Chasing Embers

by James Bennet

  “But being a monster is an act, a choice, not just a physical state…”

  He had hidden in self-pity and excuses, working for criminals and shunning the light – but change had found him regardless, rising from old and unwatched graves. He had let things come to this pass. It was all his fault. If only he had stayed vigilant, forgotten dreams, put his efforts to the greater good…

  Regret was useless.

  He gave his answer. “Same goes for being human. To face the unknown without magic, without gods. That is also a choice.”

  The priest didn’t care for the sermon. He tried to turn and crawl away, his wild eyes searching for the Star. Ben brought his knee down on Kamenwati’s leg, hearing gristle crunch with grim satisfaction, the howl in his ears a pleasant rhapsody.

  “Why them? I choose them because of the unknown, priest. Tomorrow and tomorrow and the next day. Fuck your cynicism. The humans know we’re here. On some level, they remember. In storybooks. In films. The Remnants are a part of them, a long-forgotten part. There’s hope in that. Hope for unity. For peace. Your gift is nothing. Just illusion and lies. The truth is I chose this shit. To stay awake. To be alone. And they say that the truth always hurts.”

  Kamenwati lashed out, a clumsy punch. Ben caught the priest’s fist in his palm, a golf ball in a baseball mitt. Crack. His wrist bone shattered and his fingers bent back, grisly shards sticking through his glove.

  “No!” The old man squirmed in his grasp, his legs kicking out, rattling on the tank. “I am Baba Kamenwati! Kamenwati the reborn. I am death! I am death!”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. You are.” He stood, dragging the priest upright, the withered husk of Maurice Bardolfe a scarecrow dangling from his claw. “And you’re welcome to it.”

  Muscles flexing, arm winding back, Ben twisted his hips and released, flinging Kamenwati high in the air. The priest spun over and over, a black-and-white blur across the stars. Screaming, he wheeled like a spent firework into the maw overhead, the churning rift of the portal. As he entered the breach, Ben saw an arm reach out, a mighty limb of black sinew and burnished gold, snatching the priest from his flight. He wailed as fingers closed around him, agony curdling with dread. Ruby eyes, bright and baleful, shone down the length of the god’s canine snout, considering his catch. Somewhere in the depths beyond, Ben guessed that a pair of scales would be waiting, one of the pans bearing a feather to weigh against the sins of the heart. For a creature as heartless as Kamenwati, there could only be one outcome. He would pay for his crimes in the Hall of Truth. Anubis would surely summon Ammit – a half-dog, half-crocodile demon, if memory served – and watch as he ate the corrupt ba, condemning the priest to eternal suffering.

  That suffering had already begun, judging by the screams.

  The jackal god sank out of sight, retreating into the depths of the Duat and taking his struggling prize with him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The drifts of darkness above the feed tank thickened like wool around a spindle. With the priest gone, there was nothing to maintain his equations, the nuts and bolts of his spell, and the stalled continuum took up the slack. The portal swirled and slowly sealed, resolving into a thin black funnel, a drape drawn back to reveal the day. The stars faded into the blue, the ashen sands blushing with umber. Birds squawked and wheeled above the city, flustered and returning to roost. The sun blinked a ruddy eye, one moment near the horizon, the next half sunken under it. Like a ball released from a catapult, the moon escaped the temporal glue, then slowed in the heavens, continuing her voyage skyward. The syzygy was over. Time skipped a beat and played on, the stolen minutes reeling back in.

  Ben threw his arm over his head as the levitating chains clanked on the tank, spooling in glittering coils. A length fell near him, demolishing the nearby railings, swinging over the car park and then falling still, a pendulum spent. As the echoes receded, he peered cautiously up at the portal. The spindle was shrinking, narrowing to a point above Khadra, who sat cross-legged a few feet away. The girl looked up with clear, grateful eyes, her spread arms embracing the storm. Head thrown back, she drank in the murk, sucking it up like mud from a well. Smoke filtered into her nose and mouth, entwining her torso and limbs with a dense, obscuring cloak. A throb of mist, a tenebrous belch, and glossy scales folded around her. The Crook, the Pschent and the jacket swaddling the Star were swallowed by yards of saurian flesh.

