Soul Fire

by Nazri Noor

  “This is extremely confusing for me,” I said.

  “Yeah? Well, try to be in my place. It’s rough.”

  I scoffed. “Aww. Poor little rich boy.”

  He glared at me. “That’s unfair and you know it, Graves.”

  “What’s unfair is how everyone just tiptoes and does things around me without saying so. What’s unfair is how people treat me like I’m too dumb and naive to understand why they do the things they do. Thea. Even Carver, once. Hecate. Now you?” I shook my head, tired, frustrated. “Just take your stupid helicopter and get out of here.”

  Bastion reared up, taller than ever, his features as stormy as the dark gray of his eyes. “You can’t land a helicopter on a hillside, dumbass. I took a car.” As if that had been the most hurtful part of what I’d said. “Like I said. I don’t deal well with rejection. I like getting what I want. If that makes me a brat, then so be it.”

  “You can’t just – just money your way around everything.” I knew I was being childish, but I’d meant what I’d said. I was tired of all the secrets, all the little machinations.

  “Money is not a verb and you know it. And I’m sorry for wanting to make sure the Heart didn’t fucking kill you. Sorry for giving a shit.”

  I planted my head in my hands, confident that a headache was coming on. “You know what? I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “Wait. Don’t go. I don’t want to end the night like this. We should – ”

  “There is no ‘we’ here, Bastion.”

  He flinched and stepped back, almost like he’d been punched in the face. I hadn’t meant for my words to come out so harsh.

  “Yeah?” he thundered, his face twisting with fury. “Well who even wants you, anyway?” Before I could react, he had his finger pressed into my chest, thrusting menacingly, his breath hot on my skin. “I’m sorry I ever fucking tried. I never should have bothered.”

  “I’m – I can’t deal with this.” I walked backwards, not even needing to check for a shadow to step into, wishing to melt into darkness, to be swallowed up.

  I shadowstepped then, entering the Dark Room with a destination already in mind. As the darkness consumed me, the last thing I saw was Bastion glaring at the grass where I stood, every bit a brat, yet every bit a Scion.

  Chapter 22

  The Dark Room was cold, as it always was. Its corridors chilled and stifled me. Yet all I could think about was how much colder I’d been to Bastion.

  I was shocked, okay? Nobody tells you how to react when the dude who’s all but bullied you since the day you met straight up reveals that he has a – what was it, a crush? Infatuation, I decided.

  I couldn’t set aside the way Bastion talked about his own frustrations, how he didn’t like not getting what he wanted. Impetuous bastard. But maybe it was part of how he was raised. I couldn’t hate him for it.

  And worse, he said he did what he did to protect me. As I dashed through the Dark Room, as my footfalls came back to my ears numbed and dulled in the dead air of that black chamber, I thought back to my interactions with Bastion, shuffling every image, every conversation I could remember, like a deck of cards.

  For just a blip, I quickly considered how I felt in return. There was nothing there, as far as I knew, apart from a competitive sort of fondness, the way you’d relate to a frisky brother, the friend who roughs and tumbles with you for fun. Sure, Bastion had been an ass at times, even taunted me to the point that I genuinely wanted to sock him in the face – but not once had he done anything to truly hurt me, or put me in a precarious position.

  And I just left him shirtless and alone on some nameless hillside.

  Don’t look at me like that. I panicked. But he could take care of himself. I needed to take care of myself, too, to take ownership of my decisions. More than that, though, in that moment, what I really wanted was a little TLC, to be taken care of myself, to be told that things were going to be fine.

  That’s why I headed straight to Parkway Heights, the block of apartments where Herald lived. That was why I leapt towards the final pinpoint of light in the Dark Room, emerging in Valero’s reality right in Herald’s kitchen, which was warm, and smelled faintly of sugar.

  My feet landed softly on his kitchen tile, still enough to make a sound. From the counter, Herald turned over his shoulder, eyes blazing with murderous intent, a huge butcher knife in hand.

  “Oh my God,” I said, panting, putting my hands up. “It’s just me, dude. Just me.”

