Liquid Fire

by Anthony Francis

  “Yeah, Mom,” Cinnamon said, poking me. “Stop drooling.”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “I’m—sorry,” I said. “Was I staring?”

  “I’ve been thoroughly ogled,” Jewel said, looking like she enjoyed it. “Hey, Dakota, thanks for coming backstage, but now we gotta start breaking things down, and I don’t want you handling equipment without a waiver. Meet you out back?”

  Cinnamon and I returned to our circuit around the interior of the building, wandering through thinning crowds as exhibitors closed up shop. Then we ducked outside, through the thousand hanging wheels and frames of a community bike repair shop, and onto a back loading ramp where, we were assured, the performers would exit.

  The air from the bay had turned chilly, and from the back of the big warehouse, Oakland looked dirtier, less inviting. But just beyond the docks and the train tracks, there were the same nice row houses, and the cool air was clean and pleasant.

  “So far,” I said, “Oakland is not living up to its reputation.”

  “Yeah,” Cinnamon said, bouncing back and forth on the loading ramp. Abruptly, she bent down, tail flicking through the air as she examined a piece of twisted metal, perhaps a discarded bit of sculpture. “No fightin’, not borin’!”

  “Come here,” I said, extending my arms, and she hopped up and fell backward into my arms. I tousled her hair, then straightened her headscarf. “I love you, Cinnamon.”

  “I loves you too, Mom,” she replied, refixing her headscarf the way she apparently wanted it, with one catlike ear popping up askew. “Thank you for letting me come with you tonight. For letting me come out here at all. For giving me a life.”

  “You aren’t going to be left out anymore,” I said, wrapping my arms around her upper chest and squeezing as hard as I could; she let me, but I could feel the wiry werekin muscles underneath. “I’ll be here, right behind you, at least until you hit college—Jeez.”

  “Jeez?” she said, staring off into the distance, her tail thwacking my legs.

  “We’re going to have to find you a college,” I said. “Sooner than we think—”

  “So long as they knows Goldbach from Goldfrapp, it’ll be fine,” Cinnamon said.

  “I’m not sure I know Goldbach from Goldfrapp,” I responded. “Both musicians, right?”

  Cinnamon snorted. “For the love—”

  The door squealed open, and a short, spiky-haired man in a rumpled shirt backed out, ripped arms laden with two milk crates, one precariously stacked atop the other, both filled to the brim with firespinning gear. He was laughing or coughing, backing straight into us, oblivious. Cinnamon sprang out of the way at once, but my coat caught on the railing and I stumbled.

  “Watch out,” I said, as he kept backing up straight into me. “Hey, hey, hey—”

  But it was too late. We collided. He lost his balance and the crates, and both of us were knocked down the ramp in a tumbled heap of tangled limbs and gear.

  “Ow,” I said, holding my arm, which I’d dinged on a rail on the way down. Spiky-hair jerked to his feet, and underneath the rumpled shirt I glimpsed a muscle tee packing a lot of muscle. Familiar—ah, the other firesword dancer. “What are you, deaf or something?”

  The short dancer dusted himself off, then extended a hand with a grin, saying nothing—and I immediately realized my mistake—he was deaf. “Oh, I’ve stepped in it, haven’t I?”

  “Not yet,” Jewel said, standing at the open door, arms folded—with her devilish smile. “Molokii really can’t hear you. But don’t worry, I can translate—”

  “You don’t have to,” I said, as she tapped his shoulder and began signing, a little too fast for rusty old me to follow—I quit signing when Mom died, and had only picked it up again since Nyissa lost her voice—but I got that she told him exactly what I said. “Oh, you didn’t have to.”

  Molokii laughed, a rough, odd sound that was almost a cough, and grinned at me. Again, he reached down to help me up, and I took the hand gratefully. He patted my shoulder, smiled again, then flicked his hands at Jewel. Before I could say anything, she translated.

  “He says don’t worry about it, you didn’t know,” she said. He flicked his fingers again, and she continued, “And he is sorry, it is really inconvenient at times.”

