Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  Minerva squatted in a room in an older mansion in the West Adams neighborhood near USC’s campus. The place had been rehabbed years ago by the nephew of the 1960s has-been TV star who’d originally owned it. Simple and run down, it was at least a place that could actually be afforded, more or less, by grad students and college kids. It was far easier with her sporadic cash flow to rent a room there and keep to herself than it was to come up with first month, last month, security deposit, and a (genuine) credit history for a real apartment. Allen came by once a month to collect rent and didn’t ask questions. In turn, she paid him promptly in cash from whatever she’d recently pawned.

  Allen said she was the best tenant he’d ever had. Given his usual clientele, it wasn’t much of a compliment, but Minerva would take it.

  The drive back had taken over an hour. There was never a non-busy time on the 405. During the ride, Saff hadn’t complained about the lack of leg room in the Prius, and Minerva had given up trying to make conversation to cut the tension long before they’d driven past Malibu. The silence stretched between them, pregnant and taking on a life of its own.

  When they pulled up to the small lot behind the house, Minerva hopped out and then waited for Saff to do the same. When the dragon unfolded herself from the car, she kept her eyes downcast, and her shoulders were hunched.

  “You were right, Minerva.”

  “Naturally,” Minerva quipped as she leaned against the car. “But what about this time?”

  “The rage I feel for my sister is too raw, too fresh. I almost did something I most surely would have regretted. Something barbaric and beneath my clan.”

  Minerva held up her hands. “It’s not like I don’t know about getting your hands dirty, and I’m not going to judge you. You’re mad. Hell, I’m pissed. I didn’t even know what the ‘gem’ was, but I feel horrible. Whoever is trading in these little lives and snuffing them out? They need to be stopped!”

  Saff turned on her heels. “That’s why I must now head to the next address. It’s not too far from here.”

  Minerva’s heart thumped to life like a jack rabbit. She lunged forward and grabbed up at Saff’s shoulder. She couldn’t quite reach it—damn Amazonian height—but she was able to get Saff to stay in one place. “You’re just going to go do a repeat of interrogations with Cousin Douche?”

  Saff frowned. “That is how it is done. I need to get answers. If I hadn’t been so thorough with the thugs on the beach, I would not know that they had nothing more to offer me.”

  “You made the man wet himself and almost tore him apart.”

  “I do not understand?”

  “Clearly.” Minerva dropped her hand and nodded toward the front door. “Look follow me into my château, and we’ll come up with a plan. You aren’t filled with murderous rage right now, I hope.”

  “No, I will not do anything from now that will lose me in the abstraction. I still have my clan yet to face. I do not wish to bring shame on my family.”

  Minerva’s breath caught in her throat, and she ignored a long ago ache in her chest. What must it be like to be so confident of your place in the world? To know that your nature and some good, if difficult, choices were all that your family needed from you, and no more?

  “Well, one of us has gotta keep from shaming their ancestors. Still,” she said before hopping up the concrete steps and unlocking the door, “You have to admit that your approach, crazy dragon lady, needs some serious work.”

  Saff followed her but a hint of amusement had actually flickered in her cobalt eyes. “Crazy?”

  “Maybe you’re not literally nuts,” Minerva confessed, passing through the threshold, “but you’re not thinking clearly when you’re mad. I get that. I’ve never made my best decisions pissed off either.”

  She led Saff up the winding stairs to the gable on the third floor to the small room she called home. Flinging open her door, she let Saff take in the scenery, the small twin bed, the few hardback books she’d kept over the years, and the piles of clothes. And the butterflies. Minerva had no idea how Saff would react to her collection of butterfly posters; Minerva’s one indulgence. Since settling for the last year in Los Angeles, she’d allowed herself to at least pretend this was a permanent arrangement. And that meant Minerva had to put down some furniture (even if some of it was found or stolen) and decorate.

  The posters brought her closer to her grandmother, and that was all that mattered.

  Besides, she didn’t care what Saff thought of her. Much.

  “I need to get going,” Saff countered.

