by Paula Guran
Amanda Downum
The dragon is dying.
The city feels it in bones of stone and iron, in scabby concrete skin. The otherkind feel it in their blood. Even Simon feels it, mortal as he is. The city waits.
The dragon will die, of age or violence, and another will take its place. Someone will eat the dragon’s heart and take its power. A lot of people are interested in the dragon’s demise.
Some are less patient than others.
Simon crouches in a narrow alley that smells of blood and piss and damp brick. Dark clouds scrape their bellies across the rooftops overhead, heavy with unshed rain and ash from fires that raged the night before. He tastes char with every breath.
A sacrifice. Everyone knows you have to bleed for the dragon, or burn. Simon’s already burned; now he sheds blood.
The man at his feet gurgles one last time and falls silent. He’s spoken all he needed to. Simon wipes his knife clean on the dead man’s shirt. Chance’s knife, silver on one side, cold iron on the other—it works on humans too.
He’s going for the dragon tonight, the man said. And, Mary Snakebones.
Simon uncoils from his crouch, knife vanishing into his coat. He’s not done with blood yet. Maybe not ever.
And he still needs to find a costume.
In the Garden of Eden every day is Halloween. Freaks, geeks, and tattooed women.
Tonight isn’t much different, except for the costumed crowd and the orange and black streamers hanging from the ceiling, flickering like flames in the draft of the overburdened AC. Dancers writhe in pits and cages, the bass throb of the music drowning a dozen conversations, a dozen propositions and transactions. The air is solid with smoke.
A woman crawls across the main stage, wearing vinyl boots and fingerless lace gloves, a witch’s hat balanced on her hair. Not much else. Simon watches her flirt with the crowd and smiles. Chance always loved costumes, fancy dress. She’d have liked his outfit tonight.
His smile turns bitter and falls away. Chance is gone, and the woman he wants tonight won’t be on stage.
He slides through the crowd, a colder, cleaner thread twining through the murk of sweat and spilled liquor. Just another costumed schmuck, but elbows and shoulders move aside for him. He rides the current, lets it spit him out in a shadowed back corner where Mary Snakebones holds court.
She’s enthroned in a wide, shallow booth, surrounded by pretty hangers-on. Mostly goths and would-be witches. He catches the scent of fae, but it’s faint, half-breed at best. Sometimes she runs with a dangerous crowd, but not tonight. Mary’s danger enough on her own.
He walks up slow, hands loose at his sides. Sweat trickles down his neck; the holster chafes the small of his back. He should have worn a shirt under the tailcoat. Mary’s courtiers barely notice him. They’d all be dead, if that was his business tonight.
Mary notices. She watches him approach, eyes dark as sin under a weight of kohl. Waxy black lips curl. “Hello, Baron.”
He tips his top hat, looks down over the tops of his dark round glasses. “Good evening, Marie.”
She doesn’t wear a costume. She doesn’t have to. She’s Mary Snakebones, Mojo Mary. The dragon’s child. People would dress as her if they could pull it off.
She cocks one black brow. “Are you here for me, Baron?”
What would happen if he said yes? She looks so soft, so young, all trussed up in velvet and vinyl. Her smile isn’t soft, nor her eyes young. He’s almost tempted to find out.
“We need to talk.”
Her eyes narrow, gaze burning through greasepaint and flesh. She’s never seen this face before, but she nods. Maybe she can read his mind, or his soul, or invisible omens spinning around him. She waves a hand and the baby-bats scatter from the booth. “Sit with me.”
“I was hoping for a more private conversation.”
“Maybe later.” She nods toward the stage. “My sister is dancing tonight.”
He slides into the booth—easier than arguing. Leather creaks as he settles on her right. He keeps his eyes on the crowd, but the most dangerous thing in the room sits beside him.
“The ghost of Simon Magus.” She studies him with a smile. “You’re a boogeyman now, the thing waiting in the dark. They say you died too, that night.”
He swallows. “I did.”
“I like this face.”
Whether she means the painted face or the one the surgeons gave him, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. “Sal is coming for you tonight.”
