Embers (37 page)

“Sirrush.”
She and Mimi breathed the word together.

He turned to look at her. She understood, in an instant, why men had worshipped him and his kind as gods and her heart broke, seeing his unforgiving beauty unfurling before her. He towered above her in boneless curves of flaming scales, his serpentine body churning in a display of copper and gold. Golden horns lifted from his head like a crescent moon, above eyes as clear and brilliant as noon. Diaphanous gill-wings fanned around his face, so pale a gold that she could see the traces of his arteries beneath them. His armored forepaws were thick, like a cat’s, claws piercing the floor. His rear legs were terrible eagle talons, flexing against the salt, his glistening tail wrapping around them as bonelessly as fire itself.

He lifted his golden head to roar at the ceiling, displaying three rows of ivory teeth as tall as men. The sound rattled the salt around Anya’s feet, and she fell to her knees beside Sparky.

“Ancient one,”
Mimi whispered with her voice.
“I have brought you a gift.”
She opened Anya’s arms wide, a gesture of surrender and supplication.

“No.” The dissenting voice was Drake’s. He stood at Sirrush’s feet, dwarfed by the glory of the creature he’d summoned. He stood barefoot on the sizzling salt, shirtless, his scars gleaming in the light. Anya could see that he bled from a wound in his side. His blood stained the salt rust. He looked up at Sirrush. “Your sacrifices are above. A whole city is yours. Can you hear it?”

“Sssssacrifice.”
Sirrush cocked his head, his gills moving, as if listening. Anya had heard that voice many times before, in the heart of every burning building she’d run into. When he spoke, it was with the crackling hiss of fire

“Sirrush,” Anya said, with her own voice. “Take me instead and sleep. Do not level the city. Please.”

Sirrush looked down his long nose at her, at Sparky.
“Another Lantern.”

“She’s not giving herself to you of her own free will,” Drake shouted. “She’s got a demon in her, compelling her.”

Sirrush’s tongue reached out, snaked over her cheek and neck. She felt it sizzle and burn, but she made no move to resist. His breath smelled like the ozone aftertang of lightning.

“Mimiveh.”
Sirrush wrinkled his nose as he withdrew his tongue.
“Filthy demon. You
taste like rot.”

Anya clenched her fist. “I’m telling you the truth. I’m giving myself to you, of my own free will.” She pointed at Drake. “He can take the demon from me. I will give you the same offer, then.”

Sirrush turned his noonday eyes to Drake.
“I will not be deceived by demon nor by man.
Take the demon.”

Drake made no move, staring at her with a leaden gaze.

“Lantern,”
Sirrush snarled.
“Take the demon.”

Drake crossed to her and cupped Anya’s face in his hands. He bent his head to kiss her.

Anya felt Mimi surging up from her chest, struggling against him. Anya clawed at his hands, fighting. But she felt Drake’s burning red aura reach deep into the pit of her chest and dig the writhing demon out like a splinter.

She screamed. She screamed as Drake pulled Mimi out through the infected burn in her chest, at the writhing roots wound deep in her bones and her skin. The roots pulled, snapped, and were sucked up in the red rain of light that dug through her.

She fell to the ground, gasping. Her body rattled around the void that Mimi had left, at the empty space in her heart. She stared up at Drake. She could see him wrestling with Mimi. She could sense his aura was weak, weak from summoning Sirrush. He pulled the demon’s inky tendrils away from his skin, grasping, as Mimi fought for its unlife. One of Mimi’s thirsty arms reached deep into his ribs, through the gunshot wound.

Mimi wore Drake’s voice like a puppet:
“Even better. This one is stronger.”

Anya reached up, snagging one of Mimi’s tendrils. She felt the void in her chest opening like a black hole, sucking at the demon. Between the gravity of her power and Drake’s, she felt Mimi pulling apart, like a cloud tattered by wind. The demon ripped like worn velvet, dissolving into the blinding purity of the salt chamber.

