But it wasn’t his gut I’d told the snake to bite down hard on.
I glanced over. Three fire ninjas—the singed one who’d been hit by the truck, the wet, bulky guy who’d been pummeled by Cinnamon, and one I assumed came from the left—were all ganging up on Devenger. They needed the advantage; he was not fast, but he was graceful, using some combination of Tai Chi and Aikido, throwing blows off with style and sending more than one of the ninjas sprawling. No doubt, three-on-one, they would eventually have taken him; but I strode over to them, hauled the big one off Devenger, and belted him smack in the mask.
Ow! I damn near broke a knuckle, and his mask didn’t crack like the one Cinnamon hit at Union Square, but I knocked it sideways, making the ninja wave his hands in the air. Frantically, he tried to reseat the mask—and I punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. When his hands went for his midsection, I twisted his mask so I was sure he couldn’t see.
I looked up in time to see Devenger’s elbow CRACK into the jaw of another ninja; then he swirled like a matador and the remaining ninja spun off. I stepped in to assist, then flinched as Devenger’s whole front lit up with a bright yellow glow.
Devenger flung himself backward as a gout of flame seared the space in which he’d been standing. He whipped out his laser pen as I extruded my vines, as mana hungry as I could make them, trying to deflect the next ball of flame hurled by the fourth fire ninja. I couldn’t stop the blast, but I did tilt it up a little, and Devenger flattened himself to the ground as the roiling ball of flame sailed over him, close enough to singe eyebrows.
Devenger sat up. He flicked his pen. Then he raised it and fired, sending out a red beam of light . . . just as the remaining ninja spun up his fire sword into a complicated pattern that spat forth a torrent of flame.
Devenger’s red beam collided with the ninja’s fiery blast, scattering it as effectively as if the ninja had been playing the fire over a solid brick wall. Devenger slowly got to his feet, pen raised, bracing himself, keeping his aim, deflecting the stream as I came to guard his back.
I threw up a shield of vines, concentrating on their thorns, then risked a quick glance back at Devenger’s device. The laser pointer was scanning a shield spell on the surface of the roiling flame, using the opponent’s magic against itself—not just metamagic, an extremely advanced technique I’d yet to master, but programmatic magic, drawn with laser light. The possibilities staggered my mind. Graphomancy on tap. Devenger would be a formidable opponent.
“Stay with me,” he said. “I’m going to push him back.”
And Devenger pushed forward, carefully keeping his balance, driving the stream of flame forward as I guarded his blind spot with a coiled spiral made from my remaining vine. The ninja was driven back, but his fellows were recovering. When Devenger reached the pool around the fountain, he stepped inside, joining Jewel and Cinnamon who also stood back to back, their claws and fire poi out. Only then did I notice Molokii slumped against the fantastical shape of the fountain itself, half of his face and much of his hair burnt.
“Dakota! Duck!” Devenger said, diving aside as he suddenly whipped his wand down. I crouched to avoid the flames, but before they hit me, Devenger conjured up a wall of water that hissed as the flames splayed against it. Devenger whirled, stepping into the pool with a splash, drawing the point of the laser through the water, and on its shimmering surface I could see the beginnings of a magic circle. “Everyone together! Everyone together! Around the fountain!”
We all ducked inward, splashing into the basin, and then the wall of water shot upward and merged over our heads, into a clear dome of liquid twenty feet wide, gleaming with shimmering magic more prismatic and beautiful than any soap bubble.
Devenger twisted his device, pointing it straight overhead. Now I could see a tiny bulb glowing, the kin to the mana generator I’d seen in Ligotti Hall. Then I looked past Devenger, out of the bubble, to glare at the fire ninjas.
The fourth ninja was rejoining his three companions, who were now back on their feet. By now, Jewel had re-lit her morning stars, Devenger dropped to a crouch, and I was squeezing my hands hard to build up a charge of mana.
“Cinnamon,” I muttered. “Snarl. Show your claws.”
