Fire Season

by Stephen Blackmoore

“That’s just my day job.”

  Behind us we can hear sirens. Whatever magic Werther was doing to keep everyone away from our little imbroglio must have shut down once Letitia bounced him into the air with the truck.

  A few blocks further on I say, “So what now?” I’m wondering why Letitia is here. Why she came to my rescue. And how she knew I was here in the first place. I’m still not convinced I haven’t jumped from one fire into another.

  “If any of Werther’s people are looking for us we’ll lose them in heavier traffic then ditch the car,” Letitia says.

  “Wasn’t what I was asking, but it’s kinda moot at the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re about half a block behind us.” She searches the rearview until she sees Werther’s three cars.

  “Shit.” She slams on the gas and shoves her way through the traffic. She pops the curb, mowing down parking meters until she finds a clearer patch of road and really guns it.

  Car chases in L.A. are both fun to watch and pointless to be in, so they’re already one up on golf. Nobody actually gets away in a car chase.

  First, you’re gonna get helicopters on you, mostly news crews. Then there’s L.A.’s roads. They’re not exactly easy to navigate. Some are laid out in grids along old Rancho property lines, others are leftovers from when a neighborhood was an entirely different city that got swallowed up by L.A., and still others look perfectly fine until you realize they curve to avoid the river and you’re heading back the way you came.

  Eventually it comes down to the question, do you stay on some shitty little side street that might dead-end around the next corner, or hit the freeway? Never hit the freeway. Oh, sure you can go faster, for a bit. People get out of your way once they see the lights of the cop cars chasing you, but gridlock is gridlock and no amount of panicking behind the wheel is going to make that change. And then what? You can’t hide on the freeway. Too many eyes on you.

  Everybody is watching your poor decision-making skills play out on television, smartphones, computers. They’re taking bets on when you’re going to crash, filling out their bingo cards with all the stupid shit you do.

  The only reason the cops don’t gun your ass down or ram your car is there are civilians in the way. Easier to stay on you and wait them out. The only way to win a car chase is to not get into one.

  And Letitia knows it. So why is she doing it?

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Hey, officially nothing’s happened yet,” I say. “They’re still back there, we’re still up here. Keep it cool and we’ll be fine. You’ve got to know some hidey-holes we can get to where they can’t find us.” I’ve never met a mage who doesn’t have at least one.

  “I don’t,” she says.

  Until now, apparently.

  “Okay then,” I say.

  “What about you?”

  “Not near here, and not ones you’d want to go to.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She turns right on Union and I can feel her cast a spell. She guns the engine, weaving in and out of traffic with more agility than this truck has any right to have.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a cop,” she says.

  “And that’s important how?”

  “I can get more cops.”

  Of course. There’s an LAPD station up here somewhere. Which one? Rampart? Except.

  “Are there more mages at Rampart?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’m stationed at Central, and I’m the only one there. Werther won’t try anything out in the open.”

  “Right. Because a basketball court at a Catholic school across the street from the ACLU and the police union is the definition of discretion.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “Yes, I do.”

  We’re coming up on 6th Street and Letitia slows down. “Something’s wrong,” she says.

  I can see that. Sometime in the last few seconds all of the cars and people have found better places to be. The street has become eerily silent.

  “This is the same shit he did when he hit me. He’s keeping all the normals clear. How much you want to bet that when we get to the station the parking lot’ll be empty?”

  Whatever Werther had done to drive the ghosts away, though, isn’t happening. Wanderers and Echoes, a handful of Haunts tied to the street corners where they died. That gives me an idea.

  “Speed up,” I say. I haven’t felt a draw on the pool. Hell, I didn’t even feel Werther casting, so he’s using his own power. Probably just to make some dickhead “look what I can do” point.

  The most efficient way to not tax his reserves would be to center the spell around himself. He can keep the borders of the effect set and the only drain on him is maintenance. Which means as long as he’s close by we’ve got no one to see us, and no one in our way.

  Letitia guns the engine. The three cars have been keeping their distance even though there’s no one between us and them. Now that we’re putting on speed, they’re moving closer, but still staying behind us.

  With no one watching, all the rules of car chases have gone out the window, except one. He can still wait us out. The question is, can he keep the spell going longer than we have gas to keep driving?

  “We want to end this, we need them to catch up,” I say. I check the ammunition in the Browning. I’ve still got over half a magazine.

  “Yeah, I figured that,” Letitia says. “Only what happens when they do?”

  “You’re a mage,” I say. “Do magic.” I slide open the window at the back of the cab, and sight for the least expensive looking car, a BMW with blackout windows, and pop off a few rounds. Though none of them hit, and if any had it’d be a miracle, the formation breaks. The cars spread out.

  I sight along the Browning’s barrel at the same car. It’s pulled to the left into the next lane. Instead of pulling the trigger, I focus on the car, weave a spell together, and let it loose.

  “Bang,” I say.

  The front of the car explodes, throwing chunks of the engine out onto the street. With Werther concentrating on his mass go-away spell, any defenses he has covering the cars aren’t going to be as strong. I figured putting some distance between them left the other cars out of the zone and wide open.

