Winston lifted the trumpet to his lips and started playing the blues number “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” to a lively beat. Ellie sang while Jake came from the wings playing his sax, with Lou on his mouth harp. People in the stands and aisles had calmed down. They started to sing, too, as they stood, helping up those who had fallen. The lines began to move.
Before she started the second verse, while her brothers kept playing, Ellie said, “Now folks, I spy Ms. Ariadne up there in Row P, and looks like she could sure use your help to evacuate some who are folks stranded in the gondola. Could we get half a dozen of our stronger and younger folks to help her?”
Tiffani saw that the Beef had braced herself on top of the seats and was reaching up as far as she could, extending the handle of her giant mace upward with both hands. This gave her a good eighteen feet of reach. The gondola door hung open, mostly downward, a few feet above that. The first gondola passenger was sliding down the handle to grab onto the joker’s horns. Patina and several nats came over to assist her down, and Peregrine came over, too. Another group of people were forming hand-swings to carry out the wounded as they were lowered to the stands.
Tiffani scooted out from underneath John and laid his head on the floor. Every inch that wasn’t covered in clothes was covered in webs of busted blood vessels, swelling, and bruises and torn skin. He looked like he’d been beat up from the inside out.
“Candle?” she said. No response. She touched his arm and he groaned. His eyes opened. His sclera were filled with burst capillaries, and blood leaked from his eyes corners. She feared he might have blinded himself. More blood trickled from his ears and mouth. His suit jacket and shirt were in tatters, and so was the flesh of his torso, where high-pressure flames had torn through him.
“Candle, can you hear me? John?” She tried to help him sit up, but no go—he emitted an anguished scream and collapsed. Tiffani bit her lip. If only he could get some of that green flame for himself.
She heard sirens. “Help’s coming. Hang on.”
She stood to see if she could find a medic, but the Candle started flailing his arm behind him, as if reaching for something, groaning. Then he was encased in brilliant green flames, and thrashing and yelling fit to scare the livestock. Winston and the others broke off and looked over, alarmed. Tiffani waved at them to keep on playing. “It’s OK! Green heals! He’ll be all right.”
Soon the Candle grew quiet, and the flames ebbed. He moaned and opened his eyes. With Tiffani’s help he sat up, and looked out at the vast, fiery mesh.
“Wow,” he said.
“Wow,” she agreed. She looked him over. His body was completely healed. “I hope you brought a change of clothes, darlin’, because we’re all getting a damn fine view. Not that I mind …”
The Candle looked down at himself, at his tattered, bloody clothes. “Damn. That was my best suit.” He stood and tried to drape the tatters strategically. He looked around. “Where are my shoes?”
“Your guess is as good as mine!”
“Oh well. Just—do what you can to help, would you?” he said. “I’ll be back.” He started past her toward backstage.
“Wait!” Tiffani grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I have to stop Rip before he gets away.”
She sighed. If only. “But how? He’s long gone.”
“Not yet he’s not. And I know where he is.” He dropped his earpiece and radio into her palm and pressed her fingers around it. “Tell Patina and the Beef, would you? I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
* * *
John stepped onto the concrete pad outside the enclosure. Lower Manhattan’s city lights shone across the water. A Coast Guard boat approached from the north. Help was coming for the wounded. Good.
His red flames were fading now, but they seemed to have done their work; the airship gondola looked empty. So did the amphitheater, from what he could see. People had dispersed across the grounds below the Golden Lady’s pedestal on benches or hill slopes or in clusters along the walkway that encircled the monument. Vendors were passing out ice and free snacks. It was all starting to take on a carnival aspect. Maybe the casualties would be lower than he’d feared.
A police helicopter shone a searchlight down onto the dirigible’s deflated remains. The fabric draped across the amphitheater’s front and its own damaged structure like a satin shroud over shattered bones. Arry had gotten up onto the stage rooftop somehow—Holy shit, Ma, there’s a minotaur on the roof!—and was using her mace handle and a cinder block as a lever to raise the dirigible up. A cloud of Patina particles slipped into the gap beneath.
