It’s been forever since you’ve taken the bus, but you lost your license a couple years back (driving under the influence) and flying is way faster and easier and cheaper anyway. Doesn’t feel right to fly around in jeans and a T-shirt, though; what kind of jerkoff does something like that?
So you arrive a little late to a party in full swing (you forgot how long it takes to ride the goddamn bus), hotdogs and hamburgers piled by the grill like a mountain of burnt pulverized flesh (which is exactly what it is; you’ve been to more than one house fire, so you know what you’re talking about). She, as always, is the kind and gracious woman you fell in love with. She murmurs hello and says she’s glad you came (though you see in her eyes she wishes you’d decided to give this one a pass), kisses your cheek, and glides off to greet somebody else. Your head spins from her honeysuckle scent and the lingering tingle where her fingers brushed your arm.
Thank goodness your old boss (her father, your ex-father-in-law-to-be) is too busy playing euchre by the pool to notice you’re here. You chug the first beer too fast and the second one faster, part of your brain you can never turn off calculating how long it would take to rescue that kid from the pool if he suddenly started drowning, or how many trips it would take to carry everybody to safety if a ring of fire inexplicably erupted around the yard, or how fast you could fly grandma to the hospital if her pacemaker exploded.
The third beer you didn’t notice going down. It’s after the fourth that you punch the Random Asshole in the face.
Of course between the third and the fourth had come the formal announcement of the forthcoming nuptials, which everybody in attendance pretty much expected. Then the announcement of the baby on the way, which nobody seems surprised by either, other than you. You it hits in the gut like a bullet at close range, except a bullet would’ve been easier to take, because your body would’ve worked its magic and pushed that bloody thing back out of your flesh. An hour later you’d have only a bruise where the hole had been, and an hour after that not even a dimple to mark the spot. This, about your ex and her new guy and their baby on the way, will stay with you forever.
Sure, a bitter laugh escaped you — how could it not? — and her father your ex-employer the Commissioner noticed you then, he sure did. And he’d come over, gotten up in your grill, shouting, telling you what a rotten way you’d treated his lovely daughter (as if you didn’t already know). And you were taking it! Not objecting or anything (everything he said was true, every goddamn word), but still that idiot new guy comes and asks you to leave. A few more words were said, and some might argue over who threw the first punch, but that’s about the time you finished your fourth beer, set the empty carefully on the grass, and socked that Random Asshole in the face.
When you’re cursed with superstrength, pulling punches is way harder than reeling them out. You probably hurt the guy slightly more than you’d intended, but nothing to send him to the hospital; she’d never forgive you for that. Just enough to give him the excuse he needed to clock you good (well, as good as an average works-out-at-the-Y kind of guy can). And her dad gets in his couple licks, which is only right. And the guys from down at the bureau who know the family well enough to come to a barbecue, a party at the house of a girl some have known since she was an itty-bitty thing visiting daddy at work— well, they all rush to the rescue. Hell, some are probably friends of guys who died that day at the plant, maybe even distantly related, because it really is that kind of town.
You fight back enough to convince them to pummel the shit out of you as best they can, though the most painful part is the sorrow in her voice as she asks them to stop, begs them to stop, pleads with you and with them, and cries.
They finally wind down. You get up from where you lie curled on the grass. The black-guts smell of charred meat hangs heavy in the air from the unattended grill as you limp away too ashamed to let them see you fly when you’re dressed like they are, in jeans and a T-shirt like an ordinary citizen.
Still limping, you walk the long way home to your empty house, ignore the unpaid bills and the pizza boxes, knowing tomorrow you’ll wake up and all your bones will ache, every single one.
* * *
Alex C. Renwick divides her time between Vancouver, BC, Portland, OR, and Austin, TX. As Camille Alexa, she’s the author of Push of the Sky.
Change as Seen through an Orrery of Celestial Fire
Michael Matheson
Shurui peels long strips of burnt skin off her shoulders in front of the bathroom mirror. She grits her teeth as they tear away down her back. The days between immolations are always painful; the moments in which she burns down to ash blinding, but nothing compared to the waiting— to the slow build of days before the fire frees. Her body a cage, too-narrow knit with bird-hollow bones.
