The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  Finally, Emma stepped away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Hey, wait for me, okay?”

  Moving past him, she went up on tiptoe and leaned over to dunk her head in the now-cloudy water in the barrel. It was midmorning, and the sun was bright and warm. Michael could feel his own hair drying. Already he was telling himself that he would never use the Chronicle again. It was enough that they’d kept it from the Dire Magnus.

  When Emma was finished, she shook her head, spraying water in all directions.

  “Hey, Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I see the book?”

  Michael only hesitated a second, then went to his bag and pulled the Chronicle from where it was nestled beside The Dwarf Omnibus. He stood there quietly as Emma flipped through the pages.

  “Where’s my name? I thought you wrote my name.”

  “It disappeared.”

  “And you really used your own blood as ink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gross. And this is the pen thing?”

  “The stylus.”

  “Huh.”

  Emma ran her hand over the rippled design on the cover and handed the book back. Without looking at it, Michael slid the Chronicle into his bag and slipped the bag over his shoulder, feeling its weight settle against his hip. He let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “So is it yours? Like how the Atlas is Kate’s?”

  “I guess so.”

  “That must mean the next one’s mine. I hope I don’t have to write in it with my own blood. I mean, no offense, but bluuh.”

  Michael thought about telling her that the next book was the Book of Death, then decided that that information could probably wait.

  “Michael, honest, are you sure you’re okay?”

  He looked at Emma, her damp hair sticking up all over her head, and thought, She’s alive; whatever the cost, it was worth it.

  He said, “I’m fine.”

  And he managed something like a real smile.

  “Can I ask one more question?”

  “Sure.”

  Then Michael saw a familiar, mischievous sparkle in Emma’s eyes and he braced himself for what was coming:

  “Is Princess What’s-Her-Name your girlfriend now?”

  “No,” Michael said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

  Emma grinned. “You sure about that? ’Cause—”

  “Of course I’m not his girlfriend!”

  They both turned and saw the elf princess standing beside the corner of the keep, hands on her hips, glaring imperiously at Emma.

  “Oh la! We are much more serious than that!”

  “Gotcha,” Emma said, smiling broadly at her brother.

  “Now,” Wilamena went on, “I come with two messages. First, breakfast is ready. Second, there is black smoke in the valley. Apparently someone named Rourke has found you.” She clapped her hands. “So, I hope you’re both hungry.”

  There was no time to talk, no time for Kate to ask Rafe how he had found her, how he’d disguised himself as Rourke. No time, for that matter, to ask why he’d come for her. After the glamour that had cast him as the giant, bald Irishman faded, and shouts and the thudding of boots sounded up from below, Rafe grabbed her hand and they raced up the stairs, through a door, and out onto the cold of the roof.

  The night air swept away the last of Kate’s grogginess, and it was then, looking out at the untouched snow, with Rafe’s hand still tight around hers, that she had a single moment of hesitation.

  “What?” Rafe demanded. “What is it?”

  What could she tell him? That she had just learned that the Dire Magnus, her enemy, was not one man, but many? That the new Dire Magnus was to be chosen that night, and he, the very boy now rescuing her, was next in line?

  “We have to go!”

  And she let herself be pulled away.

  As they came to the short wall that bounded the edge of the Imps’ mansion, Kate saw that the roof of the next house was a full story lower. She started to balk, but Rafe placed his hand around her waist and leapt. They fell and fell, landing in a thick cushion of snow, and Rafe was up instantly, pulling Kate to her feet, and they were off and running once again. The snow was high and heavy, and it was awkward for Kate in her new boots and dress, but Rafe kept urging her on, vaulting the short walls that separated the houses, weaving between the chimneys and the snow-banked summer gardens; they were halfway down the block when Kate glanced back and saw the figures of four Imps charging after them.

  “They’re—”

  “I know!” Rafe said. “Keep running.”

  Kate could see the end of the block ahead, and past that the wide gap of the avenue. The wet snow dragged at her legs and dress, and she could hear the stamping footsteps of the Imps closing in from behind.

  “There!” Rafe shouted.

  Kate looked to where he was pointing, ahead and to the left, and she saw the long, dark snake of the elevated train. The tracks ran along the avenue, just below the tops of the houses. The train would be even with them in seconds, and Kate realized then what Rafe meant to do. But it was impossible; there was no way—

  “Hurry!” Rafe yelled.

  The first snowcapped train cars were already rattling past.

  “We can’t! It’s going too fast! We—”

  “Just jump!”

  Then they were at the end of the block; there was nowhere else to go; she could hear the rasping of an Imp at her shoulder, and, holding Rafe’s hand, she jumped.

  It was further than she’d thought. At least seven feet between the edge of the building and the train. For a moment, they hung in the air; Kate could see the train moving below them, and she feared they would land in one of the gaps between the cars and fall down and be crushed. Instead, they hit dead center on the roof of a car; but the second they hit, her feet slipped on the snow, the boy’s hand was ripped from hers, she landed hard on her hip, her momentum carrying her forward, and before Kate knew what was happening, she was sliding over the side of the train. Scrambling, she caught herself on a railing, so that she hung off the train, forty feet in the air, as it tore down the avenue.