  The monstrous look in Herald’s eyes faded, and he dropped the knife clattering onto the counter. He heaved in relief, his posture relaxing immediately, like a wild animal that knew it wasn’t in any real danger. He whipped around, leaned against the counter, folded his arms, and shook his head.

  “We’ve talked about this,” he grumbled.

  “I know, I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “The last few times I almost killed you with some icicles through the chest.”

  I raised my finger to interject. “Actually, the first time, it was with a full-ass ice sword. You almost stabbed me through the face.”

  Herald sighed, giving me a weak smile. “Then we lived happily ever after.”

  “You were kinda cute, actually, sleeping like that. Like a serial killer. Handsome one.”

  Herald scowled, turning back to the counter. I just noticed the apron he was wearing, with its little cartoon cow printed on the front – a souvenir from the Happy, Inc. tour.

  “Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” he huffed. “What’s up? I thought we agreed that you’d call before dropping in on me like this. I don’t want to go to jail for accidentally killing someone in self-defense, least of all my boyfriend.”

  “Hey. Can’t a guy visit his partner every now and then? Maybe I missed you.”

  Or maybe, I thought, maybe I’m feeling guilty about being with Bastion, about not telling you about it beforehand, and about not telling you about it now.

  “Hmm. I’m not so sure about that.” Herald fiddled with something on the counter, humming to himself absently. “Is this about Agatha Black? I texted you. We’ll be fine, I said. We’ll work things out.”

  “It’s not about that. I told you, I just wanted to see you.” I stepped closer, risking entering his personal space, hooking my fingers through one of his belt loops. “I didn’t get a good look at that apron. Does it say ‘kiss the chef?’ Lemme see.”

  Herald turned in place, laughing. “It doesn’t and you damn well know that.” He gestured at the words printed under the cow’s face.

  “Licensed to grill,” I read out loud. “Dang. That’s not as exciting.”

  “And a little inappropriate for what I’m doing, to be honest.”

  I peered over his shoulder, finding, of all things, a couple of pie tins, already filled and ready to pop in the oven. Herald was pricking some holes into the crust, arranged, as expected, in a pathologically flawless series of geometric patterns.

  “That explains the smell,” I said.

  He wrinkled his nose, holding his hand out and pushing me lightly in the chest. “But it doesn’t explain yours. Holy hell, Dust, you stink. And you’re covered in sweat. What have you been doing?”

  “N-nothing,” I stammered. “Been a long day.” I flexed my arms, even though Herald couldn’t see anything through the sleeves of my jacket. “Been getting ripped. Workin’ out.”

  Herald rolled his eyes. “You’re usually so good at lying, too. No sugar from me until you take a shower, stinky.”

  I stared pointedly at the pies, my stomach grumbling despite them being totally unbaked and unfit for consumption. “What about those? Do I get some sugar from those guys? I’m starving.” My stomach rumbled in convenient agreement.

  “Same deal. You smell terrible. No pie until you’re clean. Besides, these aren’t for eating. Not right now, at least. I was going to take them over to the Boneyard when they were done.”

  I nodded eagerly, grinning. “Right, right. That’s
so sweet, you baking me two whole pies.”

  “Greedy. No. Those are for everyone to share.”

  “I’ll cut you a deal. One pie for me, the other one for all those other losers. I’m cuter than all of them combined.”

  Herald narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Graves.”

  I liked this, that we could talk to each other like that, just shoot the shit. It was so mundane, so domestic, an ordinary, pastry-based distraction from the realities of Agatha Black. No words needed to even explain that. It was implicit, the understanding that we were allowed to live normal lives, even if it was just in the cracks in between regular instances of preventing the apocalypse and almost dying.

  Herald scratched his chin. “I mean, I guess since you’re here, you may as well wait for these to bake and take them home. Can you even carry a pie through the Dark Room? Would it still be edible?”

  I shrugged. “I go through it all the time and I’m still totally edible. Delicious, even.”

  “You’re being extra cheeky tonight,” Herald said, cocking an eyebrow, his smirk matching the curve of it.

