by Paula Guran
Simon’s not sure Mary’s here anymore.
Two men open the doors, another two rolling in to secure the room. Nothing happens, and Sal escorts Helene into the darkness of the dragon’s lair.
Mary turns to Simon, pinning him to the wall. “A kiss for luck, Baron.”
His swollen lip throbs and he braces for the pain. But she doesn’t bite this time.
Her tongue burns against his, heat rushing through him, drawing out the pain, melting the ice. It hurts like something tearing inside, and he wants to push her away, but somehow his arms are around her, gun hand pressing the small of her back, crushing her to him. He hasn’t ached for anyone like this since . . .
She pulls away, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he realizes he just kissed a goddess. Or something close to one.
“Mary—”
“Not quite.”
“Erzulie.”
Her smile is fierce and bloodthirsty, flashing bright as the knives in her hands. “Come on, Baron. The dragon wants blood.”
She steps out of the alley.
Six of Sal’s guards wait by the door and they all turn, guns rising. Simon’s stomach clenches. She’s blocking his shot, drawing their fire. He can already imagine the sight of her blood on the pavement.
But Mary starts to dance.
And Simon’s jaw drops as he remembers who she is.
She writhes serpent-lithe, daggers like steel fangs. Her sister’s dance was just a shadow of this. At first the guards can only stare as she swirls toward them, barefoot on the pitted, glass-strewn street.
Someone breaks the spell and fires.
But Mary isn’t there, spinning out of the bullet’s path like she could pluck it out of the air if it suited her. Then she’s on the man and his throat opens in a red-black spray.
Simon’s gun roars and men fall, one, two, three. Mary’s heel catches one in the gut as her knife comes down on the other’s gun arm. Simon aims and she slides out of the way, letting him finish the one doubled over retching.
She knows just where to cut as she opens the last man’s chest. Simon’s guts turn to ice water as she straightens, red to the elbows, blood dripping down her cheek. Her eyes flash like coals in the streetlight.
The smell inside the temple fills Simon’s nose, makes his flesh crawl. Smoke and ash and something musky and autumnal, like snakes. His stomach cramps with atavistic terror, balls trying to crawl into his torso. He blows a long breath out his nose, wrestling the need to flee. He has to see this through.
Mary, or Erzulie, takes his arm, turns him toward her. She traces a wavy line on his forehead with one bloody finger and the fear recedes. He almost misses it.
Dim lamplight spills across the wide room, throws long shadows across the cement floor. Open spaces, wide ramps. Enough room for a bus to maneuver. Or a dragon.
“Which way?” he asks.
Mary’s nostrils flare as she scans the room. “Down.”
The air warms as they descend, and the smell worsens. Not just the reptile reek, but the smell of age, or illness. Of a dying beast.
A shadow flickers at the edge of his vision and bullets crack against the wall behind them. Simon dodges behind a pillar, but Mary’s moving in a blood-streaked blur, bare feet silent on the floor. An instant later he hears a gurgle and a heavy thump.
“Follow me, boy,” she calls. “Try to keep up.”
Simon’s face feels strange; it takes a second to realize he’s grinning. Then Mary gasps in pain.
He rounds the corner to find two men bleeding all over the floor and Mary leaning against the wall, a hand pressed against her stomach.
“He had a knife.” Her voice is mortal again, and strained.
Vinyl gapes and curls like skin, a wide gash above her navel. Her corset stays took the worst of it, at least, and nothing’s punctured. Blood wells dark as pomegranate juice in the shadows.
“I’m fine,” she says, waving him off.
It would be easier without her, but he nods. She keeps up, though sweat slicks her face and her lips pinch pale.
Shots echo below them, followed by a sound that curdles Simon’s blood. Not a hiss, not a roar, not a volcano’s belch, but all of them at once. The screams don’t last long. They round the last corner and enter the dragon’s chamber.
A blur of fire and ash, of smoke and embers. Red and gold and black and gray, cracking, shifting, seething. Winged and scaled and feathered and furred and Simon can’t make sense of it. He staggers, goes to one knee.
The dragon.
Chance’s voice in his head, soft and resonating. Beautiful. So beautiful. For an instant he can feel her beside him, smell her skin. Tears stream down his face.
He climbs to his feet. Sweat slicks his palm, slippery against the rough-hatched gun grip.
Sal stands in front of them, silhouetted against the dragon’s glow. He’s still got Helene, and Simon won’t risk the shot.
“Sal!” His voice cracks, rough with smoke. “Let her go.”
Sal turns, dragging Helene around. He’s got a gun in his free hand; the muzzle gleams as he levels it at Simon.
And pauses. His face is in shadow, but Simon feels the weight of his stare.
