But when she saw the waif still standing on Mulberry Street near the Central Office, holding her boxes of matches between her blue little fingers, Jane made the mistake of looking at her face. With growing horror she realized those weren’t tears shining on the girl’s drawn cheeks.
But the glaze of ice.
Jane ran to the little girl, touched her shoulders, and a terrific shock blasted through her gloves and up her arms. It was as if she were Benjamin Franklin, discovering electricity anew on a Tenth Ward street corner on a fading day in November.
With an effort, Jane removed her fingers from the girl, so that she could think again. The poor girl was frozen, and in imminent danger. Jane rubbed her fingers together, took a deep breath, and accepted the surge of energy she had received into her body.
The surge fed her magic, strengthened her physically. She steeled herself for another jolt, and touched the girl’s arms again, rubbed the cold little fingers. This time the energy stayed with the girl, and she stirred under Jane’s fingers with a tiny groan.
“My dear child,” Jane said. “You are nearly frozen through. Come with me.”
The girl shuddered again, but met Jane’s gaze. Her fingers tightened over the girl’s, and she sent the energy back into the girl’s body as gently as she could. She didn’t want to frighten the child with an overt show of magic, but the girl’s condition was too grave for Jane to hesitate.
She was rewarded for her efforts with a flush of pink into the girl’s features, her frozen little fingers. “Let’s go, now,” she said. “Can you tell me your name, dear?”
The girl blinked hard, as if she only now heard Jane’s voice. “Rose,” she whispered through chapped lips. Her voice was a slight chuff of wind in a desolate arctic waste.
Jane removed her fur ruff and wrapped it twice around the girl’s shoulders. “You are coming home with me, and no mistake,” she said, hoping her voice carried a note of authority she did not feel. “A warm bath and some brandy, and you should be right as rain. And then we can find your people again, get you home.”
“Home,” the girl whispered, longing in her voice. “No home for me.”
Jane was shaking now, not with the cold but with both grief and anger. The Tenth Ward was a scandal and a shame, even without the prospect of deliberate arson. Little children like Rose lived in the streets all over New York, and one orphanage more or less was not enough to house them all.
But as God was her witness, this child would not freeze to death as more prosperous citizens like Jane herself walked by, rendering her suffering invisible. Jane would never look away again.
* * *
Jane hailed a carriage, and was lucky enough to find one near the police station before the light failed altogether. But when she arrived at the apartments for young ladies where she lived, north of Gramercy Park on Lexington Avenue, her landlady, kindly soul as she was, still almost refused the little girl entry.
“My apologies, Miz Emerson, but those Five Points orphans are all pickpockets or worse! Regular Fagin’s army they are, begging your pardon. I can’t allow such a creature up here, into the rooms. What if she nicked something?”
Jane summoned up her best manners and her magic, too. She understood Miss Annelise’s point, certainly. But there was something about this poor girl, something that broke Jane’s heart wide open. Somehow, she had to convince her landlady that Rose posed a threat to no one.
“I’ll watch over her, every minute,” Jane said. And ever so subtly, she sent the Fire into her words, investing them with a spark of persuasion that her unguarded, open-hearted landlady could hardly resist.
Miss Annelise shook her head, then laughed. “My goodness, your guardian in Boston did well to send you here. Always into some mischief or other. But always to the good. Well, let her in, give her some warm vittles and a hot bath. But she can’t stay here! These apartments are only for young ladies of breeding.”
Jane smiled sweetly, nodding her thanks, knowing that this was as much of a victory as she could expect to win.
The clawed tub upstairs was so enormous that Rose all but disappeared into the warm, sudsy bath that Jane drew for her. Jane gently undressed her and lowered her into the water, and after a moment of panic, the girl relaxed into the bath with an audible sigh.
Jane hoarded her questions like jewels, knowing the time for asking them would come. After she got Rose wrapped into a big, plush towel, she rubbed her long hair until it was only slightly damp, and then she carried her into her private bedroom.