John hesitated, then got going. He circled the amphitheater and entered the restricted area at a run, past where Gil’s and Horace’s bodies lay, to the southern seawall, and leapt down onto the rocky shore where the drop was shallowest. He crossed the sloping gravel as swiftly as he could. No one was in sight. All the helicopter and speedboat action was on the other side of the amphitheater.
How many have died because of you, Titus? How many more will?
He reached the southernmost point if the island, where the waters of the bay lapped at the shore, and lobbed a yellow fireball skyward. There it was! The iceberg, right where it had been in the image he’d seen just a moment ago, in Titus’s whirling mirror-blades future-vision. The berg bobbed along about a hundred feet out or so, headed toward the Verrazano Narrows. A small dark shape showed up against the white ice.
If I never touch red flame again it’ll be too soon, he thought, and shuddered, but still he twisted back and harvested enough to make a net with. Then he cast it out to snare the iceberg and pulled it in—and harvested-wove-cast-and-pulled again, and again, and again—till the ice scraped up against the shore nearby, dripping red flame. He waded over.
It was Rip, all right. The other man lay atop the ice, dead or unconscious. A web of dark runnels fanned out atop the ice—that must be blood from his injury. The rivulets had spread the length and width of the fifteen-foot-long ice wedge. But it was best to be sure.
John bound Rip up in red flame till he glowed like a Christmas ornament, dragged him off the ice, and pulled him the rest of the way onto the shore. He checked for a pulse. Rip was still alive.
“What the—?” Rip opened his eyes and saw John. “Well, shit.”
John said, “Guess there wasn’t as much blood as it looked like. Pity.”
With a grunt, Rip struggled to sit up. He wiped his mouth with his left hand and laughed. “Hell of a thing.” He leaned over, cradling the stump of his right arm. He’d gotten his belt around it, John saw, but blood was still dribbling out. His skin was so white it was almost transparent in the dimness, and his lips were blue. He wiped his mouth with his left hand, looked over at John. “Well … I almost made it.”
“You wanted me to find you.”
Rip rolled his eyes. “Uh, no … I really didn’t.”
“Bullshit.” Rip made no reply. “You see it, too. I know you do.”
“What, the linked portals?” Rip shrugged. “I didn’t know it was you. Not for a long time.”
“That time in the hospital room, when I came back and you got burned.”
“What about it?”
“You tried to use your own ace on me somehow, while I was lying there in a coma, didn’t you? That was why my ace finally finished its turn. That’s why the flames went out of control. I remembered seeing those mirror flashes then, too. From when you left—”
“When I returned, actually.”
“—it forced my own portal open—”
“—and I got caught in the blast. Yeah.”
“So the accident was your fault. Not mine.”
Rip gave him a sidelong look. There wasn’t enough ambient light here for John to read his expression. “I’d love to reminisce with you some more, old buddy, but I could use some of that green flame of yours right about now.”
John snorted. “Dream on.”
“Really?” Rip demanded
. “Really. You’re going to let me bleed out. Come on!” John only looked at him. He slumped back to rest his head on the ground. “Well, god damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
More time ticked past.
“What’s your body count, Titus?”
Rip looked over. “I lost count.” He was breathing heavily now.
“I don’t believe you. I think you know exactly how many. In fact, I’m willing to bet you have a little shrine for each of your victims. A death garden you lovingly tend.”
Rip gave him a sharp look. Uh-huh. Thought so.
A helicopter passed overhead, shining its searchlight. Rip tried to lift an arm to wave at it, but he’d grown too weak. The searchlight missed them and moved on.
“Come on,” John urged him. Brag a little. You know you want to.”
No answer.
“I’ve been wondering,” John said, “exactly when your ace must have turned. I remember in eighth grade when you befriended me, back in Boston, and how everyone warned me away from you. Said you were cruel. A bully. I thought they were the bullies. I couldn’t believe you’d do all the things they said. You were so nice to me, and at a bad time, after my father died.
“Did you really try to kill your little brother?”