Sirrush watched silently, his paws pressed together like a cat’s, and his body undulating like a kite.

Anya turned to face him. “Take me. But don’t harm the city.”

Sirrush stared at her, burning.
“I sense filth and decay. Crime and evil. The other Lantern
is right. Why should I not take it as a sacrifice? It would be in the service of purity to do
so.”

Anya spread her hands. “Because there are good things in it. There’s art. . . the tile of the Sirrush in the museum. There’s loyalty. . . you should see the number of people who come out to see the Lions play even though they always lose.” She was babbling in the heat, but what she said was true and she hoped Sirrush could hear it. “Because more than a thousand people showed up for one firefighter’s funeral. Because of music: Aretha Franklin, the Temptations. Hell, we’re even responsible for Eminem. Because there are people falling in love and helping strangers. Because there are people who aren’t going to give up.” As she spoke, the dark spot in her chest that devoured ghosts filled with something a little bit like light.

Sirrush turned toward Drake.
“And is there not one thing worth saving in this city you
would have me destroy?”

Drake looked at Anya with such a look of tenderness that Anya ached to reach out and touch him. “One thing. Her.”

Sirrush inhaled. Anya could hear the air whistling through his nostrils before he exhaled through his mouth, and the chamber erupted into flame. Fire coursed from his lungs into the egg-smooth surface of the chamber, consuming it in a seething roil of yellow flame.

Anya put up her hands to protect her face. The fire washed over her, crisping and disintegrating her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Drake in his Burning Man form. The yellow fire washed over the red flames covering his body, and she saw him fall.

She felt the threads of her blouse singe. Her shoe leather melted, and she felt the salamander collar dissolving into her skin. The flames washed over her raw, bare skin, blackening it to a crisp. She turned her attention inward, focused on the amber light in her chest that shined like love, that shined with the same color Sparky did, with her mother’s love. With her love for her city, her friends, for Brian, and even Drake. She felt that warm purity in her, reaching through her body, welling up in her skin. This must have been what Nina felt, before she gave herself over to her dragon.

She felt her aura settling into her skin, hardening into copper scales. Dimly, she was aware of stepping forward to protect Sparky, of holding her arms before her, now heavy as gauntlets with copper skin that deflected the heat. Her senses had closed down, as if she was locked within a shell, and she could hear only her breath rattling against her wrists.

The fire slowly sank into the floor, and Anya opened her eyes. She looked down to see Sparky unharmed on the ground.

She scooped him up, snuggled him in joy. “Sparky!”

Then, she realized that something was wrong with her. Her skin was covered in copper, as if she wore a suit of armor, articulated to the very last detail. She flexed her fingers, watching in amazement as the finger-joints of the armor slid together. She pressed them to her chest, feeling a molded breastplate over her skin, articulated to swell with her chest when she breathed. She touched her face, feeling her skin grown copper and solid under her hands.

“Drake.” She turned on a copper heel, scanning the red-hot crystal for him, and her face crumpled in sadness when she saw him. She fell to her knees at his side.

He was ruined, a blackened husk. His burning skin had not been enough to withstand Sirrush’s fire. Every inch of his body was blackened with carbon. His eyes moved slightly, sightlessly in their sockets.

“Drake,” she whispered, her hands hovering over his chest.

The remnants of his lips pulled back in a smile, and when he spoke, it was around a ruined tongue: “Armored goddess. Like Ishtar.”

And his chest simply stopped moving under her hands. Anya watched as his ghost climbed out of his body. But it wasn’t the ghost of the Drake she had known. This was the ghost of Drake before he’d been blinded and scarred: Drake as a young man, whole, walking without a limp toward Sirrush, with his hands in his pockets and a luminous smile on his face.

Sirrush looked down his nose at her and Anya could have sworn he smiled.
“You have
done well, Lantern. Your city is safe. I will sleep.”
He turned his gaze to Drake.
“I will
sleep under the watchful eye of a Lantern.”