  “You’re at least intrigued in my pitch, or you wouldn’t have followed me up here.” Minerva crossed the threshold and flung herself onto the bed. Saff stayed standing ramrod straight in a corner of the room like the warrior she was. Minerva wondered if the dragon knew how easily her eyes flitted to windows, how often Saff watched the sky. Maybe she did. “Anyway, I was going to say that I had the whole situation covered.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “That gas meter schtick we did? I use it a lot. If I’m casing a target—“

  “Charming.”

  Minerva narrowed her eyes for a moment at the dragon. She appreciated how difficult things were for Saff right now, but the moralizing wasn’t exactly appreciated. It hadn’t been Minerva’s dream to be a runaway at fifteen, and she needed to eat and a place to stay that kept her safe. Stealing from rich assholes who had more jewels and iPods than they could keep track of kept her alive, and that wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

  At least not completely.

  “As I was saying, people can be talked into things. You lost it with the Douche, um, Brody Johns. You were getting your dragon mojo on, almost freezing the place solid, and your scales were creeping out.”

  Saff’s head quirked back at her like a raptor aiming its attention before a strike. “They were not.”

  “They were. I noticed in the car, too. I thought you had it together.”

  She sighed. “Normally, I do. It is simply that… When I found my sister, I had hopes I could save her, that tonight would be the night these disappearances finally came to an end. I’ve never had to be alone with a dead hatchling before. It was more grief than I could bear.”

  “You need a minute to breathe, Saff.” Minerva sat up and folded her legs under her. “Time’s of the essence, no doubt, but take a few hours, get your head back in the game, and let me help you. There are just some things that demand finesse. You don’t want a trail of witnesses, and you can’t afford, I’d bet, to get human authorities on your radar.”

  “No, that would be most unwise.”

  “It’s okay to mourn.”

  “I didn’t want to.” Saff’s tone grew quiet and broken as she folded over herself, holding her arms. “If I were better at putting the pieces together the dragons—my brothers and sisters all—would not be suffering.”

  “And you’re the only shaman on this case?”

  “Of course not. Finding the human who is stealing our young and our magic has been top priority for over a year.”

  “Exactly. Then mourn. But you have to accept that you’re the least likely person to blame. Trust me. You’re trying to help. You didn’t buy an egg somewhere on a creepy ass black market and lock it in a closet or… do what I did.”

  “Your choices were your own, Minerva, but you have also more than kept your promise to me. You have helped me determine my next course of action and kept me from doing something I’d live to regret.” She straightened her shoulders once more and gave a single graceful nod. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “And yet,” Minerva said. “That sounds like a brush off.”

  “You were only asked to show me to Mr. Johns. You have complied.”

  “Yes, but you need me.”

  Saff snorted. It was the first unbecoming gesture she’d ever made. At least in front of Minerva. So far, the dragon oozed cool. (Pun not intended, but applicable.) “If I remember correctly, it was I who
saved you on the beach.”

  “Fair. But I got you the address you need, and now I can help you try a little persuasion, instead of blunt force. At least sometimes. Save a few buildings in Los Angeles the pain of dragon ice and claws while I’m at it.”

  “I…”

  “I get it. You pack a lot of power. I still think we can do more, and faster, together. After all, don’t you need a local to help show you the ropes?” Well, as local as a year-long resident of the City of Angels could be, but Minerva wasn’t gonna bring that up.

  Saff considered this information, her brows knitting in concentration as she did so. “If it speeds up our search, it is worth it. However, I confess I am confused.”

  “You’re not the only one today, trust me. But shoot.”

  “Your obligation is done,” Saff stated bluntly. “You are a thief. Why do you still want to help?”

  “First, I’m more than just a thief.” No, she wasn’t a little offended with the label, thanks for asking. “Second, I saw the pain these dealers are causing, and I know we can stop it. I never want to feel what I did back at the hotel, to touch a dead baby—of any species—and feel nothing at all.”

