Sparks

by Laura Bickle

  Brian’s head appeared from under the desk. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend, but it’s worth discussing.…”

  Anya shook her head. “I’ve gotta get some sleep. I’ll talk with you later.”

  She picked up her purse and left the lab without kissing him good-bye, footsteps echoing up the steps and into the labyrinthine service corridors spreading under the university. Fluorescent light attracted bugs into the concrete hallways, casting tiny shadows into the gloom. A praying mantis had found its way in, perched on top of the Exit sign, waiting for her next meal.

  What Brian said about Sparky and the ghosts stung. Anya reached into her pocket for the NewtCam.

  “Call Sparky,” she grumbled.

  The screen flickered to life, and Anya knew right away that something was wrong. Sparky was standing over his eggs, a deep growl echoing over the tiny speakers. His red-and-orange thermal-image tail lashed, and his yellow eyes glared at something above him, out of range of the camera.

  Anya jammed the NewtCam into her pocket and broke into a run.

  “Hang on, Sparky.”

  She should never have left him alone.

  Anya burst into her house, gun raised. The dim air shimmered with heat as she sprinted down the hallway, rushing toward the sound of salamander snarls and a dull roar emanating from the bathroom.

  She pushed at the bathroom door, but it didn’t budge. She kicked just below the lockset, severing the hollow interior door from the frame and sending it twirling from its upper hinge.

  “Sparky!” she shouted, diving into the splinters.

  The bathroom was a maelstrom of light and sound. A vortex had opened in the ceiling, propelling tatters of ghostly shapes around like suds circling a drain. The unearthly wind ripped at the shower curtain and swept Anya’s collection of rubber ducks in the air. Behind the ruin of the curtain, Sparky crouched over his precious eggs, howling and snapping at ghostly fingers that came too close. The salamander collar spun around the bathtub faucet with a sound like a hubcap rattling on concrete.

  “Get your filthy hands off him!” Anya shouted. Rage boiled in her lungs, and the black pit in her chest, the core of the Lantern that devoured ghosts, blossomed.

  She let it. She breathed in the crackling static of spirits, flung her arms out wide to embrace the terrible cold. Tatters of ghosts slipped down her throat, cold as frost, congealing into darkness. Anya could feel them struggling against her, fighting to return to the vortex, but she held fast. It was as difficult to breathe as if she stuck her head out of a car speeding down the freeway: The air was just too fast. She gulped it down, tearing at those cold spirits with all her might. Her breath steamed in the air.

  The vortex wobbled, in its orbit. Like a whirlpool in a sink, it spun out, dissolved… and the ghosts sank back into it. The ceiling became blank and smooth as a ceiling should be.

  Anya fell to her knees beside the bathtub. She reached inside for her familiar. “Sparky!”

  Sparky collapsed on his eggs, tongue rolled out of his mouth. He blinked at her, dazed. Anya scooped him up in her arms, rocking him back and forth. She didn’t know how long he’d been under attack, but he quivered from exhaustion, his breath shallow behind his ribs. Anya picked up the salamander collar wobbling on the bathtub faucet, slipped it around her neck. The metal felt scaldingly hot.

  She looked in the nest, counted the eggs. All accounted for. As near as she could determine, they looked normal: glassy orbs darkened with the shapes of salamanders floating in the middle. Air bubbles trickled through the surface, and the eggs felt hot to the touch. The rubber-duck temperature monitor bleated sharply: Their temperature had climbed to 105 degrees. The heat seemed to have little effect on them: Tiny tails still thrashed, while others lay tightly curled in the suspension.

  Sparky weakly licked at her face. Anya wiped at the Magic Marker circle with a towel, allowing him to climb onto her lap. While she’d designed the circle to contain Sparky, she guessed that the magick circle had kept Hope’s ghosts at bay, provided some small measure of protection against the attack. In the Magic Marker dust, Anya saw smeared fingerprints. Fingerprints from the ghosts trying to claw in, she guessed. It chilled her that they’d drawn so much energy to manifest, they were able to leave traces in the physical world.