Cinnamon glanced up at me, then threw her long, bony fingers out, sharp claws extended, shouting, “Raaaaa!” Then I raised my hands, one over the other, and opened them, releasing the mana into a glowing ball hovering between them.
The ninjas now had fully reformed, a four-man phalanx facing off against us. Jewel whipped her poi around, making them spark against each other, and one ninja elbowed another. Then the ninjas ran off, disappearing into the courtyard of a nearby building.
After a minute, with all four of us staring in all four directions, Devenger let the spell lapse. Water splashed down around us, and I shivered gratefully as the cool water hit my bare arms. After another minute, I waded forward, climbed onto the pool’s rim, and hopped out.
———
“Uh, yeah,” I said dryly, staring out at the courtyard after them, “you’d better run.”
32. A Whiff of Dragon Juice
“Ow.” I felt the road rash on my right arm. “At least they didn’t leave a message—”
Cinnamon pulled on my arm. I winced and turned around. On the opposite side of the fountain from where I stood was the wide front and long sloping roof of the Stanford University Bookstore. Across its front glass was a cooling mandala of the same type we’d seen at Liquid.
“Crap,” I said, watching cracks spread through the glass. “Well, did you get to go in?”
“What?” Cinnamon asked, confused. She folded her arms, hunching a little like she was shivering, and I wondered if the moisture on her cheeks was all from Devenger’s shield. “Yes, Mom. They hit us right after we walked out. Jewel threw up a shield, but . . .”
“It’s OK, baby,” I said, squeezing her. “Thanks for defending my daughter, Jewel.”
“They were after me, not her,” Jewel said, looking at Molokii’s burns.
“You could have run,” I said. “Both here, and at Union Square—”
“You give me too much credit,” Jewel said, grimacing as she touched Molokii’s face. It wasn’t as bad as it had first looked, but he still needed immediate medical attention. “He didn’t hear. They shouted something before the attack, but he didn’t hear it coming—”
“Yes, yes, at the Bookstore,” Devenger was saying into his cell phone. He glanced quickly at Molokii. “We have several burn victims, send an ambulance. The perpetrators headed north—four figures in dark clothing wearing masks. Yes, I’ll stay on the line.”
He pulled out a bright blue Bluetooth earbud and popped it in his ear.
“Do you have any idea who those ninjas were?” I asked.
“Ninjas?” Devenger said. “Ninjas? You mean those firespinning hooligans?”
“Well, obviously,” I said, “They had the black pajamas and everything—”
“Black pajamas do not a ninja make,” Devenger said, offended. “Real ninjas use stealth. These gentlemen didn’t. Real ninjas avoid attention. These didn’t. Real ninjas use many small blows as prep for a killing strike; these guys . . . let’s hope that wasn’t what they were doing.”
I stared at him. “I may want to ask you more about what you know about ninjas.”
“Atlanta has a dojo,” Devenger said, seeming to gesture expansively without ever taking his attention off Molokii and the burns on his face. Frowning, Devenger pulled out his laser pointer, adjusting it carefully. “Let’s have a look at you, young man—”
“Molokii is deaf,” Jewel said. “And he’s not great with the lipreading—”
“Nobody is,” Devenger said. “Can you sign for me?”
I started to raise my hands, but Jewel beat me to it. Well, fine. I left them to
it; I was pissed at her anyway. Jewel was holding out on me about liquid fire. She’d known what it was, but never let on that she used it—which today might have put my daughter in danger.
While Devenger and Jewel attended to Molokii, Cinnamon and I helped some of the students who’d been burned. The damage was not as bad as it had appeared; the kid who’d been most badly hit had dropped and rolled, and two other victims had been put out by a walrus-mustached visiting parent, who’d run into the Bookstore to get a fire extinguisher.