Rip’s head drooped lower. John saw him smile. “He deserved it.”
“Had your card turned by the time we met?” Rip didn’t respond. “It had, hadn’t it?” Rip looked over at him, and John saw the answer in his gaze. It had.
“So I was … what? A lab experiment?”
“My first,” Rip said. “My very first.”
“Your first what? Your first love? First victim? First time you fucked a guy?”
“All of the above.” Rip shook his head, as if he were trying to stay awake. “It’s just no good, though. Not unless I can .”
“What’s no good? Unless you can what? Kill? Torment? Ruin lives?”
Rip giggled. “And they have no idea. You, Fagan, everybody. No fucking clue.” His laugh was a rattle. John leaned closer, to hear better. “Everything that happened. Those little twists of fate that kept … messing things up for you.” He shook his head. “Even your card turning.” He leaned close. “Even your dad’s.” His eyes glittered in the dark.
John’s hands spasmed into fists. “You caused my dad’s card to turn?”
Rip pressed a bloody finger to John’s lips.
“Shhh.” He whispered. “Wrecked your perfect little world, didn’t I, Juanma? Your perfect little family. Made you end up on the streets. Made you a criminal. A slave to Fagan. Ha! I was just a kid—and I did all that. You were my fucking masterpiece.” Another delirious giggle. “God, I’ve wanted to tell you this for so long, Juanma. But you were too easy. A perfect target. So needy! So anguished! Afraid to come out. Sure your dad would disown you. I solved that one for you, though, didn’t I?” John jerked. He wanted to choke the life out of Titus with his bare hands. “And after he died, you were so grateful for my attention … ‘Somebody loves me!’ And then so afraid I’d leave you if I found out you also liked banging girls. Such drama! I had you running in circles, worrying about how to protect poor, sensitive Titus …
“Really, Juanma, you were so much more fun to play with than Tiffani. That one …” He sighed. “She saw right through me, from the start.”
After a minute he looked over. “Does it feel cold to you?”
He released a long, slow breath, and didn’t inhale.
John snarled. “Motherfucker.” He gripped Rip by the shoulders—slapped his face. “I’m not done with you.” No response. “All right, we’ll do it your way. For old time’s sake.” John twisted back, drew in green flame, and returned, and gave him a few drips of it. Just enough to give him another few breaths’ worth. Rip gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and grew wide with fear. “Don’t …”
“‘Don’t?’ Don’t what, Titus? Don’t toy with you? The way you’ve toyed with everyone else? The way you’ve done with me?”
John shook him again, hard. Then he set his head down, gently, and sat there cross-legged, looking at his face. Seeing the boy inside the man. The blond-haired, green-eyed boy he’d given up everything for, and then given up, to save his own life.
I knew. I did know. Some part of me knew what he was. And wanted him anyway.
“Did you ever love me, Titus?” he asked. But Rip’s green-eyed gaze had gone glassy. John sighed. “Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”
He buried his face in his hands and stayed that way for a long while.
Finally he stood and dragged Rip’s body back out into the water, hefted it up onto the iceberg and shoved it to the middle of the wedge with more gouts of red. He harvested more ice-blue flame to seal it deep inside. Rip’s transport would need to last a good long time, to make it out to the Atlantic. John gave the iceberg a good, hard shove and a kick.
He thought about their earlier fight, and Titus’s amputated arm, lying at the edge of the water. He had an overpowering urge to go over and torch it all. Erase all evidence of Titus’s presence. But crime scene; duty to preserve the evidence. All that.
Consciousness of guilt, much, Juanma?
Rashida materialized next to him. “Well, you look like shit.”
He looked her over. “And you don’t! It’s not fair.”
“Patina hath her privileges.” She shifted her outfit into something more casual: a pink leather jacket over grey silk, charcoal grey leggings, and flats. They both watched the iceberg recede into the dark.
“I wonder if some boat is going to run into it.”
“Most likely, with your luck.”
They looked at each other. “You saw?” he asked.
“I saw. I heard.” She paused. “You going to be all right?”