Her smile widens. “Let him.” Under the table she takes his left hand, her flesh warm through the leather of his glove. One sharp nail traces the underside of his ring finger, snags on the metal of his wedding band. “Poor Simon. Still wearing your grief like a brand.”
Sweat pricks his scalp, trickles greasy through the white paint on his face. His scars tingle. She moves closer, velvet coat rustling against his shoulder, breath tickling his ear. “You’ve killed someone tonight.”
Their lips nearly brush as he turns to face her, bittersweet perfume filling his nose—almond and clove and autumn leaves. “Only one.” His fingers tighten around hers. “Sal is after the dragon.”
Black eyes narrow. “And death comes to tell me this.”
“This?” He touches the brim of his hat. “It’s just a costume.”
“No, it isn’t.” Her left hand rises to touch his cheek, thumb trailing whisper-soft over his cheekbone. “This face is very real tonight, Simon Magus.”
“Don’t call me that. I was never the one—”
Her hand trails down his chest, to the slick, ridged scar tissue over his heart. “I know a true name when I hear it, Simon.”
He shudders, and wonders what else she knows. If she can read his heart, he’s a dead man. She’s too close, dizzying him—he could never draw in time.
The music stops, leaving only the ocean-murmur of the crowd and the surf of blood in Simon’s ears. Mary shifts her attention to the stage and he fights a sigh of relief.
“And now—” the DJ’s voice echoes over the speakers “—Eve and the snake.”
A new song starts, slow and deep, and a woman glides onto the stage. Henna-red hair in wild gorgon braids, skin like cream and cinnamon. Her hair matches the python draped over her shoulders.
Someone in the crowd gasps. Simon sucks a breath through his teeth. The snake is longer than she is, its muscle-fat tail wrapped around her waist. Garnet and cinnabar scales shine under the lights, shimmering with dusty yellow-and-black whorls.
Her name isn’t Eve, of course, but Helene Dimanche. The dragon’s priestess.
Beautiful as her sister, though they don’t look like the twins they claim to be. Mary leans forward, her hand still tight around Simon’s, eyes trained on the dance.
It’s a real dance—Helene doesn’t touch the pole, or leave her feet. Muscles play in her arms as she lifts the snake and twirls. Henna swirls across her back and breasts and belly, patterns rippling as she sways to the beat.
I’ve got something you can never eat.
She doesn’t play to the crowd, either. No flirting or winking—she only makes eye contact with the snake. Money flutters onto the stage, but she doesn’t touch it.
I’ve got something you can never eat.
Mary’s chest rises and falls, cafe creme flesh constrained by her tight-laced bodice. Not the woman undulating on stage that affects her so, no matter what the rumors say, but the power Helene raises with her dance. It whispers over Simon’s skin like electric wind. He learned to feel those things around Chance.
“We should go,” he says. “It isn’t safe here.”
“This is my place. They wouldn’t dare.”
A rueful smile tugs at his mouth. She’s young after all, young and cocky. “They came to my place, Chance’s place. They dared, and now she’s dead.”
Her thumb strokes his palm, tingling through the leather to the roots of his teeth. “And you’re here to protect me? My white knight.”
“What else do you want?”
His stomach clenches. She’ll know if he lies. “I want to rest,” he says after a moment. Some of the truest words he’s ever spoken. “And I want to see the dragon.” Chance always wanted to see one. He can almost hear her voice, feel her drowsing in his arms—but he can’t bear to remember it now, not here, not with this witch.
“Are you willing to pay the price?”
She strikes as the last breath of assent leaves his lips, her fingers tangling in his hair. He stiffens, hand twitching toward his gun, but she’s pulling his head toward hers, her lips pressing his till he feels her teeth, till he lets her tongue against his and the rum-sugar taste of her fills his mouth and he can’t breathe.
She’s strong—he can’t break her grip, not without hurting her. Her hand presses against his scars again, against his heart. He hasn’t kissed a woman since Chance; he’s never kissed a woman like Mary. Her teeth sink into his lower lip and he tastes blood.
He pushes her away and she lets him. The rush of air between them raises goosebumps. His chest and lip sting.