“How do you feel now, Rose?”
“Better. Not so cold, finally.”
Jane smiled at that, and searched her wardrobe for some article of clothing that could decently cover Rose without overwhelming the girl’s tiny frame. After rummaging for a while, she found a silk chemise that could serve as a dressing gown until she could find the child some suitable clothes to wear.
Dressed in the shirt that came down to her knees, and wrapped in a wool afghan that Polly had crocheted, Rose looked like an entirely different girl. Her hair was black as jet, slicked against her angular skull; her eyes were almost amber. The warmth had returned to her cheeks and her limbs, and Jane was relieved to find that all evidence of hypothermia had gone, and that she would not need a doctor until morning.
Dear little thing. Jane’s heart warmed to the girl, and when she looked into her eyes again, the oddest feeling stole over her. It was as if she knew this child, knew her better than Daniel Tappen, her guardian Polly—better even than she knew herself.
Rose looked back at her, her gaze steady, all her shyness gone. She whispered something exotic and foreign under her breath, in a language that Jane could not identify. The shadows from the flames dancing in the hearth flickered over Rose’s face.
And then the moment was gone. Two people, a young woman and a waif of the slums, sat together on a bed in an elegant boarding house for young ladies, in New York City in 1885. They had emerged from eternity and re-entered ordinary time once more.
“Where is your mother, dear?” Jane asked. She asked the question as gently as she could, because she had no mother herself, and she knew how much the question itself, simple as it was, could hurt.
Rose shrugged and sighed, those brilliant amber eyes now downcast. “I don’t know,” she said simply. “I was a foundling. I lived at the orphanage, the one what was on Rivington Street.”
The one that had burned.
“Oh,” was all that Jane could think to say. The police had told her they had taken all the orphans to safe shelter, but apparently they had missed at least one. After a moment, Jane swallowed back the huge lump in her throat and composed herself.
“The police, they worked for the dragon anyway,” the girl whispered, as if she had read Jane’s thoughts.
“The dragon?”
“Yah, the dragon. You know who I mean.”
Her words, barely spoken above a whisper, set a chill deep into Jane’s flesh. “Tell me, Rose. Please.”
“Everyone what dies feeds the dragon’s power. She’s terrible powerful now, miss. Enough to grab the whole city for her hoard.”
Jane couldn’t believe her ears. This little urchin held a world of secrets inside of her, and she knew the identity of the arsonist that Jane had hunted from one end of Gotham to the other in vain. “Do you know her name, Rose? Tell me!”
Rose solemnly gazed back at her, the amber eyes unblinking. “Her name is Imogen Stewart. I read her name in the fire what ate me up, and gave me life.”
Jane gasped for air at Rose’s revelation. Not just of the identity of the arsonist, but of what Rose had experienced in the blaze.
“What are you?” Jane asked. It was her voice now that was hoarse and cracked.
Rose smiled, and looked into Jane’s eyes again. “A girl.”
“You
are not only a girl.” Jane reached for her, clasped her bony little fingers in hers.
And as soon as they touched, that electric warmth poured through Jane again, as if her kindness to the girl had replenished the flow. Jane’s heart leaped with wonder and delight.
Rose was a girl, in her mortal guise . . .
But when Jane looked upon Rose with her Inner gaze, with her magically trained discernment, she was overcome by her true, magnificent aspect.
The brilliant, iridescent feathers stretching past the long, elegant neck. The piercing eyes, the sharp and dangerous talons.
Risen from the ashes of the orphanage on Rivington Street.
Jane had heard the name of the lady robber baron before, Imogen Stewart. Miss Stewart, the arsonist, had made a terrible—perhaps a fatal—mistake.
“Phoenix,” Jane whispered in wonder. “It is an honor.”
“I was looking for you,” Rose replied. “Your magic called to me. Why do you not unleash it?”