  I try it again at the second car, which has just pulled into the lead, covering the third. The spell goes off fine, but about 30 feet behind them. They’re close enough for Werther’s protection spells.

  “You got one?” Letitia asks.

  “Yeah. But the other two are still on us.” The seeds of an idea start to grow. “Hold on to something in case this doesn’t work.”

  “In case what doesn’t work?”

  I target the street just behind the truck’s tailgate and in front of the lead car. I let off the same spell. The explosion happens in mid-air outside the defenses, and the lead car drives right into it. Flames blow out the windows, thick, black smoke billowing out. A couple tires blow, putting the burning car into a skid. It careens away onto the sidewalk and slams into a bus stop. I don’t see anybody get out.

  Werther must have decided that this shit won’t stand because the remaining car, a jet-black Mercedes SUV, shoots forward. Letitia maneuvers the truck, trying to keep it behind us, but the truck handles like a slug, and in no time the Mercedes is alongside.

  “Keep driving,” I say. “Don’t turn, don’t slow down. I’ll be right back.”

  I focus on the truck’s door hinges with a spell, blowing them out. The door rattles in the frame for a second and then falls out onto the street, almost hitting the Mercedes.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Just keep driving.”

  I have enough power to pull this off, but it doesn’t hurt to top up the tanks, and it’ll get Werther looking in the wrong
direction. I draw in as much energy as I can. As soon as he notices he does the same, trying to block me from the source.

  With his attention split between his spells and his attempt to lock me out, everything he’s doing is going to take a hit. The next spell, I cast on myself. I feel the palms of my hands shift.

  I jump out of the truck, reaching for the roof of the Mercedes. My left hand hits, sticking like a gecko, my right missing by a few inches. But those inches mean I’m hanging off the side. My left shoulder feels like it’s on fire, and I can feel the hot wetness of blood spreading into my shirt from popped stitches. I pull myself up onto the roof just as the window rolls down and bullets come out. I’m hoping Werther likes his Mercedes too much to punch holes through the roof.

  I’ve done this spell hundreds of times, but this particular way only once. I ended up losing the Cadillac for over a year when I did it, but I was weaker then.

  I focus on cold, empty streets, dark skies, the howl of oblivion, images running through my brain like high speed film. I reach out my senses until I can feel the entire car below me, and let the spell loose.

  The air shatters in between heartbeats with a noise like a jet engine fucking a wood chipper. Day goes to twilight in a split second and the air turns cold and sucks away at my energy.

  I can’t see Letitia’s truck anymore, though I can see a bright glow speeding alongside us that’s Letitia herself. The only solid items on this side are things that have been around long enough to imprint on the place. Most of the buildings are missing, and the few that aren’t have been there for decades. I can’t stay long because the environment will kill me, not to mention the ghosts, whose attention we’ve already gotten.

  I thump on the roof with my fist. “Welcome to the land of the dead,” I yell. “The premier tourist destination for assholes like you. Whattaya think? Like it?” They answer with a few shots through the roof that come a little too close for my taste.

  “Well, if you’re gonna be that way about it, I’ll just leave y’all to your business.” I reverse the spell, jumping from the car at the last moment before shifting back.

  I don’t bring Werther’s car with me.

  Jet engine noise, bright, blinding sunlight, and I slam into the side of the truck. My gecko hands snag on the edge of the cab and the side of the truck bed, legs dangling dangerously close to the ground. I hook one leg up into the cab and Spider-Man my way from the back of the cab to fall into the seat.

  Letitia stares at me. “Where did they go?”

  “Somewhere else,” I say. My breath is ragged. I haven’t had to do shit like that for a long time. It was easier than I expected it to be. Well, the spell was.

  My body, however, feels like I’ve gone a couple rounds with a bear. Pretty sure my arm is bleeding again, and my hands ache from hanging off the cars.

  “Are they coming back?”

  “Guy like Werther? Count on it. But we have more important things to talk about.” I draw the Browning and shove the barrel into Letitia’s side. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here, Letitia? I’d hate to have to kill you before I find out what’s going on.”

  Chapter 8

  Letitia keeps her eyes on the road and doesn’t say anything. I push the gun harder into her side. I’m running out of patience and I’m not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit.

  “Either you’re thinking of how much to tell me, how to tell it to me, or coming up with a whopper of a lie. If you go with Option C, I’ll know. And then I’ll just shoot you. I might even shoot you just because I assume you’re going to pick Option C anyway.”

  “After I saved your life?”

  “Very conveniently, too. You just happened to be in that spot at that time with a stolen truck. You’ve changed, Letitia. I don’t recall you having a taste for larceny.”

  “Yeah, I’ve changed,” she says. “You haven’t.”

  “I’ve changed plenty,” I say. “Got my anger management issues under control and everything.” She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “If I hadn’t, I’d have shot you already. Now talk, or I might have a relapse.”

  “You’ve been getting a lot of people’s attention lately. Not all of them want to kill you.”

