Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns

by Rhonda Parrish

  “What’s your move, Flick?” I asked.

  Flick took a quick sip of the oily black drink he was holding, then put the glass down on the side table. He selected a card and threw it down onto the table. Even before it hit the steel, I was leaning forward, craning my neck to see his choice. It was the Hiyoribō, the legendary spirit from Japan who stops rainfall.

  I fist-pumped my triumph under the table, careful to keep my expression neutral. One of the things that aggressive card players like Flick always forgot was that the hydra’s heads were separate beings. I was casting the equivalent of nine cards at once. It might not be the strongest card in terms of attack but whatever damage the hydra might take would only damage one of its heads. If it was enough to kill the head, well . . . two grew back in its place. Its defence was undeniable.

  Behind him, I heard Poole whoop in victory.

  The table gave another seeeeeuuuuutttt noise, locking both of our cards into the game, and Flick’s Hiyoribō manifested itself as an old Japanese lady who carried an elegant Asian parasol over her shoulder. At the sight of her, my hydra threw back all nine heads and roared, though the sound was tinny, dampened by the shield. The old lady, hunched and crooked as she was, blinked mildly at the sound.

  Flick raised his glass in my direction, saluting me. Then he raised his finger and touched the shield, starting the round. The Hiyoribō took a small step towards my great beast. Then another. Then another. When she got within a few inches, she held the parasol high into the air. I expected something hugely magical to happen, like a battle from Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones, but instead a white mist started to creep from beneath the paper parasol. It edged towards the hydra slowly, like a fog coming down a steep mountainside.

  As soon as it touched the hydra, an intense sizzling filled the air. The hydra’s skin started to turn white and boil away. I watched with baited breath as the hydra roared in pain, gnashing its teeth in agony. The first of its nine heads melted away like a pat of butter in a pan, sizzling and spitting.

  “My old lady never fails,” Flick said, watching me and not the table. “I’ve been building her for years. She has the strength of nine hydra’s . . . even if they all had nine heads.”

  Poole was moaning again, the victory he felt only moments ago already forgotten. “Just wait . . .” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth to him. “It’s not over yet.”

  The hydra was still melting. The acidic mist had boiled away three of its heads and was showing no sign of stopping. I was starting to get nervous. “Just wait . . .” I mumbled again, more to myself this time.

  Then it stopped.

  The hydra had lost only four of its heads. And they were already growing back.

  Over the table, I grinned at Flick, whose jaw was pulsing as he clenched his teeth in obvious anger. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He looked down at his glass and I wondered whether he might throw it against the wall.

  On the table, the Hiyoribō bowed and took several steps backwards, her eyes lowered, waiting for the hydra’s answering attack. At first the hydra just stood on the table, pawing at the steel with its foot.

  “What’re you waiting for? Stop wasting time.” Flick growled at me. “Just do it.”

  I knew exactly what I was waiting for; the hydra needed all of its heads to grow back to ensure maximum damage. Did he think I was stupid, a level one player he could rush into making such a careless move? Not this time. Not with so much at stake. When the hydra was back to full strength, I raised a finger and touched the shield.

  The hydra galloped forward, its nine heads snarling and snapping like rabid dogs. The Hiyoribō watched it come at her without flinching. Even as it tore into her, ripping the flesh from her muscles, she didn’t utter a sound. When it was done, the hydra swaggered around the table. It hadn’t left a single scrap of the Hiyoribō. There was nothing left for Flick to heal. He’d played that card for the last time.

  “No!” Flick roared, clambering to his feet and throwing the glass he was holding against the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. The viscous drink oozed down the bar brick, glinting beneath the florescent strips hanging overhead.

  It looks like black blood, I thought. But even the unease I felt couldn’t break through my triumph.

  “Flick . . .” I started, then stopped when he whirled to face me, his expression tight with fury. I thought he might actually reach right across the table and pop me upside the head with his huge fist. I even squinted, waiting for the agony to come. But Flick’s anger was always fleeting. Quick to fight, quick to forget, I thought, willing my heart to stop thudding.

  He sat back down, already smiling that barely-there smile he had. “Double or nothing, old hoss. Double or nothing.”

  “No way,” Poole hissed over my shoulder. “Tuttle will kill me. You know he will. For once, stop whilst you’re ahead.” The last was said in a lower voice, directly in my ear.

  “What if I put up the fleet?” Flick asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I swallowed. The need to meet the challenge was great, but Poole was right; I had to quit whilst I was ahead. I shook my head. “Nuh-uh. I couldn’t afford to run the fleet even if I won.”

  “What if I pay for the fuel for the first month?”

  I shook my head, more hesitantly this time. “I’d still be as poor after the first month. I can’t afford it.”

  “You can afford it, old hoss, I know how well you do at the games.” His eyes locked on mine.

  He was right; I’d become a very wealthy person over the last few years, winning round after round of the game. Partly because I was ballsier than any other person I knew and partly because I had a knack for playing the right card at the right moment. Most of the meatheads like Flick played aggressively, attacking on every round instead of alternating with defence when needed. It was like they wanted their cards to reflect the type of man they were; strong, aggressive, and violent.