  Saff stilled. “Humans do not feel vitality from the eggs. They only feel the magic, the raw power.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you have underestimated some of us,” Minerva challenged as she sat up on the bed and propped herself against the wall. “I felt her heartbeat. I know that now. I didn’t understand at first how a gem could pulse like that, but I felt her, and I felt her snuffed out, too. If I can help it, I don’t want that to ever happen again.”

  She hopped off the bed and held out her hand for Saff to take. The dragon eyed her, studying her long and hard before taking her hand. “Partners?”

  “Partners.” Saffyranae squeezed her palm tightly, but not too tightly, and as she released her hand, ran her middle finger Minerva’s palm. The gesture was strange, and a little intimate.

  “Why the hesitation?” Minerva asked. Trying to ignore the giddy thrum of electricity arching through her from Saff’s touch. “I’m not dirty or contagious.”

  Saff dropped her hand and bowed her head a bit. “Forgive me. I want to believe you have no angle in this Minerva, and I hope that you don’t. I can usually tell when humans lie, but you’re quite gifted and committed at what you do. I am too tired and too sad for any more betrayals today.”

  “I swear, Saffyranae, I will help you. I’ll help them all.”

  And then, maybe, I’ll be more than just a thief again.

  8

  Clay

  It called to him.

  The egg Toph brought with him. The shiny stone that wasn’t a stone. It hummed and thrummed from within the safe inside his brother’s Georgetown estate. They’d been on the road for a long time before coming back here. Clay didn’t know if it had been days or weeks. Maybe a month. The campaign stops were all the same. The empty words about helping “real” Americans, about making the world better. Clay could parse easily that this all meant Toph would make things better for his donors, so he didn’t know why anyone else couldn’t understand too, unless the masses just didn’t want to comprehend.

  Simple realities were hard enough, even compared to what Clay lived.

  As much as everything had blended together, however, each stop had its own little quirky surprise. Something that only Clay could see. It was in Pennsylvania last night, or had it been Thursday? Was today Thursday? Clay couldn’t remember, couldn’t force the details out of the fog in his brain. But when they’d been there, he’d seen crawling things (not worms since worms didn’t have teeth or bloody eyes) at a stop near a dairy’s Mom and Pop ice cream stop. The things had wriggled the entire time. They covered every surface and slithered their way into the bowls and cups, making malicious wheezing noises.

  He’d moaned and tried to steal the cup from his brother’s hands before Toph could dig into the tiny, vicious monsters writhing below his spoon. Rog had muttered something foul and yanked him away, pulling his chair back and causing his neck to snap forward.

  Toph had only chided Roger to be gentler. Then a spoonful of nightmares was lifted into his mouth.

  Toph had tried to understand. His brother always tried to, but sometimes he just didn’t. Clay should be grateful that his brother even tried. The man who cared for him after their mom had died, the safe older sibling and not the cold-hearted senator, he protected Clay as best he could. But sometimes, Clay wanted the fog to lift from his brain, to stop being so Touched. He couldn’t quite manage to ever really tell Toph what he wanted.

  What he needed.

  Forget about ever feeling less like a burdened, not when his brain felt as scrambled as it currently was.

  So, that was how Clay had ended up with a double scoop cup of vanilla of his own with those worm-like creatures (with their sharp teeth and millions of tiny, red dripping eyes staring back at him) swimming in it. He had let it melt on the table while Toph continued to pose for pictures and kiss babies. A few miserable worms flopped on the table as his brother made the most of his appearance. But that was then.

  Now, he felt the power of the pearlescent egg—it had never been a gem—calling for him. It had made his mind clearer, if only for a moment, but Clay could see more than that. He knew it didn’t belong to them, no more than a human could lasso the moon or use his body to hold back the tides. It was raw power, and it was not for them.

  Boy, shaman…

  Biting his lower lip, Clay put his hands on the wheels of his chair and pushed it forward, hoping the creaking of the old axel didn’t alert the guards in the hall. He’d poked his head out before. Gotten once as far as the kitchen, at least, before anyone noticed.