  “That’s a relief. I can rest easy knowing that it’s only most people who want to kill me. But you’re part of the Cleanup Crew. If everybody else is gunning for me, it’s in your best interest to do the same. So how come you aren’t? If you’re one of the people who doesn’t want to kill me, why?”

  “Me, and a couple of . . . associates . . . have a proposition for you. Mutually beneficial. I was trailing you since you left the warehouse. When I saw what was happening, I swapped cars and came to help. By that time Werther was already doing his thing, and I couldn’t think of anything to do but run him over.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” I say. “Mutually beneficial, huh? Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the offer?”

  She shakes her head. “We need the others. I only know the gist of it. They’ve got the details.”

  “All right, let’s start with the gist, then.”

  “We know who’s framing you and we want to help you get her.”

  That was unexpected.

  “Her?”

  “No,” she says. “No more questions until we get there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “David Chu’s house.” She says it like it should mean something to me.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “L.A. City Council? Running for mayor? Nothing?”

  “You’re making noises with your mouth, but I’m not sure you’re actually speaking English.”

  “Jesus,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t pay much attention to the world around you, do you?”

  “I figure the world can take care of itself. Mostly I’m focusing on not dying. I’m not a fan of mage politics. Tends to get you dead. Goes against my core ethos of not dying.”

  “You’re not going to have a choice,” she says.

  “Dying? Eventually, sure. But that sounds like a threat,” I say, looking at the gun in my hand. “What do you think Mister Trigger Finger? Does it sound like a threat to you? Mister Trigger Finger thinks that sounds like a threat.”

  “Maybe Mister Trigger Finger needs to reel it in a bit and calm the fuck down. Jesus, how has nobody murdered you yet?”

  “Oh, you know. That which does not kill me needs to up its game.”

  “I’m talking about politics. Like it or not, you’re political just by being you. People know about that earthquake a couple years back, about the Bruja’s hotel burning down, about the people who died on the train. Stories are coming out of Mexico. Dead cartel leaders, heroin distribution lines cut. Sounds like you put a dent in the Mexican drug market just by being there. But that’s not the most interesting thing.”

  “Oh, what is?” I don’t like this. People are keeping tabs on me. I don’t like being tracked and I don’t like being talked about.

  “Bullshit stories about gods and goddesses. Love triangles. Real telenovela stuff. Nice wedding band by the way,” she says. “I can’t wait to see what the kids look like.”

  “We haven’t really discussed it,” I say. “You know, newlyweds.” Interesting. She’s digging. There are rumors but nothing that people are believing just yet. Well, some people.

  “You’re seriously expecting me to buy that you’re married to a goddess?”

  Belief’s a weird thing with people, normals and mages alike. We can accept all sorts of weird shit, but you go just one step too far and they’re all like, “Nope. Don’t buy it. I can believe in amazing cosmic powers that can bend reality to my will, demons, spirits, horrors from the spaces between time. But an invisible man in the sky who grants wishes and judges me based on how many times I’ve masturbated is where I draw the line.”

  “A
m I? Huh. She told me she was a stripper from Tijuana.”

  She gives me this look that I can’t quite decipher. Horror, acceptance, nausea. Then she pulls it back. “I hope they don’t take after their mother.”

  “I dunno. You haven’t seen her pole dance.”

  “I know it’s bullshit,” she says, but she sounds a little deflated. “A lot of people know it’s bullshit. But there are plenty of gullible assholes out there who believe. They think you’re some kind of king of the dead making zombie armies.”

  “Yeah, I heard that one earlier today. But then we necros hear a lot of shit about ourselves. Did you know we eat babies and have sex with the dead? I mean, I don’t, but everybody says we do. There was one guy in New Orleans, though. He was pretty into necrophilia.”

  “You joke, but whether they believe it or not doesn’t matter. You’re seen as either a threat or someone they want on their side. The fact that you’ve been in L.A. as long as you have and haven’t aligned yourself with anybody makes you ripe for recruitment.”

  That’s funny. Align myself with a group? The closest I’m aligned with would be Gabriela, and that’s more a mutual “watch each other’s back to make sure if anybody’s sticking a knife in it we’re the ones who put it there.” Nobody would give me the goddamn time of day and now they want to shoot me on sight.

  “What’s that thing Groucho said? I wouldn’t be a member of any club that would have me? I’m not much of a joiner. And neither are the rest of us. You know what they call five mages in a room together, right? A bloodbath. I don’t think Werther was trying to recruit me.”

  Interesting, though. Worrying if true, I’m not really up for being used as a pawn. Again. Not least of which because they’re wrong. I fucked up Santa Muerte’s and Mictlantecuhtli’s plans. I’m not the king of dead. At least, not anymore. I think.

  And that bit about the bloodbath? Pretty much how it always works out. The really powerful mages, they don’t want to share and they’re really good at not sharing.

  “It also makes you ripe for elimination,” she says. “You don’t have a great track record of not being in the middle of shit when it happens. A lot of people remember Boudreau, and some of the shit you got up to before you left L.A. And some shit after you left. Married to a death goddess? Not a big leap to assume you’re burning people alive.”