The rest — the rebirth and what comes after—
—The rest is agony.
Has been since she first rose, broken, garbed in lank, slick flesh. Since she tumbled to Earth in a scatter of pinions, remiges, and retrices; her sun-bright feathers ripped away in the heat of her descent. Since she spotted the first Xifeng bathing in a moonlit lake. And fell.
The whole of it, now and always, Chang’e’s fault. A terrible gift she hadn’t known better than to accept.
“You all right?” asks Zetian from the doorway. Her lover takes a step into the bathroom to lay a glacial hand on Shurui’s burning back. The frost of Zetian’s fingers a momentary respite. Like scorched, shed feathers brushing the surface of a distant, long-ago lake bathed silver. Zetian’s qi strong, but mortal. The ice coating her hand fades in a swift billow of steam. It fills the air between them. Zetian barely draws her hand back in time to avoid burned fingers.
“It’s bad this time,” she says quietly.
“Too long between burns,” grunts Shurui, breathing through her mouth.
It’s been a long time since their last trip to Mount Sinai Hospital. Most of those visits not long after they officially got together. After they decided to try living together instead of just falling into Zetian’s bed most nights. After Shurui carted her couple of boxes worth of possessions on the TTC up to Zetian’s Spadina and Willcocks apartment from her own place in the Market.
Shurui remembers the looks the nurses used to give her. How sure they were that Shurui was abusing Zetian. How sure they were she kept lighting her lover on fire.
Not that they weren’t right. They just had the wrong end of it: not on purpose. Never on purpose.
Six years of relearning control after living so long alone later, and those years might as well never have happened if she can’t control the furnace raging in her. If she can’t quiet her qi.
So many centuries later, and she’s still a co-opted version of her own Celestial mythology. A western phoenix burning and beginning again instead of her own radiant fenghuang self.
She knows what happens if she can’t quiet it. Knows exactly where that leads. She learned the hard way. With the first Xifeng.
“You going to be all right?” asks Zetian— Xifeng Zetian. Always a Xifeng in her life. She’s drawn to them like the sun. Always seeking their warmth. She nods. Exhales.
It’s that care and that patience that have kept them together. Zetian the only one who doesn’t think her condition a burden. Zetian the only one there for her when her body can do nothing but scream for days on end. That sense of unity, of co-operation, served them well in their separate careers working with others, but much better once they struck out together. A life of crime far easier if you have someone to share it with.
Zetian waits until Shurui’s breathing quiets before she leaves her to her ablutions. Says “I’m here if you need me,” as she leaves the room.
Shurui listens to her lover’s footfalls travelling away and around corners as she turns on the tap. She cups her hands under an icy waterfall, and pours the water onto her back. The steam rising from her shoulders makes a sauna of the tiny bathroom.
This form was never meant to house the qi of
a fenghuang. She didn’t think that far ahead when she descended from the peak of Liushi Shan— when she left behind the Kunlun range and gave up the sky. She can’t remember what her plans were then. Beyond Xifeng.
She pours more water across her back. Forces her qi quiet. So she can pass for human.
* * *
An hour later, Shurui sits in the Starbucks set just back from the southeast corner of Harbord and Spadina, waiting for Xinhua. Outside, amid all the concrete and slate grey, autumn paints the trees gold and the sky in pale drifts of cloud, darker at their edges. Darker still in the distance: rain not far off. The smell of it is in the air. Inside, the café is mostly empty; the decor warm, cast in earthy tones.
Shurui likes the muddy, arboreal feel of the place. It offsets the autumn chill; denies winter in its turn, and welcomes spring with fair familiar hands. This is one of her favorite haunts. It doesn’t hurt that it’s close to home. Her jacket lies slung over her chair behind her. Soft against her back. It’s quiet here; she likes the quiet.
A cup of tea steams between her palms. She bleeds off excess qi by keeping the tea’s temperature constant. A trick she picked up from a wuyi, Chen Xifeng, not long after Shurui made her way north to the Colony of Vancouver Island back when the mass migration up from California began, during the second BC gold rush.