  I stepped closer, putting a little swagger in my step. “Like I said. Missed you.”

  “If you say so,” Herald said, backing away and waving a hand under his nose. “But you definitely need a shower. You smell like a trash can.”

  “What?” I sniffed myself. He wasn’t wrong, but still. Kind of a mean thing to say, right? “Nah, that’s just the handsomeness leaking.”

  “I’m serious. You smell like a trash can.”

  “Not like trash?”

  “No. You smell like the thing that trash lives inside of. Go take a damn bath.”

  “Only if you wash me.”

  Herald pulled his apron over his head, cracked his knuckles, then rolled his shoulders, his joints popping. “That can be arranged.”

  Chapter 23

  The Dark Room couldn’t spoil food, as it turned out. I shadowstepped home to the Boneyard from Herald’s place the next morning – he had a job to go to, after all – and I arrived in our living area weighed down by two beautiful apple pies. They were lovely, with a good crumb on the crusts and a sweet, succulent filling. Most importantly, none of us had fallen over dead from eating them just yet.

  I don’t mean to be so flippant. Carver did examine them extensively before he allowed anyone to touch them, somehow using his false eye to determine that food could indeed pass through the Dark Room without being infused with anything strange or sinister.

  “Maybe you can pop out and grab us some pizza, next,” Mason said, smirking through a mouthful of pie.

  “Don’t push it,” I said. I knew he was joking, but all that time being away from the Dark Room made shadowstepping just that little bit more taxing for me. I was just out of practice, that was all.

  “It is not a bad idea,” Mama Rosa said, standing over us at our dining table, her fork and plate of pie looking diminutive in her massive fists. “We could start a service. You will be my delivery boy.”

  “Carver,” I whined. “Make them stop.”

  “They’re only joking,” Carver said. “One hopes. Sit, Banjo. No. No pie for you.”

  He scratched Banjo behind the ear, trying to get him to settle, then produced a treat from somewhere within his sleeves. Banjo froze in place at the sight of the Puppy Yum biscuit, transfixed.

  “There’s a good boy,” Carver said, dropping a few more of the treats in a corner of our kitchen, a good distance away from all the pie. “Daddy’s Little Murderer.”

  It was a really nice morning, in all, just Carver, Mama Rosa, and their many misbehaving sons gathered around the table for some good eats. Asher was stuffing his face full of pie and had little to contribute to the conversation. I almost thought of asking him about any results with Agatha and his gravesight, but hesitated. He looked so happy. I didn’t want to change that.

  Gil must have stayed over at Prudence’s, and Sterling had, in all likelihood, slunk off to bed long before the sun came up. He liked to sleep in these days. Mama Rosa was dissecting her slice of pie cautiously, like it was a bomb waiting to explode, mumbling something about making a coconut cream version.

  It was pleasant in the Boneyard. Nice, and calm, and quiet.

  And as my damn brain liked to do in these moments, it gave a little input on the situation.

  Too quiet, it burbled.

  Then a second voice spoke in my mind, this one real, and not just an argumentative fragment of my personality.

  “Dust? Where the hell are you?”

  I clutched at my temples, an alarming stab of telepathic pain sending me reeling. “Vanitas? Jesus, what’s happening? No need to nudge me like that, buddy.”

  “Emergency. Something’s wrong. Get your ass ready. Someone’s trying to break in.”

  I frowned as I answered out loud. “What, break into our bedroom? Why? I keep the door unlocked.” I slammed my hands on the table and stood up, knocking my chair over. Everyone turned to me, staring in cautious silence. “Is it Mammon? Are they back? Damn it to hell.”

  Carver rose to his feet, hissing as his false eye burned a pale amber. He looked around, scanning the Boneyard.

  “No, it’s not that,” Vanitas answered. I heard the whistling long before I saw him flying down the corridor towards me. What the hell could possibly ever have him so spooked that he wanted to be in our vicinity so badly? “I can’t tell what it is, but it’s – ”

  That was when the howling started.