  “Don’t worry, Sparky,” she said, squeezing him tightly. Hot tears flowed over his neck. “I’m never going to leave you again. Not ever.”

  She pressed a free hand to her chest. She could feel her skin burning. Whenever she devoured a ghost, it left a trace. She could see red marks extending beyond her collar. But they would heal. She kissed Sparky on his speckled forehead.

  Then she lifted her head, nose twitching.

  Something was burning.

  Anya disentangled herself, ducked out of the bathroom. She peered down the hallway, spied smoke billowing out of the living room. The television set sparked and fizzled, flames licking up the wall.

  “Shit,” she swore as the smoke alarm went off.

  She ducked into the kitchen, tore through the cabinets for a fire extinguisher. She trained it on the base of the flames melting the plastic into acrid smoke. The foam in the canister fizzled out before the fire had been extinguished, licking up the wall to the stamped ceiling.

  The newts. Anya backed into the hallway, covering her face with her hand. She had to get them out of here. She wrenched open the hall closet where the washer and dryer stood, yanked out a wicker laundry basket.

  She stumbled to the bathroom, dug Sparky out of the bathtub. Tearing the plastic shower curtain down, she crammed it in the bottom of the basket. She scooped the eggs and their sleeping bag into the laundry basket, counting under her breath as she went. Fifty-one. Sparky parked himself on the basket over them, growling, and she pulled the protective plastic over him.

  Anya ran to the smoke-choked hallway with the basket under her arm, was driven back by the heat from the living room. She backpedaled to the bedroom, slammed the door behind her, opened the window, and kicked out the screen.

  Ishtar watched her with a disapproving gaze. Anya ripped the painting off the wall and tossed it onto the lawn. With the laundry basket in her arms, she jumped the short distance to the brown grass.

  She landed on her knees and elbows, basket wobbling. Sparky poked his head out of the shower curtain, hissing.

  Anya turned to watch the flames washing up into the roof of her house. Her hands shook as she clutched the laundry basket to her chest. From a perch in a juniper shrub, Ishtar watched the flames lick out from under the eaves.

  Frozen in fear and rage, Anya watched as her home burned.

  If that bitch wanted a war, Anya vowed, she’d give her a fucking war.

  ANYA SAT AT KATIE’S KITCHEN table, clasping her hands before her so Katie wouldn’t see them shake. The laundry basket containing the salamander eggs was perched on the table before her; Anya wouldn’t let it out of her sight. Sparky curled himself on top of the basket. Vern and Fay had parked themselves on the table and nosed around the rim of the basket, batting at Sparky’s tail.

  Katie set a cup of hot chocolate before her and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.” She slid into the chair beside Anya and sipped her own cocoa. “You’re safe. Sparky’s safe. The eggs are safe. That’s all that matters.”

  Anya reached for the handle of the cup but couldn’t make her hands stop shaking enough to curve around it. She folded them in her lap.

  “What does Hope want with the eggs, do you think?”

  Anya growled. “Not sure. I know she collects magickal artifacts. I’m assuming that she wants to use the newts the way that she uses ghosts—exploiting them for her own use.” Anya tried not to think about Brian exploiting ALANN. It struck too close to home.

  Home… She squeezed her eyes shut, tried not to think about her home going up in flames. Again.

  “You’re staying with me,” Katie said firmly. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”

&n
bsp; “But…” Anya said. Viscerally, she wanted to be close to Brian, to feel safe beside him.

  “Sparky and the eggs will be safer at my house,” Katie told her firmly. “It would take me months to re-create the wards and magickal insulation anywhere else. Moving the eggs will probably confuse Hope, at least for the time being.”

  Vern stretched up and stuck his head in the laundry basket. Sparky growled at him crankily. Katie shooed the cats to the floor, and they mewed, not understanding why their friend wasn’t in the mood to play.

  “Kittens. He has kittens,” Katie explained to the cats in terms they could understand. “Leave him alone.”

  Fay blinked, disturbed, and waddled out of the kitchen. Vern cocked his head, still not getting it. Anya smiled but then groaned inwardly, imagining the cats chasing fifty-one baby salamanders throughout Katie’s house.

