Roar of Sky

by Beth Cato

  “What did she do to me?” he whispered. His face looked drawn and pale.

  “Stole some of your life force. I don’t think it’s permanent,” Ingrid said, but she didn’t truly know. She boosted her strength to drag Cy away, her legs and lower back screaming agony with every step.

  Uncle Moon stalked toward Blum, an eerie grace to his movements.

  “Don’t go far, Ingrid,” called Blum. “This shouldn’t take long. I would like for us to have tea together later. Perhaps we could discuss the books I possess from the library in Alexandria. Remember, I mentioned them in Seattle? There’s one about fantastics in the ancient world that I think you’d find to be of particular interest.”

  With that, Blum began to shift.

  Her malodor deepened, leaving Ingrid gasping for breath amid severe nausea. The stench was the substance of regurgitated nightmares. Muskiness. Feces. Rot. Death.

  Maggie’s body blurred as her head craned back, her hands curved at her sides like claws. Moon didn’t hesitate. He dashed forward as he pulled a long knife from his belt, but in the span of time it took him to travel ten feet, Blum’s transformation was complete. She wore the face of a woman slightly older than Maggie. Pockmarks pitted her cheeks and her somewhat flattened, crooked nose. Her eyes were wide, pupils like midnight. Glossy black hair now filled the mesh snood.

  She parried Moon’s blow with a cry, then spun in place. Her kick sent the old man staggering backward. With him away, she pulled the collar of Maggie’s A&A jacket forward and brought her knife down along the line of buttons and cloth. She shrugged off the constrictive burden as Moon attacked again.

  Whoever this woman had been, it was evident why Blum had claimed her body. She was an athlete, a poem in muscle. She kicked, she sliced, she propelled herself off the sides of crates. She danced. Blum’s face glowed with exertion and delight.

  Though Moon was old and not as fast and flexible as his younger-bodied opponent, he moved with surreal grace. He bounced back from her attacks, he dodged her arcs, he forced her to retreat, then conceded ground again. Back and forth, back and forth. Not even a minute had passed.

  “Cy, can you walk?” Ingrid murmured, her eyes on the fight and the crates around them.

  “I feel like I’ve had influenza for a week. I’m a deadweight.” Fear shimmered in his eyes.

  “Don’t you dare use the word ‘dead,’ not even in that context,” she snapped.

  A Chinese man stood in a gap among the freight. Blum bounded his way and extended an arm as if to stroke his face. The man staggered back a step. Uncle Moon shouted in Chinese; the warning came too late. Blum tugged her arm back toward her body. The man crumpled to the ground.

  Blum’s increased vitality was evident as she rejoined the battle with Moon. She had the relentless energy of a young child who had feasted on a meal of ice cream and cake, and she clearly rejoiced in her increased power, giggling as she parried Moon’s thrusts. She said something in Chinese, her tone taunting. Moon remained stoic. Sweat sheened his face, his movements slowing.

  Blum could have easily killed him already; instead, she toyed with him, like a cat with a cricket beneath its paw. Even though he surely knew that truth, Uncle Moon wanted this fight. That was evident in his intensity, his deliberation. And for the time being, Blum was happy to oblige him.

  More of Moon’s highbinders emerged from among the stacks. Blum sprinted toward the nearest newcomer, her gap-toothed grin exuberant. Moon shouted, but his words would come too late yet again.

  “Ambassador Blum, no.” Ingrid didn’t merely lace magic into the invocation. She bludgeoned with the words.

  Blum staggered, momentarily stunned. Her target scampered backward and out of sight.

  Moon took advantage of the distraction. His blade caught Blum along her back, painting a diagonal slice from shoulder to hip. Ingrid gaped—Blum had been hurt! She bled! However, it was immediately apparent that the wound was superficial. Blum pivoted on a foot to counter Moon’s next swipe. Her attacks redoubled. She swiped and slashed at Moon, forcing him backward one step, two steps, three. Her teeth remained bared in a vulpine snarl.

  She brought down her arm, the swipe sure to hack his neck. With a small tink as if it met glass, the blade bounced off an invisible layer inches above his skin. Moon stayed in place, heaving and gasping for breath. Blum turned, the curved-tip knife blade lowering as she faced Ingrid.