  “We do use our hearing to draw our attention,” I said, my mind churning. But I knew just what I’d done wrong, or at least why I felt guilty. “But I didn’t know that, and just because you bumped into me isn’t a reason for me to mock the disability of a whole group. I’m sorry.”

  Jewel’s eyes lit up at me. “Tell you what,” she said, moving her hands in those delicate gestures again. “Help us gather this up and carry it to his car, and all will be forgiven.”

  And so I got an education on a firespinner’s gear. This was the bottle of fuel, the white gasoline Jewel favored; that was a red snuffing towel, never to be confused with a white safety towel—the former put out the poi, the latter put out the performers, and “never the twain shall meet lest you and your dousee become twin tiki torches.” The poi were swords and wands and fans and meteors and monkey’s fists and Jewel’s specialty, “morningstars,” those long wands, tipped with wicks on chains, that had provided such a spectacular finish to her performance.

  When we were done, I took one crate, and Molokii took the other, Jewel took his keys, and we lugged all of it to the scraggly alley where he’d parked his car—a battered Mad Max-looking clunker that turned out to be a Toyota Avalon tricked out on the inside.

  “Nice car,” I said. “I bet that was a steal—”

  “Five hundred bucks, no joke,” Jewel said, waving as Molokii drove off, speakers thumping. “Back when we were at Berkeley, Molokii saw it in a junkyard, fell in love, and paid for it washing dishes one summer. Of course, it was totaled—one side scraped off—but he’s good with fire. He welded spare parts on to patchwork together a decent outer shell.”

  “Why does he need the sound system?” I asked, as we walked Jewel to her car, following a line of trees that seemed to divide the houses and warehouses.

  “Maybe he likes the vibration,” Cinnamon said, bopping herself in the head with one of Jewel’s poi. “He used the bass to keep time. Or, I dunno, if he rides friends in the car.”

  “That’s . . . those are both about right,” Jewel said, glancing at Cinnamon, shifting her duffel. “He does like the feel of the bass, and he sold it to some friends in Sunol, who let him drive it when he’s in town. You’re a smart little girl.”

  “Yes she is,” I said, reaching out and lifting the duffel off Jewel’s shoulder so she could get at the cute little sling backpack/purse trapped beneath it. “Need a hand?”

  “Thanks,” Jewel said, reaching behind herself to ferret for her keys in her sling backpack. She gave me that wry smile again. “You sure are handy to have around. If the car won’t start, would you pop the hood for me, look at the engine?”

  “Sure thing,” I said, trying to suppress a grin. I know I wear leather and ride a motorcycle—OK, OK, a scooter—but I never intentionally try to be butch. But Jewel seemed to like that, so I played it up a bit. “I’d hate for you to get those pretty little hands dirty.”

  Jewel rolled her eyes, and Cinnamon snorted again.

  Then Cinnamon’s nostrils flared. Her head jerked to the side. “Fuck, I means, fuck!” she barked, voice rising a register, so I knew even before she dropped into a crouch that this wasn’t my little street cat struggling with Tourette’s; this was real danger. “I smells a lizard!”

  I glimpsed movement. My head whipped around, but I missed whatever it was. I dropped Jewel’s duffel and whirled to put Cinnamon at my back, and now saw a man in a bulky jacket striding toward us on the sidewalk—and another man casually walking on the opposite side of the street suddenly veered toward us. I looked around for an escape ro
ute, but saw two more men stepping from the bushes around either side of Jewel’s car.

  They were like the United Nations of muggers—white, black, Latino, and a fourth man of an Asian race I couldn’t identify, all bearing down on us with purposeful intent. Each one was different—tall, short, wide, ripped; each one was the same, in comfortable khakis and baggy black jackets from which they pulled businesslike automatics I guessed were Glocks.

  The four men surrounded us with guns raised.

  “Aw, hell,” I said. “Now Oakland is living up to its reputation.”

  ———

  The lead man snarled, “You should never have come to Oakland, Jewel!”

  5. The Streets of Oakland

  “Wait, what?” I said. I should have been terrified, but I felt a giddy exhilaration as I realized the four men were all focused on Jewel. “This isn’t about me?”