She learned a great deal from that Xifeng before the wuyi died: better methods for regulating her qi. How to make herbal medicine. The theory of acupuncture— the proper practice of which has always escaped her. She stopped peddling it shortly before she started working her way east, helping build the Canadian Pacific Railway in the 1880s, disguised as a man.
—Had taken up, instead, the sole practice of making herbal medicines and teas by the time she’d found her way east to then-Muddy York’s Ward District, back when Toronto’s first Chinatown still lay nestled along York and Elizabeth, bordered by Queen and Dundas. And as the old city’s Chinatown moved, as it did frequently, Shurui moved with it.
“Your tea’s cold.” Shurui startles as Xinhua settles down across from her; she slings her own folded jacket over the back of a chair and sets down her steaming coffee. The waft of it fills the space between them. “I’m sorry, am I late?”
The cup in her hands has cooled while her attention was elsewhere: thinking on the city as it was. “Not very much.” Shurui sets her tea aside. Smiles at her friend.
Shurui watches her while Xinhua settles in, pays half mind to her friend’s talk. This young woman, too, is a fixture in her life. Has been since Xinhua was an undergraduate at U of T in need of a history tutor. And their ties go deeper, though she doesn’t have the heart to tell Xinhua the whole of it. Though the full body costume of the Xun Long — the Swift Dragon — conceals her face, it does nothing to hide her voice. Unlike Xinhua, Shurui does not speak when they fight in costume.
It means so much to Xinhua, not being known. And Shurui is so tired of having only enemies; of having only dead lovers in her wake.
It has been easy to stay friends, long though the tutoring has been finished. Shurui will always look to be in her early twenties; something she has made peace with. And Xinhua, like her, is desperately lonely.
Sometimes, too, it’s easier to talk with someone who understands so little, instead of Zetian who understands too much.
A sleek sports car and several police cruisers in pursuit hurtle past the window, and Xinhua stops mid-sentence. Both women track the rush of air that follows— the masked woman at its centre that streaks through the air. A visible wake of whirling leaves and air lit with bursts of lightning in her wake.
The rest of the café’s patrons crowd toward the windows, trying to get a glimpse of the chase scene. “The Xun Long is out early today,” teases Shurui, sipping at her coffee to hide the fear awake in her belly. She knows exactly who the flying woman is. Her heart races. Does Zetian know the Leiyu is out of hospital already? Shurui takes out her phone casually. Calls her lover. Tries not to panic as the words “This customer is not available” whisper in her ear.
Across from her, Xinhua, lost in her own thoughts, shakes her head. “No. Costume’s similar though. Looked more like the Leiyu. Guess she’s out of hospital. And she’s changed her look again,” grumbles Xinhua into her coffee.
Shurui takes a deep breath. Making mental calculations: three blocks; less than three blocks. She could run it. Remembering it’s her turn to speak, she asks quietly, her mind elsewhere: “Seems soon for her to have been released.” Doesn’t add that what Zetian did to her skull should have left her in a coma. That when they brought the building down on top of her, the Leiyu shouldn’t have lived.
Does the Leiyu know where they live? Could she?
“You read the interview in the Star?” asks Xinhua.
“Yes,” lies Shurui. Interview? “How awful what happened to her,” prods Shurui.
Xinhua nods. “She’s lucky there wasn’t a concussion. She heals fast, but, after what Nepenthe did to her—”
“Nepenthe?” Not Nepenthe: Adaora in Arizona with Tomiko at the time.
“Yeah,” says Xinhua, confused by Shurui’s reaction. “The Leiyu says that’s why she can’t remember what happened. Must have been Nepenthe, because who else could wipe her memory?” Xinhua shakes her head and finishes her coffee.
A gift. An extraordinary gift. Unless it’s a lie? Is the Leiyu that clever? Vindictive and cold, yes. But she does not lie. Has never lied. As far as Shurui knows.
Shurui rubs at sore eyes. At the heat pounding behind her skull.
“Are you all right?” asks Xinhua.