  Ben cringed in the shadow of wings. Atiya loomed above him, Dark Queen and last of the First-Breed, friend of Hatshepsut and ruler of a vanished land. The first stars twinkled on her horns. Back and forth her tail swished, slicing the settling dusk. Caught in the fire of her eyes, a mouse between the paws of a lion, Ben also caught her intent. Her silence was a weight on his startled mind.

  “Wait!”

  Atiya did not wait. She did not speak, granting him neither praise nor scorn. He could see she was hurt, the wound in her flank still dripping effervescence, and she seemed less daunting, less solid than before. The priest had cut the chain of her anchor with a blade of spells and dislodged her corporal foothold, and the split had apparently taken its toll. Now, with Khadra back in her possession, her regalia absorbed, she wasn’t about to waste any time on the worm who’d freed her. Ben had chased her of his own accord, uninvited, unwanted. Go back to your slumber, mas. From London to Cairo the Queen had taunted and teased him, fought him and left him for dead. She had never asked for his help, her purpose belonging only to herself. That purpose, he knew, had now been served, one way or another. Kamenwati was done. Reluctantly, Ben accepted her dismissal; they had always been at odds. The Queen spread her wings, tensing against the desert wind. Like a stray patch of night, she took to the sky, leaving him in the stirred-up grit.

  Nabad gelyo. Goodbye.

  He let her think so. For now.

  He climbed to his feet, searching for Rose. She was still by the railings, the warped metal a makeshift crutch, her body slouching like a rag doll. In the last rays of sunset, the sigils and whorls upon her skin shone a sickly red. It squeezed his heart to see her, and there was guilt there too – for leaving her in the first place, for a certain kiss in the Alps and his longing for mythical flesh…But Rose was breathing, still alive. Yeah, you were wrong about that. He sent his silent reproach after the Queen. Then he pushed his feelings aside in his concern for the lingering threat, and scanned the area with savage eyes.

  The witch was nowhere to be seen. He staggered to the edge of the tank, already knowing what he would see. Nan Nemain hadn’t hung about. With the priest stunned by the magic brick and finding Rose immune to her spells, the witch had cut her losses and fled. She was running down the staircase that spiralled around the tank, one hand clutching the hem of her dress, her pigtails streaming out behind her. Ben watched her reach the bottom, wondering whether to give chase, the ache in his bones and pain in his stump protesting against the idea. Nan splashed through shallow muck as she hurried across the car park, the pooling oil splattering her shoes. She watched the tanks at the plant entrance, their guns pointing vainly upward and now slowly beginning to turn, but the soldiers weren’t about to open fire on a little girl. Or what passed for a little girl. As she headed for the Phantom IV, a funeral barge ready to depart, the witch went through fluid transformations, her juvenile form elevating on high stilettos and stockinged legs, her frilly green dress melting into a leather bikini. Holding on to her conical hat, her hair wild, Miss Macha glanced over her shoulder, a flash of smeared mascara and lipstick, making sure she had shaken off pursuit. She shrunk again as she reached the Rolls, fighting to wrench the rear door open, the lightless void inside the cab framing the bulge of her hunched back.

  Babe Cathy, grande dame of the Coven Royal, paused for a moment to look up at Ben. The tux she wore would have fitted Nan Nemain, the crone’s face rendered uglier by the snappy suit. Under her purple perm, her wrinkles converged in a spiteful mosaic. Rings adorned her fingers, emeralds and rubies catching the light as she brought the Cuban cig
ar to her lips. She sucked in a lungful of smoke, and Ben realised that she was grinning, her petty triumph souring the distance. His knuckles whitened around the railings. No, no, no… Casually the witch flicked the cigar into the air, the red end spinning, trailing smoke. As it fell, she turned and clambered into the cab, the darkness closing around her, the rear door slamming shut.

  The cigar splashed down. A blue wave rushed across the car park, spilling out towards the feed tank. Fire skipped from puddle to puddle, a riddle racing down slick black veins, joining into a rippling deluge. The Phantom swam in the mirage, its polished paintwork and windows reflecting the sweeping flames. Grimy clouds enveloped the scene, shrouding the stalled corral of tanks, a curtain over their impotent guns. Ben watched, paralysed, as the limo’s wheels started to roll, the CROWS leaving him stranded on the pyre. Burning fuel stung his nostrils, scratching at his throat. Coughing, he backed away from the railings, heat gusting from the ground below and shoving against his chest and face.