John looked at his hands. His remembered them gripping Titus’s shoulders, just now, and last night, his ass. Remembered the taste of Glenlivet on Titus’s tongue then, and the faces of his own men, slackened and bloodied in death, just now. He had no words. Instead, after a moment, he flexed the fingers of his right hand, curled the fingers up like flower petals and brought a different color flame to each. They spun, little ballerinas—cherry flame, and lemon, mint and royal and periwinkle, and in the center, a will-o’-the-wisp of winged, smoky, crackling black.
All the power I can imagine at my fingertips—more yet, if I ever decided to risk it—and in the end, I was nothing more than a lover’s broken toy, all these years. He shook his head and blew the flames out. Jeez, Candle-man—no wonder you gave up on relationships. And on your art.
“I’m going to quit,” he told Rashida.
She stared. “You what?”
“I’m going to quit, and recommend you as my replacement.”
“Don’t get me wrong; I’m flattered,” she said. “But … why?”
He shrugged. “I … hate paperwork?”
She threw her head back and laughed that belly-deep laugh of hers. It summoned a smile that he hadn’t thought he had in him. “Don’t quit just yet. For one thing, I’m not sure I want the job. And second, I don’t think we’re done with all the ‘ripple effects’ left over from that evil fuck.” She lifted her chin toward the berg, now nearly invisible at the far end of the bay. “You’ll want Chubb to have your back when and if the shit hits the fan.”
“I doubt they will, anyway.”
“Oh, I dunno. We’ll see.”
John built them a staircase to the top of the retaining wall and they walked together toward the amphitheater. The statue towered overhead, casting a soft, reflected glow that lit their way. He could see the Beef’s silhouette, where she stood silent sentry over the bodies of Gil and Horace, with the trumpet strapped to her back. The edges of his mouth pulled down.
Rashida paused. He turned back to her.
“Did you mean it about leaving the company?” she asked. He thought it over. “Yeah. Maybe. I think so.”
“Well, then! Close enough.”
“Close enou
gh to what?”
She slapped him on the arm. “Close enough to when you’re at the you-think-so-maybe-not-my-boss-anymore point that we won’t get dinged by HR. Besides which, fuck it.”
“Uh … I’m still not following.” “Wow, you are out of it. Fine, I’ll spell it out. We’ll be up all night dealing with the fallout this night’s horror show, of course.” She waved her arm to encompass their fallen team members, the shredded mass of the airship, the sirens and lights. “And then you are going to authorize three days of PTO for you, me, and Arry.”
“Makes sense. Not to mention six months of company-sponsored, top-notch trauma therapy.”
She nodded. “At a minimum! And, once all that is all lined out, you’re going to grab your fifth of fancy scotch and meet me at my place. Whereupon we shall throw back a couple of drinks, snort some purple sparkly shit, and get frisky.”
“Wait. What?” He blinked, confused. ‘I thought you were mad at me.”
“That’s right, John. I’m mad as hell. And I’ll probably swear at you a lot.”
“That’s fair …”
“And I’ll want your life story.” She poked him in the chest. “The real version, this time. Which I’ve more than earned.”
“You really truly have.”
“But the important thing is that we’re going to fuck each other’s brains out, John. We’re going to climb into bed and fuck each other. We’re going to fuck and fuck until we forget what a horrible shitty day this has been.” She crooked her pinkie at him. “What do you say?”
He eyed her pinkie. “I dunno, Ras … that’d take an awful lot of fucking.”
“Exactly.” She wiggled the finger. “C’mon, Candle-man. Don’t wait till sunrise to light me up, here. You in or you out?”
He laughed. “All right. Good plan.” He lifted his own pinkie, but she pulled hers back. “On one condition. You have to shower first.”
“Deal,” he said, and took her pinkie in his.
About the Author
Laura J. Mixon is an engineer in the American Southwest with a background in the energy industry. She is a graduate of the Clarion writing workshop and an instructor at the Viable Paradise genre writing workshop on Martha's Vineyard. You can sign up for email updates here.
Ripple Effects Page 12
