Chasing the Dragon (51 page)

The demon nodded briefly, as if he didn't mind what Zal thought.
"So, will you oppose me, Zal?"

Zal thought it over. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I want to see

what happens." He did look over his shoulder this time. Glinda's face
was like stone. He rationalized that he could always change his mind
if things started looking tricky.

"Come on," he said to her. "You don't think that's crazy? Guy
wants to become an angel, personally experience the highest potentials
of existence."

"You don't understand," Glinda said, getting out a fresh cigar and
lighting it on her tongue. "One false move and everything we've ever
been will fold up on itself and be done. Night died because her job was
done. Resurrecting her, even in part, invites all that you are to revert to
its original causes. Now, in one sense of course, nothing's lost, only transformed, and since that's pretty much life and death in a nutshell where's
the harm? But it's the end of a lot of conscious beings and their evolutions, not to mention the end of order and complexity and all the wonders of the worlds. That's quite the price for one person's test of their own
limit, wouldn't you say? And if you wouldn't I would." She puffed deeply
and shot smoke out of the corner of her mouth. "For one thing, Zal, I
prefer you to him, so if there's got to be a choice, I'd rather he didn't."

"You prefer me, really?"

"Go to the top of the class," Glinda said, flicking a shred of tobacco
off her lip and fixing the cigar firmly between her molars. "Why do
you think you're still around?"

"And Night being reborn is just a chance thing?"

Glinda tilted her head side to side, drew hard on the cigar, widened
her eyes, and finally nodded confirmation.

"I take it your death does not approve," Xavien said. He and the
angels were watching Zal very, very closely, like hawks.

"No, not really," he said, shrugging with a "what can you do?"
expression. "She just likes to look after me though, so ... expected it.
Potential end of everything brings it out in her."

The demon narrowed his eyes. "The Fates, Muses, whatever you
want to call them, the daughters of Night are matricides. That might sway the balance a little. They didn't get their power by chance. They
will not let it go easily."

"Yeah but, you're one of theirs as well," Zal pointed out, fairly he
felt. "I mean, divided loyalties. And you got so far where most don't
even dare. So you'll be favoured even if you threaten them. Mothers
... it's tough when the children get ambitious and run into risks, but
you have to cut the cord, y'know? Got to be hard."

There was a long pause in which the angel vibrations increased and
Zal felt as if he were sinking to the bottom of a well, the three of them
at the top looking down on him as they considered how on earth they
could get rid of him without getting blood on their hands.

"I see where your fame as a fool of renown comes from," Xavier said,
inscrutably, just as Zal was convinced they had decided on drowning,
but he was interrupted by the ship's bell ringing suddenly loud and calls
from the deck. The doors opened and a crewman rushed in.

"Strange ship to port! She's attacking. Orders?"

"Destroy her," the demon said without hesitation. Only then did
he move to see who it was. One angel went with him; the other followed Zal onto the deck. Zal leant on the rail, looking at the hundreds
of ships. Only now on the flagship signal were they moving to defend,
but they were late. The incoming ship was moving at high speed, and
even as he caught sight of her a bright, sharp dart shot from her bows
and flew straight and true to embed itself in the base of the mizzenmast. He saw boats near her suddenly flung aside by an invisible hand.
As he threw himself to the deck, grabbing the first anchored thing he
found, he was shouting at the top of his voice.

"No!"

A hand like a wall of ice crushed down on his mouth. He fought,
turned, and found himself staring up into the face of an angel.

In the battle there was no time, but an age had passed for the sun had
fallen down the sky and lay in bloody exhaustion at the edge of the distant hills. Haze made it seem vast and weak at the same time. Lila
found herself standing still, staring at it. There was no impulse in her
to move, no more foe to slay. The last one was falling, to his knees, toppling to his side, his head rolling past her feet. All she could taste was
blood. It came on every breath. The sun hypnotized her with its stillness, and then her arm moved, faster than thought, and the blade
clashed and shock ran through her arm and body into the spongy
ground. She turned to look at the face of the intruder who had broken
her peace and attacked her from behind, her blade held over her head,
edge grinding horribly as she moved but yielding not one millimeter.