  That wasn’t an issue for me.

  “Maybe so,” I said, standing up, as if to leave the table. “But I don’t need your fleet.”

  “My cards then. How about winner takes all.”

  A silence so palpable that I could almost feel it descended on the room. Two other challengers nearby stopped their own game to listen in, their eyebrows almost meeting their hairlines in shock. Nobody ever wagered their entire stock of cards. The better cards took years to build up, and that didn’t include the artefacts—the rarest­—of the cards that could only be gifted to you by the mythical beast themselves, normally after a particularly strong game.

  “Winner takes all?” I said slowly, as if I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Winner takes all,” he repeated. He leaned back in his stone chair as if he was completely at ease—as if he hadn’t just offered the wager of all wagers.

  A wager I wanted to take.

  “How many you got?” I asked, attempting to stall. I was stupid for even considering it, maybe if I gave myself a few moments I would see it for what it was and not want to snatch Flick’s hand.

  “Forty-eight in total.”

  I sucked in a shocked breath. That was a colossal number of cards! I had a large collection myself but at twenty-seven it was just over half of Flick’s. If I wanted, I could sell half and spend the rest of my days living off the profits.

  Flick was watching me. “How many do you have, old hoss?”

  I swallowed. There was no way he would take the bet for my collection. “Twenty-seven.”

  Flick turned to Poole behind me. “And you?”

  Poole held his hands up in a gesture of submission. “Count me out, my friend. I got my ships back, that’s enough gambling for me for one day.”

  Flick’s stony face rippled into what I thought was a smile. “How many?”

  “Twenty.”

  Flick turned back to me. Now he was actually grinning. “Well, what do you know. Between the both of you, we have an equal wager. If you win, you walk away with an extra twenty-four
cards each.”

  “And if you win, you have the biggest card cache this side of the planet,” I said, my heart pounding so heavily in my chest I was sure the challengers either side of our table could hear it. I was like a junkie, desperate to take the hit of the bet. My mouth was actually watering at the thought. When I glanced at Poole, he was watching me warily, already shaking his head.

  “No man,” he said. “Count me out.”

  I grabbed him by the elbow and drew him over to the corner of the room, aware that every pair of eyes followed us. “Listen, Poole . . .”

  “No. I know what you’re going to say but the answer is no. Tuttle would kill me.”

  “You owe me,” I whispered savagely, hating how ruthless the words sounded. Yes, he owed me but I’d promised I’d never call in that debt . . . and yet here I was, desperate to take the gamble. If I won, I would be the ultimate winner. There would never be another bet like this. Almost fifty cards? It’s the stuff of legends.

  “Think about it, man; there’s no way a man like Flick would ever risk his cache unless winning was certain. He has something up his sleeve. You know he does. We will lose.” We locked eyes for a long moment and I could read his agony there. Just like me, he wanted to do this, but he was too afraid. The smell of his fear was as ripe as his breath. I needed to reassure him.

  “I never lose.”

  “Neither does Flick. Listen, I always back you. You know I do. But your need to win . . . it’s too much this time. I can’t back you. Not against him.”

  “I’ll use it,” I said, my tone so low that I could barely hear the words myself. But Poole heard. His eyes widened.

  “You will?”

  I nodded. “It’s made for times like this. We can’t lose. Are you in?”

  His face split into a huge grin, his fear burned away with the heat of my promise. “Fuck yeah I’m in. Let’s do this.”

  “OKAY. THREE ROUNDS. Winner takes all.” Flick said, announcing the rules to the crowd that had gathered around our table. There were at least two hundred people here—more than the room could legally hold. Every inch of space was taken, every seat occupied. Even the tables and bar were crammed with people, all elbowing their neighbours to get a better view. Nobody was really listening to Flick; they were too busy placing their own wagers on the outcome of the game with chancers who’d heard about the challenge. Others were shouting at the harassed-looking barman for drinks. I bet he’d never seen his hall so full of people.

  Nervous, I sat at the table surveying the room and sipping a glass of burning liquid. Flick had poured me an oily fingerful of whatever he was drinking. “To calm your nerves,” he said as he slid the glass over to me. It was vile, whatever it was, but it was free and the burning in my chest soothed my nerves.

  The ultimate gamble.

  Flick raised a spade-like hand and the rumble in the room quieted. The excitement was so electric that the air crackled like moments before a storm. “Three rounds. Winner takes all,” Flick repeated.

  “Winner takes all,” I said, my lips numb.

  Flick’s eyes darted over to mine. The corners of his mouth curled up and I knew he was about to announce something unplanned. I held my breath as he said, “And we’ll play the element of fire.”

  There was a moment of absolute silence and then the room broke into an excited roar. If we played the fire element, it meant only fire or ice demons could be used. Water and air would be nullified. Normally, that would cut any deck in half, if the player was savvy enough to keep the elements equal in his deck. I wasn’t savvy; I liked playing water, which meant my playable deck had been reduced to a paltry seven cards.

  Seven cards . . .

  Shit.