“Damn it, Mary . . . ”
She wipes a drop of blood off her mouth, licks her finger clean. “You have to bleed.”
His ears are ringing, and the shouts across the room register a heartbeat too late.
The crowd parts, dodging away from men with guns in their hands. Simon draws, but they’ve already got the drop on him. Muzzles raise, take aim, and the look on Mary’s face nearly makes him laugh as he grabs her and pulls her over the side of the booth with him.
The world shatters into screams and thunder. Bullets thump into leather and wood, whistle over their heads. The air reeks of fear and bitter gunpowder.
“They are dead men,” Mary says. The words are lost in the cacophony, but Simon reads them on her lips and smiles.
“That’s the plan, yeah.” He leans around the edge of the booth and squeezes the trigger. Bad angle, and a man falls with a hole in his thigh, still alive. Someone else shoots back. The crowd swarms; glass shatters as a waitress drops a tray and lunges for the emergency exit. There’s a commotion on the stage.
Then a woman screams Mary’s name.
“Helene!” Her coat billows as she runs for the stage. Simon curses and lunges after her, gun kicking in time with his heartbeat as he lays down cover. Patrons shriek and dodge, clogging the front door. Pain like a wasp sting in his left arm and someone behind him screams and chokes.
He tackles Mary, knocking her into the sheltering T-intersection of the stage. Heat soaks his sleeve.
“Mary!” The cry is fainter now, closer to the door.
“They’ve got her.” She struggles against Simon’s grip, and he wonders if he’ll have to hit her.
He hears the flames first, a crackling rush that floods adrenaline through him. Then the wave rolls over the ceiling, liquid and beautiful. Streamers rain down in sparks and ashes.
Sal’s work. Simon’s pulse stutters triple-time; a burning scrap of paper brushes his cheek and panic threatens to swallow him. He fights it down, prays for the ice to take it away. A woman twitches on the floor, blood bubbling from her mouth and chest. Lung shot—Simon contemplates a mercy kill, but doesn’t want to waste a bullet.
“Back door,” he shouts at Mary.
“They’ve got my sister!”
“And we can’t get her back if we’re dead.” Already smoke sticks in his throat and his eyes water. Eyeliner bleeds ashen tears down Mary’s cheeks. After a second she nods.
He pushes Mary ahead of him and slides along the side of the stage. The shooting’s stopped. The woman on the floor lifts a pleading hand toward them. Simon pauses for an instant, then gives her what he can. Blood halos beneath her head.
Something hisses angrily in his ear, a second’s warning. His left arm screams as he raises it, screams again as his hand closes around Helene’s striking snake. The force jars through him and he barely holds on as its jaws gape in front of his face. Needle teeth glint, dark tongue flickering.
Its body writhes against his arm, looking for a grip to crush. A tube of heavy muscle, covered in oiled leather; his skin crawls at the touch. His hand tightens, glove blood-slippery, thumb squeezing under its jaw—
And Mary appears, black-nailed hands scooping up the python, cooing as she drapes its massive coils over her shoulders. It hisses at Simon as he lets go, then settles onto Mary, pacified by a familiar person.
“Follow me.” Her heels beat a staccato rhythm as she darts for the door behind the stage.
Smoke billows after them into the raw cement hallway, grey tendrils eddying in their wake. “They’ll use Helene to find the dragon,” Simon says as they run.
“She won’t tell them.”
“Then Sal will kill her, and spread her guts out to learn the way.”
Mary flinches, and for a second he thinks she’ll turn and run back into the inferno. He grabs her arm. “Can you talk to her?”
“Yes,” she says after a minute.
“Then tell her to take them to the dragon, and not to fight. We’ll meet them there.”
She nods, sucks in a deep breath; the python rises with the swell of her chest. Her eyes roll back in her head for a moment and she sways. Simon steadies her, blood dripping off his hand. She’s back in heartbeats and the fear eases around her eyes.
She touches his hand, frowns at the blood. He cranes his neck, sees entrance and exit. The bullet went through the meat of his upper arm; not too serious, though it burns like hell. Blood soaks his sleeve shiny, drips in fat drops off his knuckles.