* * *
Imogen Stewart’s Fifth Avenue mansion rose far from the squalid streets where creatures of the night, filthy immigrants, and pathetic paupers eked out a wretched existence.
Imogen was made for better.
True, she had arrived in Castle Gardens as an immigrant herself, long ago, in a different life, a Scottish lass in search of the father who had abandoned their family for a new world of luxury.
She never found him. She suspected her father James had experienced the American Dream as nothing more than a snare and a nightmare, and that he had died somewhere in the gutter. He was too fond of pleasure, dreaming of Easy Street, good times, nothing more.
The American Dream was real. But it demanded human sacrifice.
Imogen had lived on her wiles—and her magic. The Fire magic, untamed, that had killed her own mother by accident, only grew more hungry and insistent across the great ocean separating her from her native land.
Elementals had crossed that great gulf as well. So when Imogen summoned dragons and compelled them to do her bidding, she knew then that she could conquer the streets, make them, like the dragons, hers.
She did not reckon on the corrupting effects of treasure. As the years flew away on their massive wings, slow at first but then faster, and faster still, Imogen added to her wealth, created an empire.
But her riches were never enough. The more she amassed, the greater the hunger for more. Imperceptibly, from moment to moment, from conquest to conquest, Imogen Stewart, lady robber baroness and denizen of the highest New York society, became possessed by the lust of her dragon.
At first, she only burned factories and workshops to gain a financial advantage over her commercial rivals. But once she discovered the power contained in the lives that she immolated, Imogen burned the tenements and the sweatshops to harvest the richest treasure of all.
Souls.
For souls fueled her power, made her all but invincible. The city itself was a pearl trapped in her talons. She was on the verge of destroying the mightiest of the Wall Street titans, Gould, the reclusive, all-powerful financier.
She had planned the burning of the orphanage for some time. Such a plunder of young, tender, untarnished souls would have fueled her destructive power beyond all redemption. But for the first time, her arson did not unfold as she had planned.
Instead of dying in the fire, the orphans had somehow escaped the flames. The two that had died, died instantly, without pain, their souls escaping her before she could trap them. And one of the others . . .
One of those miserable little wretches . . .
Had not run from the flames, but chose to burn. Danced in the inferno.
Stole Imogen’s own power.
Imogen sensed a great Fire magic had risen in opposition to hers. The snow and ice that had come in the previous day’s storm had blunted that raw power, contained it.
But New York City was now in thaw.
Imogen planned to strike her enemies dead, fast, before another magical master could trace the trail of souls up Fifth Avenue to her mansion’s oaken door and marble threshold.
And if fire wouldn’t do the job, she would not hesitate to resort to ice.
* * *
Morning found Jane Emerson unable to sleep, watching the young phoenix slumbering in her bed. She could hardly breathe for awe. This little child, curled beneath her covers, was in fact the newest incarnation of an ancient being, destined to burn and rise, and rise again.
Her appearance heralded the dawn of a new age. Such creatures, so rare, never appeared at random. Jane’s heart pounded at the thought of it, and when she caught her reflection in the looking glass on the far wall, her lips were trembling.
Rose had appeared to her.
The visitation of a phoenix was not only a precious gift, but a clarion call to arms. The phoenix had sought her out, attracted by her latent powers.
Jane had been imperfectly schooled by mages of lesser inherent power, and invested in different Elements. Could she claim her fire magic now without getting burned?
Jane honestly did not know. Tappen’s words from the day before rang in her ears. “. . . Twisting the tiger’s tail . . . You mustn’t use your magic . . .”
Jane feared the rogue mage had already discovered Rose’s identity, and hers—she had done little to hide while hunting the identity of the arsonist who was devastating the city. She had little time to seek protection for Rose before the rogue Fire Mage hunted them down.
She knew no higher ordinary power in New York than the Mayor’s, despite the corruption of city politics and the immense wealth wielded by the robber barons and titans of Wall Street. William R. Grace, the new mayor, was a philanthropist and a reformer, determined to rid the metropolis of the corruption choking the city’s politics and commerce.
