? I had hoped he would initiate some decisive action."

  He took a step nearer Rose; without her glasses, she couldn't see to evade him. Between the smoke and her nearsightedness, she couldn't tell which way was safe to run, and which strewn with obstacles for her to stumble over.

  "Now, here's a quandary, Jason," he continued in dulcet tones. "If you give in to that rage that's building inside you, you'll lose the Firemare and your Salamanders, and you'll cement yourself for all time into that rather unpleasant form you're in now, but you might reach me and kill me-very messily too before I kill your little scholar." He took another step. "If you don't, I might kill you or her, or both. In fact, I probably will."

  Rose shut her eyes and held her breath. She sensed Jason struggling against the terrible anger within him. "You're bluffing," he snarled, as Beltaire took another step.

  "Oh no, I'm not. One of the reasons I went home last night was to
obtain this little manuscript." She heard the rustle of stiff, old parchment as he handled it. He cleared his throat ostentatiously.

  Keep talking, you cad, she thought, striving to weave her mind into a particular path without all the chanting and gesturing she was used to and fighting past a hundred pains that threatened to distract her fatally. Give me more time!

  "Now it says here, quite clearly I might add, that each time you invoke a killing rage and shed blood, you make the man-wolf form more your own. The fiercer the rage, the more certain the binding." He chuckled. "In fact, according to this, if the blood you shed is human, you might have driven the nails into your own coffin, so to speak. It's possible that not even the little Magicks described here could get you back to your fully human form."

  She heard the scrape of claws on cement, but Jason said nothing.

  "So, what's it to be, Cameron?" Beltaire asked tauntingly. "Turn tail and slink away, and let me beat your bitch until she submits to me or dies? Meet me Firemaster to Firemaster, knowing that I'm stronger than you, and try to save her as well as take this manuscript away from me? Or attack me with your rage and your bare hands?" He laughed. "You must know that the third option is the only one where you have a chance of winning both her life and your own. You might even get the manuscript."