  “Thanks,” Anya said. “I mean it.”

  “You’re welcome.” Katie watched her try to grasp the cup again and fail. She reached out and grabbed Anya’s cold, clammy hand, looked her full in the face. “I’ve never seen you this rattled. Not when you’ve devoured ghosts. Not when you were possessed by that demon… not even when Drake died.”

  “I’m okay,” Anya mumbled.

  “You’re not.”

  Anya blinked, and she could feel the tears filling her eyes. “It’s just… oh, hell.” A tear splashed into her hot chocolate. “When… when I was a kid, my house burned down. And this… this is just too much like that.”

  Katie squeezed her hand in sympathy. “You’re safe.”

  Anya shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve never really felt safe after that. It was… it was my fault. I was twelve. I snuck down the stairs with Sparky to turn the Christmas tree lights on. We stretched out under them, watched the lights play on the ceiling. We must’ve fallen asleep.” Anya swallowed. “When I woke up, I smelled smoke, felt this incredible heat. The Christmas tree had caught the room on fire. Sparky… Sparky dragged me out of the house.”

  “He’s your guardian,” Katie said. “That’s what he does.”

  “But my mother was still upstairs.” Tears streamed down Anya’s face, and she hiccupped. “She died of smoke inhalation. And it was all my fault.”

  Katie reached out to embrace her, murmuring, “It wasn’t your fault. You were just a kid.”

  Anya squeezed her eyes shut. No matter what anyone said, there were just some things she couldn’t move past. Especially when they kept happening, over and over again.

  Though Katie had made up the guest room and forced Anya to take a bath with chamomile oil, Anya couldn’t bring herself to go to bed. She sat on the couch in the living room with the laundry basket between her feet and an afghan around her shoulders. Her gun sat on the coffee table, and she stared blearily at Katie’s small black-and-white television.

  Anya had called Brian. He’d wanted to come over, but she’d asked him not to. Though she wanted the comfort of his embrace, she didn’t want him to see her like this. Fragile.

  Katie had sat with her for a while, then slipped away to tend to the house wards. Anya heard chanting and the hiss of salt being poured, smelled strong sage and peppermint oils as she drew pentacles on the doors and lintels. Vern and Fay followed her in solemn procession, doing whatever it is that cats do at night. Katie’s house felt safe enough, but Anya couldn’t keep her thoughts from racing long enough to doze.

  In the wee hours of the morning, community-access television flickered on the grainy set. Anya leaned forward, eyes narrowed, as she watched Hope stride across the screen.

  “You, too, can make your dreams come true,” she said, her eyes bright and fevered. “You must be strong in your belief, seize what the universe wishes to give you.” Her well-manicured hand balled into a fist. “There will always be opposition. There will always be people who say no. A boss who won’t give you a raise. A spouse who doesn’t recognize your talent. A banker who won’t give you a loan. Don’t listen to these people. Listen instead to people who say yes, to people who will nurture your dream.”

  Hope lowered her voice, as if she were about to confess a great and terrible secret. “People said no to me a lot, growing up. My mother said I’d never amount to anything. My father wasn’t around, and my mother’s boyfriends slapped me around. My teachers said I was stupid. I left home at fifteen. I worked as a waitress until I could scrape up enough money to go into business for myself. And I vowed that I’d help people achieve their dreams, that other people should have it easier than I did.” Hope’s lower lip quivered convincingly.

  Anya snorted.

  “If I can rise above my circumstances, so can you.” Hope smiled, lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I believe in you.”

  “I believe that I’m going to kick your ass, you bitch,” Anya affirmed.

  Sparky stuck his head out of the laundry basket and growled.

  Anya tucked herself into the afghan and dozed, conscious of Katie rising early and the shower running. She heard Katie tiptoe across the floor, slip outside, and lock the front door. Sunlight poured through the curtains onto the couch. Anya could hear the bubble of coffee perking in the coffeepot and smell the aroma. Katie got the good shit, some hand-picked artisan beans from Chile. That was worth getting up for.

  Anya wrapped the afghan around her shoulders and helped herself. She was pleased to see that her hands were steadier this morning as she poured. Vern and Fay sat on the countertop, staring at the coffeepot making burbling noises.