  I clapped my hands over my ears, as did the rest of the Boneyard. It sounded a hell of a lot like that bizarre vocalization Banjo was making at the ritual to the Great Beasts, his voice joined by so many others. Even with my ears covered I could hear them, dozens upon dozens of baying dogs.

  Most telling of all, however, was the fact that Banjo’s eyes had turned a bright blue – the same color as the rune glowing on his forehead.

  Carver yelled something at me, which is to say that I only barely understood the things he was motioning at me with his lips. Now I’m not the best lipreader there is, but any idiot could have interpreted what Carver was trying to say.

  “Odin,” he screamed. “All-Father.”

  The entire Boneyard was rumbling, dishes and mugs clattering around in the kitchen cupboards, my plate crashing to the floor as it shuddered and jumped off the table. No earthquake had ever frightened me quite this much, and I spent my entire life in California.

  I watched, helpless, as Banjo took more air into his tiny lungs, but instead of throwing his head back to howl, he turned towards the abyss just beyond the platform of our kitchen, and made a single, decisive bark.

  The sound of it should have shattered my bones, if not my eardrums. Instead it shattered dimensions.

  Cracks began to spider all across the abyss, hairline and fine, at first, but immediately fracturing into huge gaps. Light poured into the Boneyard – sunlight from the world outside – as great chunks of the void fell away, crumbling and eroding in a way that my mind couldn’t entirely grasp. As the last of the abyssal rubble fell, I saw what was left: a rough, circular hole, just large enough for a train, or maybe a truck to pass through.

  Banjo had barked a hole that led straight into Valero.

  And then silence. Banjo had stopped howling. His eyes were back to normal, but the blue rune Odin left on his forehead was still there. He rushed towards the hole, breaking for freedom. Even with my dulled sense of hearing I could clearly make out Carver’s desperate cry.

  “No, my baby!”

  A net of fine amber fire leapt from his fingertips, launching clear across the room and towards the hole, but Banjo was too fast, bounding for the outside world on tiny, stubby legs, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. It was almost funny, seeing Asher and Mason sprint after him, the three members of the Boneyard who hated being stuck in it the most. A nephilim, a necromancer, and a corgi walk into a bar –

  “Do something,” Carver screeched at me, his eyes
wild, his hair in frantic disarray.

  “Okay,” I yelled back. Carver never panicked. Ever. This was important shit to him. Time to get serious.

  I checked for Banjo’s trajectory, spotting the shadow of a trash can on the sidewalk outside. I sank into my own shadow, rushing through the Dark Room, expecting to jump out through the sidewalk pavement and possibly tackle Banjo into submission, preferably without roughing him up.

  My foot went through the exit point within the Dark Room, and the hot light of the morning sun splashed across my back as I emerged in Valero, just on the sidewalk outside Mama Rosa’s restaurant. Banjo stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at me with his tongue wagging.

  “Good boy,” I said, bending down to scoop him up. “Good Banjo.”

  “Dust,” Asher screamed.

  I locked eyes with him just in time. He was pointing at something just behind me. No time to look. I grabbed Banjo – and my ass – and ran directly away from whatever had frightened Asher.

  A massive, ever-loving crash banged behind me, the collision so powerful that I swear the air rippled.

  I tumbled like a gymnast – don’t let anyone convince you otherwise, that was what happened – while cradling Banjo safely against my chest. Didn’t matter, though, he started yowling like a motherfucker anyway. I rushed to join the others before turning around to survey the destruction.

  The crash had come from the impact between an enormous truck and the twisted remains of what used to be a lamppost. The trash can I’d targeted for its shadow was all but flattened underneath the truck’s many, many wheels. If Banjo and I had been in the way, we’d just be two red smears on the pavement by now.

  I glowered at the truck, the angle of the sun making it hard to see through the glare of the cab’s windshield. I didn’t have to guess who the driver was. Banjo’s heralding was a good enough sign, as was the image of an eight-legged horse painted on the truck’s hood and sides.

  The door opened, and out stepped the All-Father himself, laughing deeply from inside his huge chest. His laughter thundered, making nearby awnings and trees shudder, their leaves rustling as he guffawed.