  “I said no, Ambassador Blum.” Ingrid added an anvil’s weight to the denial again. She held out both arms to help her focus on the shield. “No to stealing vitality from people. No to the war. No to your very existence.”

  “How wonderful that you’ve learned how to tap your geomantic powers to wield some sorcery!” Blum had barely broken a sweat.

  “I’ve been educated by our encounters.”

  Ingrid had already found out the hard way that the Green Dragon Crescent Blade was useless in her hands. But maybe her magic alone could strike at the kitsune’s hoshi no tama: the onion-shaped pendant bulged beneath Blum’s shirt collar.

  “No wonder you were able to avoid my efforts to find you.” Blum sniffled as if upset, then turned, chopping at Moon. He raised his blade to block, but Ingrid hadn’t let down her guard. Blum’s knife clattered off the bubble yet again.

  Ingrid felt Cy’s hand brush against the back of her boot. She knew without looking that he was attempting to touch her skin and gauge how much energy she held. She wished she could reassure him in that regard, but shielding Uncle Moon at a distance was draining her fast.

  Blum had to be aware of that as well.

  Ingrid advanced, both arms still held outward. Uncle Moon retreated several feet. Blum stood where she could monitor them at either side, grinning, clearly relishing this new complication.

  “Ingrid Carmichael, Ingrid Carmichael, Ingrid Carmichael.” The singsong invocation annoyed Ingrid more than it provoked her. “I would like to hear more about your trip to the Vassal States. Such a bold move! I never expected you to go there. For any other geomancer, that would have been suicidal. Or an indicator of insatiable greed. You’re certainly not the latter, not like old Hatsumi.”

  “I needed a vacation.” She let the bubble drop from around Uncle Moon.

  “Really. A vacation? That’s the tack you’re going to take?” Blum tsked. “I think the trip meant something more. Your father was captured there, too, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Blum lunged at Moon, the cut along her back like a thin crimson bandolier. It had scarcely bled. Moon repelled her attack with new energy; his brief respite while shielded had done him well.

  With Blum turned away, Ingrid flung out a ball of writhing blue fire. Her mind flicked to Hatsumi, what she had done to him, but she forced the image away. If anyone deserved such a fate, it was Blum.

  The missile arced toward Blum’s neck, but she spun around with preternatural quickness and bowed backward. The fireball soared harmlessly overhead.

  Ingrid knew she could bring the concentrated energy around for another pass, but she also knew her reserves were almost depleted. She let the fireball dissipate into nothingness.

  Blum’s gaze flitted to Cy on the floor, telegraphing her threat with a bright grin.

  “So curious, your family’s interest in that volcanic island.” Blum jumped toward Ingrid, but Ingrid was ready, pushing out a pressure wave with the hoshi no tama her target again. Blum angled her body so her shoulder took the blow instead. The force slid her into a crate ten feet away. Wood cracked and splintered at the impact, revealing the box to be empty. She bounded to her feet again an instant later. The protective ring had nullified Ingrid’s attack.

  To destroy the hoshi no tama, she’d need to only hit the small jewelry that housed the fox’s true soul. Not Blum’s body.

  The horrid stench of Blum’s magic snapped outward like a whip. Ingrid brought up both arms to flare a shield around herself and Cy just in time. The impact jarred her to her bones, but the shield held. />
  She didn’t dare lower her hands. Instead, with a thought, she jerked on her pocketed kermanite. A handful’s worth surged into the air. She swiped at the floating rocks as she let her shield fade again. New magic surged through her body, delicious as a cold drink of water after a long trek.

  Sweat trickled down her neck. She’d been so close to drawing on her own mana. So very, very close.

  “Your powers are wonderfully godlike.” Blum straightened her baggy attire as best she could. “Perhaps you and your father were there to visit a powerful relation. One with renowned geomantic powers of her own.”

  There was no point in attempting a denial. “I would like to see you match wits against Madam Pele. You pretend to be a god. She actually is one.”

  “Match wits?” Blum giggled. “Why would I waste time with a debate? I know her measure. Like so many old gods, she wants to be left alone, though she still cares a great deal about the people on those islands, doesn’t she? It’d be a terrible shame if we had to use aggressive force to quell the strikes out there.”