  She heard another heavy thump further down the train and knew that at least one Imp had also made the jump. She told herself she had to do something, pull herself up, break through a window, anything except hang there, but just then the train jerked around a corner, one of Kate’s hands slipped, and she swung out wide, dangling now by just four fingers, and she saw the street below her, the carriages, the horses, the people, and then the train straightened and she swung back, slamming against the side of the car. She glanced up to see Rafe and the Imp struggling atop the train, and then the train twisted again, she was losing her grip, finger by finger, and one of the bodies, she couldn’t tell which, went flying past her, and the next thing she knew someone had grabbed her wrist and was pulling her up.

  “Are you okay?” Rafe asked. “Are you hurt?”

  Kate shook her head. She was still stunned, still trying to understand. They were alone on top of the train. Rafe was kneeling before her, his hands on her arms.

  “Scruggs gave me a glamour to sneak into the house. That’s why I looked like Rourke. But I hadn’t quite planned out the whole getting-away part.”

  Kate began shaking and couldn’t stop.

  “Why … why did you come back for me?” Her hair had come loose and blew around her face, and she had to shout to be heard over the sound of the train. “Why would you do that?”

  Snow swirled past them. Buildings raced by. The boy looked at her, the lights in passing windows sweeping across his face. He took off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “First let’s get somewhere safe.”

  Kate and the boy rode the train all the way downtown, getting off at a stop near the Bowery. Rafe didn’t want to go back to the church. Not right away, he said. Just in case the Imps were following them somehow. Kate d
idn’t argue, but by the time they got off, her hands were frozen into claws, and her forehead and ears ached from the cold.

  They had not spoken during the trip. It had been too difficult to make themselves heard over the constant rattling and the metal-on-metal shriek of the brakes every time the train turned a corner or came into a station. And besides, Kate had had no idea what to say. For now that the immediate danger was past, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d learned from the Dire Magnus and what it meant about Rafe. Was Rafe her enemy? How much did he know? And what was she supposed to do? Scruggs had said that the Atlas had brought her here for a reason; so what was it? She felt confused and wished she could shut off her mind; but each time she looked at Rafe and met his eyes, she was reminded of how the Dire Magnus’s milky eyes had glowed green at that last moment, and her thoughts began spinning all over again.

  As they came down the steps from the platform, Rafe said, “You’ll need a longer jacket. That’s dress ain’t exactly subtle.”

  The clothing stalls were mostly closed or closing, it being New Year’s Eve, but Rafe managed to buy a long wool coat that stretched nearly to Kate’s knees, covering the white dress, as well as keeping her warm.

  Being in the Bowery, Kate felt an odd sense of coming full circle. This was where she’d arrived two days before, and now she was back, and with Rafe. She had the sense that things were nearing their end, but she still didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing.

  As they walked along, Kate noticed, as she hadn’t that first morning with Jake and Beetles, that nearly every other storefront was a saloon or a theater or a dance hall. Loud laughter and music spilled out onto the street, and there were signs in the windows saying CELEBRATE THE END OF THE CENTURY! And men and women staggered by with their arms around each other, singing.

  Rafe stopped in the middle of the street and looked around.

  “In a couple hours, none of them will remember that such a thing as magic was ever real. Doesn’t seem right somehow. After all they’ve done to us.”

  Kate shivered and pulled her coat closer. The boy looked at her.

  “You had anything to eat since lunch? You gotta be hungry.”

  He started to turn, but she took his arm.

  “The reason you came for me, it’s because you know me, right? The same way you recognized me that first day. How—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna tell you. I promise.”

  There was a girl going between saloons with a tray filled with ears of hot sweet corn stuck onto tiny spears, and Rafe got one for each of them, which they ate as they walked through the maze of streets, making way for weaving bands of revelers. The corn was even better than the potato Kate had had with the boys that first day, and when she was finished, Rafe bought them a cup of steaming cider to share. They huddled near the cider man’s cart, sipping the strong, spicy drink and passing the cup back and forth.

  “Did you meet him?”

  Kate looked at Rafe, but the boy had his face over the steaming mug. She knew who he meant but asked anyway. “Who?”

  “The man who runs the Imps.”

  Kate’s own voice sounded hollow to her ears. “Yes. I met him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I—I don’t know. They call him … the Dire Magnus.”

  “Did he say anything about me?”

  It seemed to Kate that the noise from the saloons and theaters had died away, and all she could hear was the furious pounding of her heart.

  “He never mentioned your name.”

  That, at least, wasn’t a lie. But again, Kate felt like things were spinning out of her control, and beyond her understanding.

  The boy nodded. “So you want to hear how I know you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then. I have to show you something.”

  They turned down the next street and passed through a dense warren of alleys, and Kate noticed more dwarves and a few gnomes, and men and women in cloaks, and she realized they had entered the magic quarter. Then, on a narrow, nearly lightless street, Rafe led her down an alley next to a three-story tenement, and, stopping under the fire escape, leapt and grabbed hold of the ladder, pulling it down, along with a great cascade of snow, most of which landed on his head. Kate laughed; she couldn’t help it.