  “No,” the man snapped, “and keep your yap shut, ‘DJ Irene.’ ”

  “What?” I said, laughing openly now. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Dakota, please, be quiet,” Jewel said, raising her hands. “Daniel, let them go. This doesn’t have anything to do with them—”

  “This your new squeeze, Jewel?” Daniel asked, flicking the gun at me. I still couldn’t nail his race. Not Korean or Chinese . . . maybe . . . I dunno, Eskimo? Polynesian? “Or your accomplice? Maybe we should beat the shit out of her and make you watch—”

  “Oh, good fucking luck,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets, squeezing my fists tight to build up mana in the yin-yangs in my palms. “Why don’t you try it?”

  “What did you say?” Daniel said, pointing the gun at me.

  “It translates to, scram while you can, pups,” Cinnamon said. “But you aren’t getting it.”

  Daniel swung his gun toward her. I jerked my hand out, murmuring shield—Cinnamon was vulnerable to silver bullets, but with enough concentration, my tattoo magic was a barrier to almost anything—but in Daniel’s lapse of concentration, Jewel moved.

  A dazzling flare of flash powder blinded me, I caught a glimpse of shimmering fingers flickering through an intricate pattern, and then a shield blossomed, a patterned bubble of flame as elaborate as any of my tribal designs. And in the brief moment as the shield expanded, driving our assailants back, Jewel reached over her back into her sling purse—and pulled out two wands.

  These were not springy and delicate like the ones she had used inside; they were metal, telescoping like combat batons, with flinty nuggets at the end of each chain. She whipped them down, striking the pavement, throwing sparks—and flint became meteors of rainbow fire.

  I pushed Cinnamon back behind me, spreading my hands, shielding her from the fiery battle. It was fluid and spectacular, like the performance earlier—but a thousand times faster. Arcs of light whipped out around Jewel and struck two assailants in the chest. Trails of flame crossed and deflected a bullet fired by Daniel. But her wands were generating more than just fire; my eyes widened as I saw, definitely this time, magical symbols in the curves of fire. Jewel whirled the batons faster and faster, creating an elaborate loop of magic around her, and for a brief moment, I flashed on a great big ball of string woven from spells written in fire.

  I tensed to move—but as soon as the fight started, it was over. The fourth assailant, behind Jewel, drew two long sticks, with crossbars like police tonfas. He struck them against the pavement as she had, and they lit up too, transforming into swords of flame—which he thrust into her ball of magic.

  One of her chains looped around it, disrupting the spell she was building. Jewel saw it, spun, and jerked downward, ramming the handle of her other rod into his chin. Her assailant staggered back, and Jewel whipped her poi free, but while she turned, Daniel had drawn two fire swords—and the other two opponents had drawn fire poi as well.

  “All right, we wanted to keep magic under wraps,” Daniel snarled, catching her poi with his flaming sword as she flailed it behind her to try to re-establish her shield. “But since you don’t have sense to keep our secrets from outsiders, neither will we!”

  And they fell on her. In moments, they’d caught her poi-staffs in a hopeless tangle and the fourth assailant recovered enough to clock her on the noggin with the butt of his sword. Jewel fell to the street in a little heap, poi falling from her hands as she clutched her head.

  “You should have stuck to the shadows like the rest of us,” Daniel said, glaring at her. “You were warned repeatedly not to share our secrets with outsiders, and here we see you giving a public performance built around the most sacred spins and fuels of our art!”

  “Fire is too beautiful to hide in the shadows. And a summoning must be public—”

  “Must be in the open,” Daniel corrected. “Not public. I think the Council is crazy to let you go ahead with this plan, but you still have to follow the rules of the Order. You may be the Princess of Fire—but you have no right to out all of us. Hold out her hand.”

  I raised my eyebrow. Like hell. I’d seen this movie before. The fire sword was oh-so-close to that delicate, struggling hand being held by two of the other firespinners. I had to talk fast, to distract them before they could burn her—without giving away that I was preparing to strike.