  Roger played Minecraft on his phone.

  Tonight, as Clay poked his head through the doorway, he didn’t see the guard. The hall wasn’t empty. Of course, it wasn’t; those other beings were there for him. This time creatures that clung to the eaves overhead, dark shadows threatening to creep in on him. To eat him. Clay closed his eyes and forced his attention away. There would always be other things. He’d seen monsters with octopus tentacles and giant, gaping mouths and dragonflies the size of drones hovering in the air during his life.

  Worse, they saw him now.

  But he’d learned long ago to take in a deep breath, swallow, and push it all away. Clay knew he wasn’t functional, wasn’t even close to normal. So Touched that his reality and fantasy blurred in one swirling mess, but he could at least keep himself from screaming at the monsters he saw. Tonight, he’d do the same with the shadow creatures waiting for him.

  He wheeled through the door and made it as far as the bathroom before strong hands grabbed the handles of his chair and ground him to a halt.

  Roger’s pale face and freckled cheeks met his gaze. “Where are you going, Clay?”

  He swallowed hard. A shadow creature twisted down from the ceiling and perched on Rog’s shoulder. Clay looked anywhere but near him, near the swirling darkness of the creature gripping him.

  “I… nothing,” Clay muttered.

  Roger leaned closer and the smell of smoke and ash flooded Clay’s nostrils. He wasn’t just seeing the creature this time but smelling the burn that emanated from it.

  The shaman, the egg…

  “All the power,” Clay said.

  Roger shook his head. “You think it’s funny, you retard. You think it’s okay to recite facts about my family to… What? To threaten me? The senator isn’t around here now, is he? You’re not much of a threat without him.”

  “He sees you, too.” Clay couldn’t always control what he said, not since that accident on the pier. “He’s dying, but he sees you, and you’ll die screaming, Rog.”

  Roger pulled his hand back as if to slap him, but stopped himself short. Rog straightened his collar and stood up. “I won’t lose my job because you’re trying to spook me. I see your game, Clay. You act nuts, crazier than a sack of cats, but you’re playing us all,
aren’t you?”

  Clay gave Roger a pained smile. “Life played me first. Also, there’s a demon… on your neck.”

  Roger didn’t even look. He should have. The shadow creature’s eyes flared a hungry red. Clay saw different creatures at different times… He wasn’t sure when the shadows had settled here at the house, but they didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  “I’m taking you back to your room and locking you in it. Senator Jorgenson is out meeting important people, and I don’t want to deal with your mumbo jumbo tonight.”

  He grabbed the chair roughly and yanked it back to the room. Rog discarded Clay like unclaimed luggage at the airport, as nothing more but nuisance. Clay got that. He knew what he was. While he loved his brother, during Clay’s clear moments, he understood he sometimes slowed Toph down. Really, his brother probably wouldn’t be messing with things he shouldn’t if Clay were normal. Those dark things.

  Those monsters that skittered at the corners of the ceiling.

  He looked up.

  The ceiling was clear now. For tonight, he was as safe as he could be, and he now had no way back to the egg, which was probably a good thing. Its call was a trick because it wasn’t safe. The little shaman boy didn’t mean it, wasn’t a monster, but the magic he emitted… It was wrong.

  Did things to people.

  Reaching for the remote on his desk, Clay turned on the TV. (He wasn’t too addled for the Idiot Box, thank you very much.) The screen flickered to life, and Inside Edition’s theme song blared to life. Sometimes it helped him to see people who were almost as messed up as he was; reality TV was a godsend for him in some ways.

  Not tonight.

  One of their roving reporters stood beside a mangled car and a crumbling brick wall. People clustered around, but at least nothing with spikes, horns, or tentacles appeared among them. For now.

  “And the mystery tonight was who was driving. The suspect simply left the vehicle after the accident as good Samaritans tried to help him, but this seems to be unlike any other accident victim in L.A. Isn’t that right?” he asked. The reporter thrust his mic a bit too closely in the face of the nearest bystander.