Anya covered her mouth with her hands, tears blistering over her metal cheek. “I don’t understand. . .”

“You will,”
Sirrush said. He yawned and circled like a cat in his nest. The yawn rattled the ceiling, and Anya could hear stress fractures forming above her in the rock.

“I’d get out of here, if I were you,”
Drake told her.
“When Sirrush makes a nest, walls
come down.”

Anya scooped up Sparky and bolted for the exit. When she looked back, she saw Drake beginning to pace around Sirrush, like Nina had done for Uktena at the mound.

And he did it with the same serenity and love that brought tears to her eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ANYA DISCOVERED, ONCE SHE MADE it topside, that the copper skin was an unfortunately temporary situation. She was embarrassed as hell when DAGR found her, their flashlights trained on her nude body. Fortunately, her firefighters’ gear was still in the trunk of the Dart, so she didn’t have to ride around downtown Detroit naked—though the firefighter’s coat was perfectly ridiculous with bare knees and boots. She drowsed in the backseat on the way, her head resting on Brian’s arm.

Detroit had calmed down by dawn. The radio announcer said that the jail fire had been contained, but that the casualties and escapees had not been counted. There were a handful of other casualties around town due to the Devil’s Night celebration, but the majority of crimes had been property offenses: looting, burnt cars, and the like.

Max and Jules found Ciro slumped in his wheelchair in the bar. They panicked until Renee emerged to tell them that she and Ciro had spent the night singing and drinking. The old man woke up asking for some hair of the dog and Jules slapped Max for giving it to him.

Katie took Anya home and put her to bed. She slept for a full day, before climbing out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. Her shriek woke Katie from the couch.

Anya ran her hands over her perfectly bald head. Sparky climbed up on the sink and craned up to give her skull a loving slurp. “What the hell?”

Katie looked in the mirror behind her and pinched the shelved pirate rubber duckie on the ass until he squeaked. “You’re bald. Like him.”

Anya touched her eyes. She had no eyelashes, either. Anya opened her robe to look at the burns on her chest that Mimi had left behind. Only smooth white flesh glowed under the fluorescent light. Her salamander collar was wrapped around her throat, as always. She touched it, wondering if the armor still lived underneath it, and if she would ever need it again.

“I think it’s gonna grow back,” Katie offered, rubbing the back of her head. “You’ve got some stubble going on here.”

“What did I miss?” Anya asked, fingering the unfamiliar sharp and blunt planes of her skull. She didn’t realize that she had a freckle above her temple. Weird.

“Bad news or good news first?”

Anya steeled herself. “Hit me with the bad stuff.”

“Remember Brian’s video setup of the salt mine? He got nothing useful on camera, except some nice footage of the Jeep wreck. He’s really pissed about that, but he’s thinking about selling it to one of those reality shows that runs footage of a lot of shit getting blown up.”

“Is that all the bad news?”

“Depends on how you look at things. Jules got an update on the little girl from the pop machine. The police were able to identify her. Her name was Gloria Selby. She went missing in 1974, lived across the street from the pickle lady. The coroner ruled it an accidental death—probably a game of hide-and-seek gone wrong.”

Anya frowned. It was a sad case, but at least the little girl would have a name and a proper burial.

“You’ve also got some mail and phone messages.” Katie wandered out into the living room, ticking reminders off her fingers. “Your boss, Captain Marsh, wants you to—and I quote—‘quit loafing and get back to work Monday.’ Brian’s coming by later today to bring you some groceries. Sparky’s Gloworm is out of batteries. And you got this.” Katie pointed to a package in the living room with her toe. A brown paper—wrapped box leaned against the living room wall.

Anya picked it up and turned it over. The return address was Drake’s, and the postmark was two days ago. She gingerly opened the brown paper, which covered a wooden box. Using a butter knife, she dug enough nails out of it to pull the item out of the straw.