  “Hey! Forget about someone?” I said, folding my arms, shimmying my back, shifting one foot backward to stretch the whole length of the tattoos I wanted to activate. I cracked my neck one way, then the other, feeling the magic come alive; it also had the effect of looking like I was trying to intimidate them, which I was. “Or were you planning on a public performance?”

  I shot my hand out, murmured fling, and vine tattoo uncoiled from my skin, whipped out and struck the flaming sword out of his hand. Daniel cursed and held his hand—then his eyes widened, watching the glowing green tendril curl lazily back toward me.

  “Tattoo magic,” I said loudly, “is more than just pretty pictures, moving on the surface of the skin.” I let the vine coil around my arm, but kept it floating, in the air, at the ready. “I think you gentlemen will find it’s the most powerful magic there is—so back down.”

  I watched them closely, motioning for Cinnamon to move farther back. I no longer had enough vines to extend a full shield far beyond my body, but that one was impressive enough, a fluid green neon serpent of leaves that lit up the night as brightly as the poi had.

  But apparently it was not impressive enough to deter four determined muggers with guns and magic fire swords. Go figure. Daniel grabbed his still-burning sword and got back to his feet, cursing; I could see I’d actually drawn blood with the thorns on my newer design.

  “You know,” he said, whirling the sword experimentally, “I did know that.” I threw myself back into a low stance, shifting my back as if preparing myself for a physical blow. Seeing me crouch, he smiled and said, “But you know what, skindancer? Skin hates fire.”

  He whirled the swords and threw a gout of fire at me, a focused version of Jewel’s peacock display. But I’d seen that show tonight—and from his move I knew what was coming. And I’ve dealt with fire before. Last time I’d been burned. This time was different.

  The answer, oddly, came from the martial arts. In the art I practice, Taido, you don’t expend energy blocking the other guy’s punch; you accept that it is coming and change your body axis to move out of the way and counterattack—sort of like Aikido with punches.

  So when that rainbow wave of fire came at me, I was ready, not with a block, but with a twist. If I’d thrown mana into a shield, the fire would have built up against it, fed back and burned my skin; but instead, I whipped my vine out, mana hungry, and murmured, “Quench.”

  The rainbow fire sprayed off me, deflected by a coiling green line that grew brighter as each wave buffeted off it. It was over in less than a second, but at the end of it, that one vine ha
d blossomed into a thicket of mana swirling around me.

  “Yeah, skindancers know skin hates fire,” I said loudly, quickly crossing my arms in front of me before the others decided to drop Jewel and turn on me. I drew a breath, preparing my body to take in the rush of mana I was about to absorb. “You know what? Skin hates being poked by a needle too. That doesn’t mean we can’t use it to do magic. Like this!”

  I whipped my arms apart, retracting the vine all at once. I hunched, grimacing. It was excruciating as the mana I’d stolen pooled inside my body, but I rerouted it all to one particular tattoo. Daniel raised his sword, then hesitated, unsure of whether to attack or to defend.

  “Spirit of fire,” I said, grinning up at him, “show them the light!”

  “You call your attacks?” he said, both mocking and bewildered—then jerked back, as the back of my precious vestcoat ripped open and the head of my dragon tattoo reared into the air. Dismayed and astounded, he cried, “My God, she’s summoning a dragon—”

  The rest of the vest’s leathers tore away as the wings of the Dragon spread from my shoulders. My left pants leg was ripped to shreds as the Dragon’s tail uncoiled. The limbs of the Dragon slid from my sleeves and down the back of my tattered shirt, spreading wide.

  “Oh—my—God,” Daniel said, standing frozen, eyes filled with awestruck wonder as the Dragon’s spreading limbs briefly mirrored my crouched movements. Then he blanched, as the head of the Dragon reared before him, and he flinched back and screamed, “Oh, shiiii—”

  “Raaaaah!” I screamed—yeah, articulate—and the Dragon roared rainbow fire. All the firespinners scattered, and Jewel threw herself to the pavement. Daniel tried to deflect the flame with an artful move of his sword, but my magic, powered by my living skin and beating heart, was too strong, and he was thrown off his feet and knocked to the pavement beside Jewel.