“That should have been mine,” she says. She tastes his blood again, but she’s not flirting now.
“Let’s go, Mary.”
He’s afraid the gunmen will have the back covered, but the parking lot and alley are empty. Sal got what he came for. Simon’s blood cools in the evening chill, and goosebumps crawl over his chest. The air still tastes like char. Sirens scream in the distance, getting closer.
Simon holsters his gun, wipes sweat out of his eyes. Somehow he’s managed not to lose the hat.
Mary grins, sallow and tear-streaked in the sodium glow. “I told you it was a true face. I’ll dress that for you”—she nods toward his arm—“then we’ll see the dragon.”
Mary drives, her sleek black car purring through the crumbling streets. Buildings rise like rotted teeth around them, tearing at the clouds. The city is dying, slow and broken.
The streets are nearly empty tonight—smart residents know when to stay inside and lock their doors. Halloween is dangerous enough, without a dragon’s death for lagniappe.
And the dragon dies tonight, one way or another. Simon feels it in his scars.
The car reeks of blood and rum, both soaking the bandages under Simon’s sleeve. It hurts, but he can use the arm. A crust of blood dulls his ring. He slides a fresh clip home, chambers a round.
Mary nearly hums with power, the electric smell of it tingling in his sinuses. They surprised her in the Garden—she won’t let it happen again. Streetlights spark and die as they pass; maybe Mary’s work, but he doesn’t ask. They head for the docks and darkness follows in their wake.
“Is Sal the last?” Mary asks.
They walk now, the car and the snake abandoned in a dark alley. Simon hears water nearby, and the clang of train canisters loading and unloading. Thunder snarls in the distance, but still no rain.
“No,” he finally answers. She’ll know a lie. Long practice keeps his voice and pulse calm, but his stomach twists. Tonight will end ugly, one way or another. He touches his tongue to his swollen lip. “Sal’s the last of the ones who killed Chance, but he didn’t give the orders. His boss dies too.”
“That’s a lot of death for one man.”
Too much for any man. “I’ll manage.”
“Sal is trying to break away,” she says after a moment. “That’s why he’s after the dragon. He wants free of his masters.”
> Simon frowns. “He should have tried sooner.”
Sal never set foot in their house that night, never fired a shot. Chance took two bullets, Simon three, but it was the fire that killed her. The fire that brought the ceiling down, costing Simon half his face and very nearly his left arm. Chance died screaming his name.
“What will you do when you’re done?”
He sighs. “Rest.”
“You don’t have to waste yourself on revenge.”
“If they die, it’s not wasted. I don’t have anything left, anyway.”
Mary touches his arm, soft enough to make him shiver. “I can give—” She stops, hand tightening. “They’re coming. And we’re here.”
Simon looks up at the building—five stories, cement and brick. A parking garage once, now walled in. Heavy wood-and-iron doors stand where the ticket booth should have been.
Simon’s hand tightens on his gun, and he double-checks the weight of the knife in his pocket.
Lights cut through the night as three cars pull up to the curb. Simon presses against the alley wall, pushing Mary back.
She hums under her breath as she balances on one foot, tugging off her boot. Simon frowns, glances at the glitter of broken glass on the ground. She’s moved easily enough in heels so far. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Her smile makes his shoulder blades prickle; she slips her other foot free. “I walk on pins and needles, I walk on gilded splinters. I want to see what they can do.” Her voice is lower, throatier. The air smells of rum and cinnamon and Simon’s skin tightens. She shrugs free of her coat, vinyl corset shining red as heart’s blood.
Car doors open and men emerge. Simon recognizes Sal’s scimitar-nosed profile in a brief flicker of light.
Dominic Salieri. Nicky the Salamander, though never to his face. The whisper-stream says he’s part ifrit. To Simon, he’s just another dead man.
But not yet, because Sal reaches into the car and pulls out Helene. She’s wrapped in a man’s jacket, doesn’t look hurt. Sal handles her gently enough, but Simon can see her tremble. He could shoot past her, but not fast enough to take down the dozen thugs before one of them could kill her.
She doesn’t fight. She’s waiting for Mary.