  “Yeah,” the boy said, smiling, “should’ve expected that.”

  He shook himself like a dog, the snow flying off him, though for a time afterward his dark hair was streaked with white, like an old man’s. They climbed to the roof, and he led her to the side of the building that faced the street. He brushed the snow from the ledge so they could lean against the wall. The music and laughter from the saloons and dance halls sounded faint and far away. Rafe gestured.

  “See that building across the way? The window three stories up on the left. Watch; the light should go on in a minute.”

  Kate waited. It was cold on the roof, and she could feel the boy’s shoulder pressed against her own.

  “There,” he said quietly. And Kate felt that he’d been holding his breath and only now let it out. She saw that the window was indeed illuminated, and an old woman was shuffling about a small apartment.

  “That’s where my mother and I lived. She moved us in a week after we landed in New York. I was just a baby. My dad had died; that was why we came here. She made her living as a scryer.”

  “What’s a scryer?” Kate asked. Her hands were balled deep in the pockets of her coat, and she had turned her head to look at him. Only the boy’s eyes reflected the lights from the street; his face was in shadow. He kept his gaze fixed upon the window.

  “It’s someone who can see things that ain’t there. She’d take a bowl a’ water, pour in some oil, and then she could see whatever she wanted to, no matter how far away. And people would pay her to show ’em things. Sometimes, it’d be when they’d lost something valuable, like a ring or a watch or something. More often, it’d be people who’d just come to New York, wanting to see the ones they’d left behind, their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. Sometimes parents looking at children. Watching ’em grow up in my ma’s bowl. She did it for everyone. Magic and normal folk alike. They all loved her for it. Our apartment was only one room. I used to be there, behind the blanket that hid my bed, and I would watch ’em, men and women, crying, hugging her. She never asked for much money. Just enough for us to live.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  “No one. I pay the rent myself. The old woman lives below. She comes up every night and turns on the light.”

  And you come up here and watch, Kate thought, and imagine your mother’s still alive.

  Then he said again, quietly, “Everyone loved her.”

  And Kate knew he was talking about himself.

  They were both silent. Kate could sense that the boy was gearing up for what he had to tell her and that there was no need to press. He began speaking again with no warning.

  “So one night this man comes to our apartment. He said he wanted to see his wife, and I remember he threw down all this money. He was drunk and calling his wife names. ‘Show ’er to me! She’s hiding! Show ’er to me!’

  “I was there behind the blanket separating my bed from the apartment, and I watched my mother get out her bowl and pour the oil in it and light the candle. And she told the man she’d need something from the woman, like a lock of hair or something that had belonged to her. And the man laughed and he reached into his pocket and he threw down a silver ring. It was a wedding ring, I could tell. I saw my mother take it and she was real still, you know, real quiet. And she put the ring into the bowl and I could see her whispering and concentrating real hard, and the man was breathing loud and heavy. And he started asking, ‘What do you see? Where is she? Where’s she hiding?’ And my mother said nothing for a long time, then she looked up from the bowl and she said, ‘Did you do that to her?’ And the man, he started cursing her, saying she was magic scum, and it was none of her business and
if she didn’t want the same done to her and worse she’d tell him where the woman was, and my ma just took the bowl a’ water and splashed it on the floor and told him to get the hell out.”

  The boy paused, his gaze still fixed on the lit window across the street.

  “He knocked her down to the floor. I ran out and was screaming at the man and hitting him, and I could hear my ma yelling at me to get back, and the man hit me and my head banged the wall and it all went black. When I woke up, the room was quiet, and I was on the floor and my ma was lying beside me on the floor and she was dead.”

  Kate stared at the boy, hardly able to believe what he was saying, that this had happened, her heart breaking for him. Rafe went on; he hadn’t finished his story.

  “They buried my ma in pauper’s field. I got back from the funeral and there were people who wanted to put me in a home. But I hid. See, I knew who the man was. He owned a butcher’s a few blocks over. No one had arrested him or nothing. They were all normal humans, him, the cops. So that night after the funeral, I snuck in his shop, and when he come in the next morning, I took one a’ his own knives and stabbed him through the heart. People seen me do it and come after me. That was when Miss B saved me.”

  He fell silent, and the city seemed quiet around them.

  “Thing is, my ma always told me I had a destiny. She said, ‘When you get older, you’ll have to choose.’ She always said that. ‘You’ll have to choose.’ Then she died, and years later, I had this dream. I saw this person. I didn’t know what it meant, so I went to this witch. She’s young, but real powerful. She can see things. She told me that the person in my dream would show me who I was, what my destiny was.”

  He looked at Kate.

  “It was you in my dream. That was how I recognized you.”

  Their faces were only inches apart. Kate couldn’t move.

  “But she told me,” the boy went on, “that after I find out the truth, you’ll die. That’s why you’ve gotta leave. Promise me. Promise me that tomorrow you’ll leave. You’ll go up north or wherever, but you’ll get away from me. Promise.”