“Fine,” says Shurui. Dons a false smile. Forces herself to remain calm through centuries of long practice. Forces herself to trust that the Leiyu is telling the truth; to keep playing her role a little longer, until she can reasonably excuse herself without giving anything away. Straightens in her chair and says: “Tell me how your mother is doing.”
* * *
“Zetian? I’m home!” Shurui waits for the awful moment where Zetian isn’t there. Hoping today is not that day.
“Yes, I can tell,” answers Zetian from the kitchen. The sound of bubbling pots and the scent of tofu frying in black bean sauce follow her words, the waft of soy and garlic sesame lung-searing strong. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Shurui collapses against the wall of their apartment, limp-boned with relief. She shuts the door behind her and shucks off her outerwear. The Leiyu has not yet come for them. She does not yet know who they are. Or may honestly not know who almost killed her. Zetian is still safe. She slips into the tiny kitchen and leans against the fridge by the doorway so Zetian can’t see her shaking. “You’re making dinner before a job? You don’t want to order in?”
Zetian raises an eyebrow at her and swishes the wok on the stove. “After what happened last time? How’s Xinhua?”
Shurui slips a takeout flyer on the side of the fridge out from under its magnet. “She’s okay. Too many hours at work and school. And Lin’s still on her back about cutting her hair short again. No, seriously, we could bring food in.”
Zetian covers the wok and turns down the heat. Sweeps out of her eyes steam-frizzled hairs that have escaped from her ponytail, and gives Shurui her full attention. “What is it?”
“What’s what?” Zetian waits, close-lipped, while Shurui fusses with the takeout menu in her hands, burns it to a crisp and lets the ashes fall. “The Leiyu’s out of hospital,” she whispers.
“She’s alive?” shouts Zetian.
“She thinks it was Nepenthe. It’s fine.”
“It is not fine.” Zetian’s hands flex, and the entire kitchen flash freezes as she struggles to regain control of her qi. “Why does she think it’s Nepenthe?” she asks when she stops quaking.
“She told the reporters at the hospital she can’t remember what happened.”
Zetian laughs. Pinches the bridge of her nose where her glasses used to rest before the surgery. “I’m not sure if I should be pleased or up
set that I don’t get the credit for trying to kill her.” She looks at the pot, frozen to the stove, and turns off the element. “You’re right. We’re eating out.”
Shurui crosses the room and folds Zetian into her arms. Breathes in the cool, cassia-bark scent of her lover. “She will not come for us.”
“No, the Xun Long will come for us,” she mumbles.
“Because the Xun Long always comes for us,” smiles Shurui, eyes closed, chin resting on Zetian’s shoulder. “Xinhua’s always been reliable that way.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing this,” Zetian says into Shurui’s neck. Shurui can feel the tightness of her lover’s jaw against her skin.
“Nothing lasts forever,” says Shurui. Brushes her lover’s stray hair off her face, and kisses her forehead.
For a time, they are the only two people in the world.
* * *
Shurui hates the quiet before a heist. The waiting. With Zetian on edge, waiting farther down the Spadina strip, there is only the commotion of Chinatown and the rumble of streetcars to district her.
It is not enough.
This place is too familiar to her. She’s lived along the Spadina strip, or near it, since Chinatown migrated here in the 1950s— into what used to be a Jewish quarter of the city. So that this incarnation of the city’s largest Chinatown (one of six) borders Kensington Market as Koreatown does to the northwest. This, the Chinatown she still thinks of as home even though she’s moved north along Spadina to be with Zetian. This, the Chinatown people talk of when they speak of Toronto’s Chinatown, despite the others spread across Toronto’s amalgamated sprawl. The Greater Toronto Area she reminds herself. Those words still awkward on her tongue the better part of two decades later.
What is a decade to her, but a moment? She who has lived long enough in this too-small body that she sometimes struggles to remember which century she occupies.
A small child in a dress, thick leggings, and a miniature jacket, stops to smile up at her, and pulls her back to the present. The tiny mittens on the sleeves of the girl’s coat flap in the autumn wind like wings. Shurui smiles back involuntarily as the girl’s mother calls her. The little one waves and is gone, vanished back into the crush.
Superhero Universe: Tesseracts Nineteen Page 30