  A shadow, thicker than smoke, fell over the car park. The dense cloud dwarfed the Phantom, a brisk downward rush of air fanning the rising flames. Ben looked up, seeking the source of the blast. Through watering eyes he saw the Queen plunging from the sky, wings folded, talons outstretched. With a skull-rattling crunch, Atiya brought her full weight down upon the vehicle. Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Tyres burst. The silver figurehead, a bare-breasted hag on a broom, took flight from the bonnet and spun into the blaze, a glinting kamikaze dive. Then the Queen snapped out her wings. She swept up over the wreckage, jags of chrome trickling from her claws. She banked, veering south, and with a lash of her tail was gone.

  A pancake rested on the tarmac, black and unmoving. Dented doors hung from their hinges like loose and rotten teeth. The buckled cab and fenders resembled a concertina, its music rudely silenced. Smashed headlights winked in the flames, dangling from a mangled grille. A stray hubcap wobbled through the smoke, on its way to nowhere.

  Ben had no time to revel in the sight. A moment later and the car park vanished, sinking under the inferno. Hungry tongues crashed over the railings, consuming the scene below. Still between states, Ben’s scales instantly thickened, his natural armour resistant to heat, but even he could not survive this for long. And Rose had no such protection. It was only a matter of time until the punctured tank reached boiling point, the liquid inside igniting, hurling the East Katameya Oil Refinery in a fractured compass across the sands.

  He turned and ran, his haunches swelling and his stride lengthening as he pounded across the top of the tank. Rose stumbled away from the railings, the fire leaping up there too, travelling from the flooded loading bays. Flames licked the base of the distillation towers and corkscrewed around the pipework, the leaking structure feeding the onslaught. He watched her baulk at his approach, her eyes drinking in his terrible size. He came at her like a behemoth, propelling his bulk on one forearm – the other maimed and curled to his breast. His right wing, a mess of bone and flayed membrane, fluttered like rags in the squall. Overcome, Rose sank to her knees, her gown ballooning around her. She pressed her hands to her mouth, perhaps protecting herself from the fumes, perhaps stifling a scream. Then her hands dropped into her lap, a vague recognition creeping through her dread.

  “Ben…?”

  Flames surrounded the platform now, washing over the toppled barrels, the spill around them a burning lake. The blaze devoured the scattered debris, the blood-smeared symbols and the grotesque shapes of Ammit, Shezmu and Set, the statues silhouetted by the glare. Ben rushed on, the conflagration scorching his tail. Oil-free patches dotted the tank here and there, islands in a boiling sea, and he bounded from one to the other, vaulting over the spreading furnace. Rose sat in a shrinking oasis, a blustering circle closing around her. The sweltering air tugged at her dress, her hair weaving into strands of molten gold.

  An explosion rocked the refinery. The west side of the feed tank ruptured. A crimson tree sprouted in the sky, hot, lethal fruit shaken from its branches. Debris rained down, clunking on the roofs of the office buildings. Windows dissolved in a sparkling mist, shards tinkling into the maelstrom. The factory mezzanines groaned and shuddered. Pipes burst. Walkways collapsed. The blast threw Ben from his feet, the ground careening under him. Roaring, he hauled himself up, a graceless seven-ton phoenix. Ash and smoke closed hands around his throat. His wings thrashed, flattening the flames. Stealing a breath, he bulled his way down the makeshift corridor, burning chunks of metal thudding on his spine.

  Reaching Rose, he flung his crimson length around her, his tail sweeping out and reducing the nearby railings to scrap. His horned snout met its arrowhead tip, encompassing Rose in a twelve-foot-high plated barrier. The inferno surged against him, biting at his scales, trying to get in. A minute more and the flames would take him, serve him up like a giant hog roast, Rose the apple in his mouth. Sheltering her with one wing, his claw reached out, gently closing around her body. She sagged in his grip, sapped by the heat, her scarred flesh shimmering. Soon blisters would bubble on her skin, the soaring temperature shrivelling her lungs.

  He couldn’t let that happen. Tearing his gaze away, he squinted up at the sky. Flames churned and rumbled, the deluge merging above the feed tank, a dazzling canopy over his head. Frost rimed his guts, the chill grip of memory. Once again he had the dizzying sense of time as a circle, history repeating, dooming him to the same old mistakes. Flames roared and he was back in Mordiford, the trees ablaze outside his cave, Maud choking beside him. Afraid to risk the burning boughs, he had crashed through the brush instead, seeking the mercy of the clearing well. That tale had ended in tragedy, with poison dripping from his claws and Maud gasping and spluttering her last.