  Rage seared against Ingrid’s skin.

  Blum sighed. “I understand the anger and vulnerability you’re feeling right now. I bear a similar weakness myself. Japan is my home. I love its people, its language, its food, its everything. I work for Japan’s benefit in all I do.”

  Uncle Moon dove at Blum and the two scuffled again and bounded apart. She had scarcely looked his way.

  “You say you love Japan, but how many have died because of your ambitions?” Ingrid asked.

  “Oh, millions.” Blum dismissed the number with a wave of her free hand. “But such sacrifice is necessary. Plants must be pruned back each winter so that they grow and bloom in spring. Japan’s population is surging now. We’ll fill up Manchukuo and China soon enough, and after that?” Her prim smile said it all. “But I digress. I want you to come with me, Ingrid. It’s clear to me now that the best way to ensure your cooperation is to target your vulnerabilities. I can’t threaten San Francisco. It’s already been obliterated, and besides, its rebirth is important for Pacific commerce.

  “I suppose I could threaten some random group of children or cute animals, but that’s so cliché.

  “But the kanakas? Their numbers have already been dismally reduced in the past century, and those that are left never cease their grousing. Sometimes there’s only one way to shut someone up. We can bring in plenty of other people to settle the islands.”

  “No.”

  The emphasis on the word didn’t make Blum flinch this time. “Oh, Ingrid. You should realize by now that as long as you’re free, you will never be free. I won’t simply pursue those you love, like Cy. Every person you meet, every single place you visit, will be in danger because of you. If you think San Francisco’s destruction was bad . . . well, piffle. You haven’t seen a full hellfire bombardment. You haven’t smelled it.”

  Ingrid’s mind reeled in horror at Blum’s declaration, but she remained alert enough to shove Blum back when she attempted another approach.

  “I have smelled the bombardments.” Cy’s whisper trembled. “You would not and could not ever cause such a thing, Ingrid. It’s all on Blum. These are her games, her manipulations.”

  “Yes, it is,” she murmured, well aware that Blum heard their every word. She placed a hand on the leather pouch at her hip. The time for games was done.

  She had used her magic to search for Cy; she could find Lee the same way. They’d known each other for over five years. He was her brother in every way but blood. They had scrubbed floors together. Competed in watermelon-seed spitting contests in the backyard. Acted as partners in crime to steal fresh, forbidden cookies from the kitchen. Together, they had mourned the death of Ingrid’s mother.

  She pulled on the power of those memories and her love, and melded them with the magic that surged through her body.

  “Lee Fong!” she whispered. “LEE FONG!”

  The invocation reverberated through the hold like a radio wave—and found him. He was coming. Walking, at first, drawn toward the sound of a distant scuffle, but then he heard her. The magic hooked him, but he didn’t fight back. He ran.

  “Ingrid!” he yelled, her name booming out in an echo. “I’m coming!”

  “What are you doing, Ingrid Carmichael?” Blum asked as Uncle Moon advanced on her again. She scored a gash on his forearm and forced him back.

  “I’m doing what needs to be done,” said Ingrid.

  For all of Blum’s scheming and spies and centuries-long plans, she didn’t know about Emperor Qixiang’s living son.

  Ingrid slashed energy to cut the strings of the leather bag. She pulled forth the cloth-wrapped weapon’s head. With another swipe of her hand, she sliced the weapon free of its swaddling cloth.

  “Lee Fong!” she screamed.

  Lee ran at her from between the crates. Heaving for breath, his cheeks flushed, his black hair as unruly as ever. Emotions flashed over his face as he took in everything—Cy on the floor, unbloodied and helpless—Uncle Moon battling a woman who could only be Ambassador Blum—and Ingrid. He looked on her with adoration and relief.

  She held forth the strangely curved weapon’s head as if passing a baton in a relay race. His eyes widened with abject terror as momentum carried him forward, but he didn’t hesitate. He reached for the blade stained with a green dragon’s blood.

  Trust that you will find Lee when the moment is right, Mr. Sakaguchi had said.

  This was the moment.