  Ironically, my blood turned to ice. My chances had been significantly reduced. I blinked, considering Flick’s announcement. Poole met my eyes, his own fear as clear as day in his expression. He knew of my preference for water. Flick looked over to me, his expression smug. He was hoping that he’d unsettled me so, to prove a point, I gave an approving nod. “If that’s how you want to play it, fire’s more than fine with me.”

  I’m sure I saw his smile falter a little. Maybe I imagined it, I don’t know. But even the thought that I’d unsettled him made my confidence soar. I could do this. I didn’t need seven cards; I needed three well-played ones. I leaned forward, smiling. “Okay, your round first.”

  “Oh no,” Flick answered, wagging a meaty finger at me as if I was a naughty school child. “You first, old hoss.”

  “Not a chance,” I said, meaning it. I would walk away from the table before that happened. “The challenger always lays first. You know that. Besides, I went first in the last round.”

  Flick leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the headrest. He looked calm, at ease . . . and yet I saw the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. “Very well.” He pulled his cards out of his breast pocket and started to rifle through them. He organised them between his fingers like a pro-poker player, creating an ordered deck. Then he selected one, gave me a quick glance, slid it back into the pack and then picked another card instead. He threw it down on the table.

  Every part of my body wanted to lean in and scrutinise the card like an overeager newbie but if Flick was going to play it cool then so was I. I darted my eyes to the card on the table, taking in as much detail as I could in the quickest time possible. My chest unlocked slightly at what I saw.

  Flick had laid down the Santelmo, the Philippine spirit that roamed the world in the form of a fireball. The strength and magic skills were high, as expected, but the defence was mediocre. It was a good card, but Flick seemed to be sticking to his aggressive strategy.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, giving him the chance to backtrack, though I wanted him to stick with this card. When he said he was, the table locked in with that high pitched seeeeeuuuuutttt noise. He touched the shield and the card burst into flames. The flames climbed higher and higher until they formed a vaguely human shape. A few of the people nearby gasped at the sight.

  I drew out my own deck and pulled out all the cards I could no longer play, sliding them back into my breast pocket. I was left holding my seven cards. Seeing my poor hand, Flick’s face broke into a smug grin. I ignored him. I read each of my cards over before selecting my choice; the Wondjina, the aboriginal weather demon that was element-less. I tossed it onto the table with a careless flick of my hand and whispered, “Fire.”

  With no fanfare, a humanoid figure climbed out of the card. It was strangely ethereal, with two huge black eyes that dominated the head. It was half the size of the Santelmo. Flick looked at my beast and threw his head back, barking a short and sharp laugh. “That’s it?” he scoffed. “That’s going take down my Santelmo?”

  I didn’t answer. I pressed my finger to the shield and activated the battle. The Wondjina walked towards the first beast with almost no presence at all. It looked as if a child was approaching an experienced fighter. I held my breath as it came to a stop before the Wondjina, the huge black eyes staring blindly through its opponent. Suddenly, it bent at the waist and charged. It struck the middle of the Santelmo, sending it flying into the shield, where it bounced off and crumpled into a fiery bundle. The room gasped, and then applauded, thinking it was over. But even I knew the Santelmo wasn’t destroyed.

  Sure enough, the Santelmo got to its feet almost immediately, though it staggered a little as it did. The Wondjina stood back, the fabric of its strange painted clothing smouldering where it had touched the Santelmo. I calculated the damage in my head; it’d probably lost around ten percent of its XP but that was okay.

  “Here we go,” Flick said, watching as the Santelmo approached my demon. Toe-to-toe, it came to a stop and started to move its limbs in a strangely elegant way. Even from outside of the shield, I could smell the flames in the air. It grew and grew until the beast flung its arms out, sending a huge ball of fire into my Wondjina. Beside me, Poole cried out in anguish.

  Nothing could be se
en on the table except fire. The intense heat washed over us like the aftermath of a bomb. I felt my hair tickle my cheeks. Eyes still on the table, I tossed my head back and flicked it away impatiently.

  “Is it over?” Poole asked. “Did we get owned?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said with a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. But I was justified; as the flames died down, the Wondjina was there. It was on its knees, its pale skin bubbling from the heat, but it was there. Flick let out a roar of impatience. I barely noticed; I was too busy calculating in my head. The attack had probably taken seventy—maybe eighty—of its hit points. With the ten it’d lost previously, it meant I should still have enough for the last attack.

  Just as before, the Wondjina bowed from the waist and charged. Just like before, it sent the Santelmo flying into the shield. But this time it didn’t get up.

  “Fuck sake!” Flick pounded his fist into the steel chair he was sitting in. I noticed with alarm that it bent beneath his strength.

  Poole was clapping me on the back, his happiness making him over eager. “Yes. One round down.”

  “Yes, one round,” Flick answered, his eyes dark and hard. “But we have two more yet. That was just a warm up.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Your draw.”

  I decided to play it bold and call the fieriest of all the fiery beasts; the salamander. I’d spent years building this card up. Salamanders were notorious for being defensive cards but mine was the strongest I’d ever come across. I threw it down and watched as my salamander, my faithful old friend, prowled around the table, breathing fire into the air.

  “Look at the size of that,” a man nearby breathed. “Mine own salamander ain’t half the size.”