  My egg. My love.

  He had been here before. And he had failed.

  Rearing, he clutched Rose to his breast, the furnace whirling around him. Steadying himself, he spread his wings, letting the searing wind fill them. Horns piercing the blaze, haunches fired like a bow, Draco Benjurigan, Sola Ignis, leapt into the air.

  Another explosion shook the refinery. The feed tank convulsed, spewing debris. Hurled on the updraught, dragon and damsel tumbled in flames, chased by embers across the desert sky.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Three figures met on the sands. Night had fallen, the stars coming out – the true stars – the lion, the bear and a creature that was neither man nor horse twinkling down on the desert. Under the moon, full in the sky, the surrounding dunes were an ocean of milk, sweeping to all horizons.

  One of the figures turned from Cairo’s glittering skyline toward the empty south, where a pillar of smoke and a ruby glow announced the site of the East Katameya Oil Refinery, burning in the dark. Lights flashed and sirens wailed along the distant road, fire trucks racing to pour water on the howling blaze. Even a mile away, ash and fumes sullied the air, and Blaise Von Hart wrinkled his nose, his distaste returning to the couple before him.

  “Scheisse!” he said. “Der Teufel ist los, ja?”

  A creature that was neither man nor dragon looked him in the eye. Ben, who didn’t speak German, took the envoy’s meaning anyway, wearily bearing his reproach. Covered from head to foot in grime and with smoke staining his suit, all he could manage was a shrug.

  “We’re alive, aren’t we? And that bastard is dead.”

  If dead was the right word for it.

  “Very good. I suppose we should throw a party. After all, it’s not as if God knows how many people from New York to Cairo are going to remember a pair of dragons. It’s not as if vandalised museums, crashed cable cars and exploding factories can’t be explained away.”

  “They’ll forget,” Ben said. “They always do. They’ll put it down to—”

  “Gas? Hallucinations? I’m afraid mobile phones and film cameras aren’t prone to visions, Dummkopf.”

  “Give it time. Rumours will spread. The same old Chinese whispers. A month from now, they’ll call it a hoax. The latest internet craze.”
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  The envoy didn’t look convinced. His frown mirrored the cracked moon above.

  “What do you care anyway?” Irritation crept through Ben’s fatigue. “It’s the Guild’s job to—”

  “Don’t get me started.” Von Hart tugged at the sleeve of his silk kimono, a gesture that revealed his feelings on the matter. He was worried, frightened even. The realisation struck Ben as strange, considering the envoy’s usual composure. “The Guild has enough problems. As you might guess, Paladin’s Court is in uproar. The global divisions will want answers. So will the Remnants. There is going to be a council. Perhaps even a trial.”

  “Terrific. I stopped the priest from ending the world. Now they’re looking for a scapegoat?”

  “We all live under the Lore, Ben. This,” his hand swept out, taking in the flaming refinery, the unseen chaos of the week, “this changes everything.”

  Von Hart spoke softly, without blame, but Ben knew it was the truth. After centuries of an uneasy truce, a group of Remnants had staged a daring coup. Aided by Baba Kamenwati, the Coven Royal had brought about a breach in the Lore, manipulating two desperate humans to rouse a goddess from the Sleep. And the conspiracy extended beyond that. House Fitzwarren had played their part, the outlawed family throwing in with witches, a betrayal that continued to shock him. Of course the Guild were not about to take that lightly, once the facts became plain.

  And he had committed his own crimes, hadn’t he? His transformations the least of them. He didn’t want to think about the witnesses left in his wake. The news channels that right this second were probably buzzing with unexplained sightings. The websites that were close to crashing with pictures of curious carnage. The tabloids about to run out of ink with all the preposterous claims. The envoy was right. The Guild would need more than Jenny Hanivers this time. Then there was his obligation to the Pact. He’d had no time to contact the Guild, warn its agents of the crisis, once he was hot on the trail. Whoever took on the role of chairman might forgive him for both these things – after all, he had saved their bacon – but he knew they wouldn’t forgive him for Rose.