His face was white but streaked in red. His eyes blazed white, and
more white fire spilled out of his mouth, half-open and grinning at her.
Both his blades pressed down on her single one, his raised arms fixing
there in a dare to try his open guard, wire muscles on his narrow body
rigid and shaking with effort. His white shock mane of hair was red
and plastered to his neck and face, large hanks of it missing altogether.
She wasn't sure as she looked into his eyes that he recognized her at all.

"Teazle?"

He stared and his face changed slowly; he lifted the swords and
backed a step into a guard pose. His mouth worked silently for a while
as it discovered how to speak. "Lila?"

She put her sword down and nodded. Around them mounds of
dead and dying lay by the acre. When she took a step towards him, her
boot sank between limbs and stood on more. She didn't know if there
was even earth beneath her or if it was flesh and bone all the way down.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're in the mirror," she said. "I came to get you out." She saw
his gaze wander as he dealt with this information.

"I had this dream so many times, all my life," he said. "It only ends
when ..."

"When you die, or when you are victorious over all," she said.
"Yes, I know. I suppose that's why we're still here. Two of us. Can only
be one or none."

The battle fury was leaving him; he swayed slightly, and the
swords drooped in his hands. He looked around. "We won." That grin
of his landed on her then, and suddenly she was reminded of Zal and
knew why she liked it.

"Yeah," she said, smiling though there was a pain in her chest.

"I was always alone," he said. Pearly liquid, glowing and gleaming, ran over his arms and torso, and streamed to the ground in sticky
strings, steaming slightly. He looked around. Here and there was
movement among the massed fallen. "They rise again. Because it won't
end. I don't know why."

Lila racked her brains. "Repeating dreams are a way of trying to
resolve deep issues," she said, reading off her Al's suggestion. She looked
too and saw that he was right. "You won't survive another repeat." She
pointed at his body, and for the first time he looked down at himself.

His grin widened with self-consciousness. "Hah. And if I die here
then I'll be truly dead; is that why you came?"

She nodded. She didn't know what would happen if they fought.
But if it was the only way out then she'd have to because she wasn't
leaving him here. There was no dry run inside her systems in which
she had ever beaten him, but now she thought she had a chance; he was
badly hurt and exhausted. She was a regenerating machine on infinite
power. She stood and raised her sword, not certain what to do, feeling
she had walked into a stupid trap, just as much as he had, and now she
was going to pay. Tears ran down her face and she blinked so that she
could see. Her chest was burning.

Around them warriors were getting up, picking their weapons
from the butchered mounds, and moving into positions ready for
attack. Lila stayed in her stance. She felt it was only fair.

Teazle straightened up and eased his neck. He slid his swords into their holders on his back and limped towards her, hands held out in a
warding and offering way as he kept a weather eye on her sword. The
berserk power he had been was all gone. His smile was cautious, voice
gentle. "I don't want to fight you," he said.

Around them the rising warriors spun and fell to dust. The bodies
vanished, and in their place solid ground showed, covered in a thin
coat of green. Teazle blinked as from one instant to the next his terrible wounds were healed and the gore that coated him was gone. Lila
lowered the sword and found that she was shaking uncontrollably.

Teazle's hands closed over hers on the hilt of the huge blade, and he
gently turned it away from himself without attempting to remove it from
her grasp. She gained a bit of control of her hands then and let go with
one of them, catching hold of his arm and leaning on him. "Is it over?"

"Yes," he said. His hand took hold of her jaw gently and tipped her
face up towards his.

What she started to say was cut off by his kiss, and she could feel
his smile in that. Just like a demon, one minute facing doom and the
next forgetting it as if it wasn't important at all, living in the moment.
She put her arms around him and hugged him close and filled her nose
with the animal, mineral scent of his skin. Against her body the dress
had subtly bloomed into a silky cocktail slip in deepest black silk. It
made his glowing body look even more spectacular.