  Chapter 24

  Raw energy exploded within Ingrid’s grasp, not a physical detonation, but the stuff of heaven and creation, of making and unmaking at a level beyond human comprehension. She smelled ozone and jasmine and mud and sweat-soaked leather, everything and nothing. The blade writhed as a pole grew out from its base to perfectly fit Lee’s waiting hands. He didn’t stop moving. Ingrid let go of the weapon’s head and Lee hoisted the pole arm upward. The weapon now stood taller than him, the mysterious metals of the blade subtly aglow in the scant light, like blackened coals that still carried a hint of heat deep within.

  He entered the battleground, the pole gripped against his forearm. Uncle Moon flowed to one side. Ambassador Blum leered at Lee.

  “Oh, now a Chinese boy wishes to fight me with some magical weapon?” She sounded amused.

  “Do you see that many magical weapons?” asked Ingrid, surprised that Blum didn’t more seriously regard the holy aura of the guandao. Perhaps she couldn’t sense it all.

  “You’d be surprised,” said Blum with a shrug.

  “You may be surprised, too,” said Lee. His voice reflected his absolute conviction.

  “I doubt it. So you’re Lee Fong, Sakaguchi’s houseboy? I thought you were dead in San Francisco.”

  “I did die, but not there.”

  Ingrid scooped more kermanite into her hand. The powder sifted between her fingers as new energy whirled through her. She momentarily wavered, dizzied by the influx.

  “Ah, yes, I see how this is going. You have returned from the dead to kill me, achieve vengeance for your people, et cetera. Are you an orphan as well? Perhaps a farm boy? If you have an ambition to be a hero, don’t be such a tired cliché.”

  He swiped at her. Blum danced to one side.

  “My ambitions are much simpler, actually. To stay alive. You’ve made that difficult for me and many of my people.” Lee spun the guandao again, the blade flashing this way and that. Blum’s eyes widened as she leaned to one side, then rolled away to land again on both feet. Lee kept the pole aligned with his arm part of the time as he thrust, bowed, swiped. Blum leaped and took shelter behind the corner of a box. The Crescent Blade sliced through the crate with a violent snap. Wood shards exploded across the battleground.

  Ingrid watched him, stunned. Had the weapon endowed him with some skill—or had he trained for this moment? Or both?

  Blum’s grin was vulpine. “My oh my. You actually know what you’re doing to some degree. And yet, look at me,
armed with a mere bowie knife, while yours has such reach.” She tumbled, skirts flaring, to dodge a blow. “Have you no honor, Lee Fong?” The taunting invocation rang with magic.

  Uncle Moon called out something in Chinese. Blum spat a reply.

  Lee pivoted on one foot, bringing the guandao around at waist level. The blade caught Blum at the hip, the impact flinging her against a stack of crates. The top box teetered. Several Chinese men cried out and scrambled away as the box smashed five feet to the ground. Lee remained posed, one knee uplifted, Green Dragon Crescent Blade against his extended forearm.

  Blum snarled and jumped upright again. The skirt dangled, exposing white cloth beneath. No blood.

  Lee didn’t hesitate. He knew the stories about kitsune, and where best to strike. He spun in place in a vicious ballet move, and lunged again. This time the blade directly impacted with Blum’s chest. Ingrid stepped forward, her body a-thrum with energy and terror. Had he damaged Blum’s pendant?

  Blum smacked into the floor and slid backward, still very much unharmed. She slashed an arm outward just as she skidded to a stop. Lee was not prepared for that sort of assault—nor was Ingrid. Lee raised the pole in time to partially block the blow, the attack sending him staggering back with a cry. Blood sprayed over his shoulder. Blum slashed energy again as she bounced to her feet, but this time Ingrid shielded Lee from afar—a massive bubble, by necessity. She felt the decline in her own body temperature and ceased her hold as soon as Blum’s blast dissipated.

  The Green Dragon Crescent Blade was too long for her to effectively shield Lee for any length of time. She could cover six people or more within the span of that pole.

  Blum laughed, a merry, delighted sound. “Now, this is a fight!” She clapped her hands and bounced in delight. “I daresay, I haven’t been up against a halberd-type weapon in ages. This body trained in their use, centuries ago. It wasn’t trendy then—not for a woman, certainly—but perhaps now the time has come. I should start a new fashion.”