Daniel Tappen was a friend and supporter of Mayor Grace. Jane would take Rose to the Mayor’s office, make sure he knew the identity of the arsonist and that Jane was ready to expose her. And then at least Rose would be protected from the dragon’s wrath.
Miss Annelise, bless her heart, had regretted her harsh judgment of the night before, and brought Rose a full set of pretty clothes to wear. Decently arrayed, Rose and Jane dined hastily upon Miss Annelise’s famed breakfast, and then slipped away to face the coming storm.
Jane planned to meet Daniel Tappen at City Hall, after sending a messenger along. Both as a newspaperman and as a mage, Rose’s appearance would surely dazzle him, too.
Miss Annelise insisted on a hired carriage for the little one, and so they traveled in solitary splendor to City Hall. The morning sparkled with clear, abundant sunlight, so different from the day before. Though it was still mid-November, the inviting breezes and warm temperatures falsely promised that spring was right around the corner.
The icy slush had melted away beneath the carriage’s rapidly turning wheels, and the sun reached down from the heavens and embraced Jane in warmth. She and Rose alighted from the cab and paid the fare.
They stood hand in hand on Chatham Street near the entrance to the East River Bridge, stretching across the banks of the river all the way to Brooklyn. “Your fortunes have changed,” Jane said. “I believe your news will make the front page of the Clarion. But not a word printed until you are safe.”
That was the last thing that she said before the ordinary world was ripped apart.
In the next instant, a wall of fire rose up on either side of the East River Bridge, vibrating the heavy cables like the strings of an enormous harp. Rose and Jane ran up the stairs to the promenade to see what was happening.
The few shopgirls and clerks strolling along the bridge’s promenade fled in terror, screaming. But once the ordinary folk passed through the wall of magical fire engulfing the bridge, they rubbed their eyes and shook their heads in confusion. The leaping f
lames surrounding Jane and Rose evidently wiped the minds of regular New Yorkers clean.
An enormous black dragon swooped out of the clear, sapphire-blue sky, its webbed black wings blotting out the morning sun. It alighted atop one of the massive towers of granite rising high above the river, its claws clutching at each of the two archways. And the fire rose on either side, like an infernal rainbow reaching up from the banks of the East River.
The dragon turned its heavy, obsidian head and gazed upon Jane, a smile revealing cruel teeth and a plume of steam, rising from its nostrils like exhaust from a factory smokestack.
After her initial shock, Jane realized she must not run away. A Water Mage could have perhaps found shelter in the waters of the river below, or called upon Elemental powers hostile to the dragon’s fire. But Jane could only prevail here in a battle, Fire against Fire.
Daniel Tappen, Polly March, the streets of the city itself, all had taught Jane everything they knew. But the key to defeating Imogen Stewart and her dragon Elemental was hidden deep within Jane’s own heart.
Jane was ready to fight, even to die, to protect the miracle of the young phoenix who stood beside her. As she squared her shoulders to face the dragon, Jane embraced the power she had feared to wield. For Rose’s sake, she would find the power within to claim the mantle of Fire Master.
Quickly, Jane wove her shields, though the day was so clear and serene she could not call Fire energy out from thunderclouds. The Elevated was not far from City Hall, but before she could go about the business of drawing energy from the great machines that ran along the track, Jane felt small fingers slipping into her own.
Rose.
The energy poured into her, a cascade of pure power. Jane wove her shields around them both, braided them into a ribbon of light surrounding them. She considered a sending to Daniel, but she did not have time—and besides, the dragon’s appearance and her magical gathering of power would attract the attention of every mage in the city.
The dragon leered down at her, licking its lips as it watched her work. Jane smelled the acrid sulfur of the foul creature’s breath, watched the sinuous coils wrapped against the top of the bridge’s granite tower.
Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters Page 14