The worst hit, but least harmed, was Ferguson, Carnes’s errand boy. According to walrus-moustache, the fire ninjas hit him the moment he moved to help. The tough little man had been knocked cold by a gout of fire, but his bike leathers protected him. Now, singed but sound, he was helping bandage another victim. He glanced up when my shadow loomed over him.
“When the Guild gave you those tickets, we expected you might throw them back at us,” Ferguson said. “And we didn’t have this in mind if you did. Scratch that—we thought something nasty might happen, but never planned to do anything to you. You gotta know that.”
“I know that,” I said. “Thanks for helping protect my daughter.”
He paused, glaring off into the distance. Now I could see the side of his face was singed, just like Molokii’s. True to their debated “ninja” nature, the fire warriors had attacked from the side, taking two of the strongest fighters out first without tackling them headlong.
Cinnamon returned with my smartphone, filled with pictures of the mark on the glass. “Got it comin’ and goin’,” she said. “Look fast. It’s not as bright as the others, a little splotchy. It’s almost like they’re running out of the stuff that gives it its kick.”
I stepped up to the shimmering mandala, which was indeed dimming out, almost gone, unlike the huge mark at Union Square which had lasted three hours. “Lend me your nose, baby girl. Smell that, that weird tang? Is this the same chemical they used at Union Square?”
Cinnamon wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I smells it. Same thing as Oakland, too,” she said, whiskers twitching. “Something funky, like gasoline or olive oil, but it isn’t just that. There’s something else. Something . . . animal like. Oily, like a lizard . . . but not.”
“Damn it,” I said. Was she smelling liquid fire? “Extract of dragon glands, maybe?”
Cinnamon hissed. “Like lyke juice,” she said, and there was an ominous undertone to those two simple words I’d never heard together before. “If it really is dragon juice, that would be some of the rarest shit on the Earth—and it’d be running out. Because—”
“Because there are no more dragons,” I said, shaking my head. She really was a genius.
“Everyone all right?” Devenger asked, adjusting his laser as we returned. Jewel was signing to Molokii, who signed back how glad he was that the “mother of the dragon” had saved his ass. Interesting. Then Devenger asked, “Why didn’t you use your claws, young lady?”
“What? No way. I’m not gonna give anyone lycanthropy,” Cinnamon said, hugging her arms to herself again. Only now did I see the blood on her palms where her own fingers had cut her when she’d been hitting the big bruiser. “Not even someone trying to kill me.”
The squawk of a siren in “get out of the way” mode sounded. I sighed. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “I think we’re going to miss the award ceremony—”
“No,” Cinnamon said, horrified. “But I got so close. Can’t we—”
“Not unless the police are extraordinarily quick,” I said. Something else struck me. “And I’m sorry for you too, Professor Devenger. I think your cover is blown—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Devenger said, raising his “wand.” “Cover your eyes.”
Jewel ducked her head and covered Molokii’s eyes, and I pulled Cinnamon close and squinted, using techniques Nyissa had taught me to shield my eyes from the influx of mana. Devenger flicked the wand, and its pointer tip began spinning, humming, tracing out an elaborate pattern on the ground, on the walls, on the skin of everyone around us, runes and markings that tore at my defensive perimeter like it was paper. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling mana sway around me, muttering to myself over and over again, “it was real, it was real, it was real.”
“Mom?” Cinnamon said uncertainly. “What . . . what just happened?”
I opened my eyes and looked down at her. She looked dazed. I looked around and saw everyone standing around, a bit dumbfounded; then I looked back at Devenger, at the wizard, who was slipping the pen back into his pocket with a wink.
“Here come the men in black,” I muttered, sing-song.
“Excellent work, Ms. Frost,” he said, his voice seeming to echo inside my skull. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more brilliant display of magic. Why, if it weren’t for your intervention, I think everyone here might have been killed.”
“Uh . . . yeah.” I still knew exactly what had happened—except, what had happened, exactly? The memories were fuzzy, like they didn’t want to take—and I was an experienced magician. Wasn’t there something I was supposed to ask Devenger? It was gone.