  Katie had left a note:

  Went to check the bakery and get supplies. Be back soon.

  —K

  Anya plunked down on the living-room couch with her coffee. Sparky lifted his head and yawned as she turned on the morning news.

  Hope Solomon’s years-old mug shot, as Christina Modin, filled the background behind the news desk. Sparky hissed at the image.

  “It’s okay, Sparky,” Anya murmured. “You’re gonna enjoy this.”

  Nick Sarvos, the reporter covering the spontaneous human combustion angle, had taken the place of the morning news anchor. Dressed in a pressed gray suit and black tie, he practically exuded “serious journalist” and not “crazy UFO crackpot.”

  “… Channel 7 exclusive. Channel 7 has learned that Hope Solomon, leader of the local nonprofit organization Miracles for the Masses, was previously arrested in Florida on fraud charges connected with a predatory lending scheme. Under the name of Christina Modin, Hope Solomon accrued an impressive list of check fraud and racketeering charges.”

  Anya raised her coffee mug. “Cheers, bitch.”

  The camera panned to the second news anchor. “Miracles for the Masses has issued the following statement: ‘Hope deeply regrets the mistakes and misunderstandings of her former life. She assures the public that she has repented and paid her debt to society. Through the grace of the benevolent universe, she is attempting to make restitution to society through granting opportunities to those in need from the greater Detroit area. We believe we live in a society of second chances. As Hope has been given a second chance, she wishes to ensure that all citizens also have the opportunity to be given a second chance.’”

  Anya made a face at Sparky. Sparky flattened the gill-fronds on the side of his head and huffed. When the salamander huffed, it sounded like he was blowing raspberries.

  The camera moved back to Sarvos. Sarvos held a sheaf of papers. “According to the Florida Attorney General’s Office, more than two hundred homeowners incurred financial losses as a result of Christina Modin’s fraud scheme. At the time criminal charges were pressed, Modin had no assets remaining to be seized to make restitution to the victims.” Sarvos folded his hands in front of him. “Miracles for the Masses had no comment on whether its assets would be used to provide restitution to those Floridians who lost their homes. Channel 7 will continue to investigate this developing story.”

  “Hope you have fireproof jammies,” Anya muttered into her coffee. The thought that Sarv
os might be in serious danger disturbed her; perhaps she’d have to give him a heads-up… but what to say?

  The door scraped open. Sparky stiffened and growled. Anya reached for her gun. Katie elbowed her way into the house, dressed in her white bakery coat with her long hair primly braided to her scalp. With her pentacle necklace hidden and fresh-scrubbed face, she looked like the Swiss Miss’s innocuous older sister. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, juggling shopping bags and a white bakery box.

  Anya grinned tiredly. “You brought breakfast!”

  “Leftover pierogis. Have at it.” Katie handed the delicious-smelling box to Anya.

  “Yum.”

  “How’s Sparky?” Katie’s eyes were round with concern.

  Anya glanced down at the basket. “He’s okay. Still jumping at shadows, but I think he’s doing better.”

  Katie set her bags down on the coffee table. “Hopefully, some of these things will put him at ease.”

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “A witch’s armory. From what you said, Hope’s spirits seem bound by most of the same magickal laws we’re used to working with—they can’t cross a properly sealed circle, for example.” Katie pulled a glass perfume bottle out of one of the bags. “This is dragon’s blood.”

  Anya raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “It’s a plant resin, from the dracaena draco tree. It’s been infused with vodka into a tincture with some other goodies. The tree’s now endangered, so it’s nearly impossible to get this stuff anymore. Seemed somehow appropriate to use it for the salamanders.”

  “What does it do?” Anya lifted the stopper. It smelled like cinnamon and amber, with a bottom note of sandalwood.

  “It’s used for protection, to ward off evil. Just be careful to let it dry before you put your clothes on—it stains. With that in mind, the red color makes for a great lip tint.”

  Anya swirled the red liquid around in the bottle. “You are the Mary Kay of magick.”

  Katie handed Anya a jewelry box. “Try this.”