"Were you gonna fight me to the death, Black?" he asked, stroking
her hair.

"I don't know," she said, pressing her face into his neck and feeling
him tip his head against hers, covering her up. Cool wind on her skin
made her snuggle even closer to his warmth.

"Lila, what are you doing out here?" her mother's voice said, questioning and a little accusatory, deeply disapproving. "Who is this man?
Or should I say what is he? Should I call the police?"

Lila froze and then, very slowly, she released her grip on Teazle and
turned around.

They were standing at the bottom of the garden, her childhood
home above them on the slight rise of the lawn. The stand of willow
trees was in full leaf and had hidden her from sight of the windows.
Her mother was just behind the leafy screen, peering inward into the
shade. She was wearing a peach silk suit and looked as beautifully
groomed and sober as any bride's mother. Lila kept her fingertips in
contact with Teazle's skin as she moved forward. "Mom?"

You just went running right out," her mother complained. "It's
time to sign the register and the deeds. Everyone is waiting."

"Deeds?" Lila asked, picking the least worrisome word. She felt
Teazle caress her hand though he didn't move.

"Deeds to the property. Are you all right? What's going on?" Her
mother started to slap the willow fronds aside.

Lila saw the same things she had seen in the crystal pane and
reflexively checked her shoulder. Although the bag had altered into a
gold leather handbag, she felt the heavy weight of the glass in it. In
her hand the black pen sat snugly. She felt a shiver and looked down
to see the heavy white lace of a wedding dress. Her feet pinched her
painfully in high-heeled shoes that made her stagger on the grass.

Her mother stared at her angrily as she emerged. "You're ruining
that dress! And it cost the earth. So much fuss over it and look at you!"

"Mom." She wanted to hug her and cry, but the dream didn't have
any room for that; she could feel the restraining weight of compulsion
on her, a peculiar force that warped her intent and made her say, "It's
okay. This is just ... an old friend." The dream had a shape of its own
and it would have its way. She felt the logic of it and knew that until
it reached some final point, like Teazle's, there was no escape; only this
time it wasn't a repeat of something she dreamed at night. She'd never
had this dream, at least, only in parts and only in the day and long ago,
or in parts of her she'd assumed were gone. She had no idea what the
end condition was supposed to be.

Then her mother screamed fit to wake the dead.

Lila turned to see what she was staring at and realized Teazle was
standing with her in his true form. The noise attracted attention.
Guests and relatives, Max and her dad and the dogs came spilling out
of the house and into the garden. Belatedly she saw that everything
was decorated with white roses and garlands of silk. A marquee was
there, a feast prepared, servants were everywhere-even though until a
second ago the garden had been empty. Her husband was there with
his immaculate tux, looking lightly perplexed. He was holding the
deeds to half of the Bay in his hands, not just their house, and he had
signed and the ink was drying. Only her signature was missing.

She froze. The tangled knot of love and longing inside her felt
heavy as lead, a cancer that had almost finished its task of consuming
her alive. She stared at their faces and saw how much they all loved her
and wanted her happiness, and she felt inside how much the cancer
didn't want her happiness but fed on her hunger for it and changed it
into hatred and rage; all this was her stolen life that might have been.
The only reason she'd been able to draw breath and carry on since she'd
been made was the loss of this and the anger it had made her feel.
Anger was a kind of energy, even anger at herself that she couldn't stop
longing for these things though she despised herself for doing it. She
didn't want to be the weak person who couldn't let go of the dead, who
felt life had to answer her problems with comforts and who bought the
whole ninety-nine yards of the conforming deal whilst at the same
time dreaming she was special. She hated the way that the dress made
her feel: like someone's property, like a thing wrapped up and parceled
into place, ready to be erased from the entries of everything that mattered and fitted with a face not her own and a name that was someone
else's and all the things she was expected to be contented by. She
wanted to feel the special power of such a day, to be in love honestly
and truly, to know that she was right in herself, to feel sure. Here it
was. And she hated it. Hated it.