I saw policemen walking toward us across the square, and I sighed. “Honey, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think we’re going to miss the awards ceremony—”
“No,” Cinnamon said, horrified. “We got so close. Can’t I—”
“Not unless the police are . . . unusually quick,” I muttered, forcing myself to reconstruct. The policemen had gotten out of their car, assessing the situation . . . but once Devenger finished putting the whammy on them with his little pointer, they had made a beeline for me. My head hurt. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Professor Devenger.”
“If you were, how would you know?” Devenger asked, leaning back, looking remarkably harmless. “I’m glad I could help you save your daughter and your friends. But please remember—you have access to a source of liquid fire, even if you don’t know it, and the Wizarding Guild of San Francisco will help you in anything you do if you could procure some of it for us.”
The policemen stepped up to me, asking me what happened and how I’d saved all these people from the bad guys. I answered their questions, staring at Devenger all the while, who just rocked on his heels, smiling at me like a happy old Santa in a professor suit. With a flick of his wrist, he’d convinced a dozen people that everything he’d done had been done by me.
———
I was glad he had helped us—because Devenger would be a dangerous enemy.
33. Nighttime Visitor
Long after everyone evacuated Dinkenspiel Auditorium, long after Security emptied the Stanford Bookstore, the Stanford police finally quit questioning me and cleared us to go . . . long after the canceled conference award ceremony had been scheduled to conclude.
We regrouped with the vampires at Nola, a New Orleans/Mexican fusion restaurant in nearby Palo Alto that Saffron’s vampire colleagues claimed was “safe ground,” an Edgeworld demilitarized zone where we could hole up until it was time to take Jewel to the airport.
I immediately saw why vampires loved the place—filled with vaguely disturbing folk art, Nola recreated a French Quarter style courtyard, and was surrounded by a warren of little streets and alleys where a dining couple could later sneak off for a little . . . ah . . . “necking.”
The waitstaff let us hole up in a private second-floor cubbyhole near the emergency exit. Vickman stood like a statue at the entrance of our area, with a commanding view of the stairs. I sat in a chair just behind him, turned crosswise so my view complemented his. While we did so, Ferguson, bandaged but alert, lurked in the downstairs bar, nursing a beer in a seat that gave him a cross view of the long entryway. Anyone who wanted to hurt my friends would have to go through all three of us, and then deal with the vampires—and if they got through all that, they’d face the wrath of our vampire a
llies for violating their turf.
I took a cautious sip of Jewel’s margarita on the rocks—it was surprisingly strong. I gave it back to her and shook my head. “Thanks but no thanks—I want to be able to drive,” I said. Jewel smiled and nodded, but kept signing to the hero of the hour, Molokii.
In truth, Molokii was little worse for wear, but half his head had disappeared into a white bandage—so he attracted attention from everyone: our vampires, the server, other diners, even a nod from Vickman. Through Jewel, he kept trying to say he hadn’t really done anything, that he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the story kept amplifying in the echo chamber until half the table was convinced he’d body-blocked a ball of fire to protect Jewel.
Cinnamon, on the other hand, had fought with relish, but, without visible injuries, she felt as if she was being ignored, and now moped with vigor. She’d finished her “hubcap burger” and was now picking at the remains of my vegetarian “jambalaya,” glaring at the vegetables.
My phone buzzed, and her ears picked up.
“Is it—”
“Let me see,” I said, picking up. I’d been on and off the phone with Devenger and the organizers of the Hilbert Conference all night, as he tried to find a way to reschedule the awards ceremony. I wasn’t hopeful, but the text message was worse than I’d feared. “Aw man—”
“No,” Cinnamon said. “Oh, no no no. Let me see, let me see—”
“Oh, all right, all right,” I said, turning the phone toward her.
The text read: «Disaster—security has canceled rest of conference.»
“Oh, no,” Cinnamon said, hands going to her mouth. “Oh no oh no oh no, we killed it—”
Liquid Fire Page 25