“What’s the matter, Sal? Don’t you recognize me?” He strips off the torn and bloody coat, one sleeve at a time, tosses hat and glasses aside. Pink and white scars shine in the firelight. “Recognize your work?”
“Simon Marin?” Sal laughs. “So it has been you—the ghost, the thing that’s got everyone jumping at shadows. You’ve done me a lot of favors in the past few months.”
“I’ll do one more. Let the girl go.”
“What is this—revenge? You should know better. It was just a job, Simon.”
“It was my wife.”
“After tonight, I’ll never work for Manny again. Hell, I’ll turn him to ash. That was what Chance wanted, wasn’t it?”
Simon fights the urge to spit. “Don’t worry, that will still happen.”
Behind him, Mary’s breath hisses. Simon’s chest tightens; she’s finally read his heart.
He’s starting to wonder how long they’ll stand here like this, guns pointed, when Helene decides it for them. She slams a foot into Sal’s knee and throws herself down.
Simon dodges, pulling the trigger. Both guns flash. Sal falls, but his bullet catches Simon’s left shoulder like a white-hot hammer. His vision washes red as he stumbles against a pillar.
His chest heaves, pulse echoing in his ears, louder than the dragon’s rasping breath. His left arm hangs nearly useless at his side—pity it’s not numb. So tired, but he can’t rest, not yet.
He pushes himself up. Confirm the kill, but Mary’s standing in front of him, black eyes narrow.
“You came for the dragon.”
“I did. I have to.”
“Do you even know what he is? Do you understand, or is this just another death?”
“That’s what I do, Mary. The dragon is power—I can’t take out Manny like this, as a man. I’ll kill until there’s no one left. If you want to cut my heart out then, I won’t stop you.”
“That’s not how it works. My sister is the priestess, the chosen child. This city has enough killers, Simon. It needs new life.”
His eyes sag shut for a heartbeat. “I don’t have anything to do with life anymore.”
She moves closer and he flinches, but she only lays a hand over his heart. “It’s not too late. We can give you something more.”
“I just want to rest. But I have to keep going. I promised Chance . . . ” Strength drips out of him in crimson streams. Already his vision is dark around the corners.
He straightens, steps past Mary. “I promised.”
She grabs his arm, nails gouging. “Simon, I won’t—”
He punches her in the gut, gun still in his hand. She makes a noise like a run-over cat and falls, face draining grey.
“Sorry,” he whispers as he turns away.
Helene lifts her head from where she kneels naked beside the dragon. Tears shine on her cheeks. “It’s time. He’s dying.”
Simon staggers closer, heat washing over him in waves. He can see the beast now, massive head on the ground beside Helene, body long as a train car sprawled limp across the ground. Its chest heaves, dark smoke curling from its nostrils. One lantern eye shines, half-slitted. The other is sunken and swollen shut, leaking black blood and clear fluids. Its forked purple tongue flickers amid broken bone-needle teeth.
Its hide is rough, dark as coal, but as it moves sparks of red and gold writhe through the black like falling embers. Even dying, it’s beautiful. Chance always wanted to see a dragon.
Simon brushes its snout with his left hand, hisses as his fingers blister. His blood bubbles as it drips on the dragon’s nose. The dragon exhales a steaming sigh and Simon’s skin tingles.
Helene looks at him, hazel eyes shining by dragonlight. “I have to eat his heart.” Tears drip off her lashes, evaporating before they reach her chin.
Mary staggers closer, limping now, hunched over her bleeding stomach. “You don’t have to do it, Simon. You think we won’t take care of this? You think you and yours are the only ones Manny’s ever hurt? There will be vengeance, all you could ever want, and you don’t have to die for it.”
“Yes I do.”
He holsters the gun and draws his knife. Silver and steel gleam like a flame in his hand as he stands over the dragon. Mary curses softly; Helene watches him with eerie golden eyes.
The dragon doesn’t fight, just rolls, baring the hollow of his breast. The hide is softer here, like oiled leather.
The knife slides home and Helene lets out a strangled scream. Then Simon can’t hear anything but the roar of his own heart.
Blood like boiling oil. Clinging. Burning. The pain is worse than anything he’s ever imagined, until it simply stops, too much for his body to hold and it rolls over him. His vision tunnels until all he can see is the ruin of flesh in front of him, the blackened skin of his arms.
The blade melts as he cuts, barely lasts long enough to sever the great throbbing veins. The gush of blood sears half his face, blinds his right eye. The fluid dripping down his cheek is too thick to be tears.
And then the heart is free, pulsing in his hands. Fire ripples blue-green, washing up his arms. Consuming him. His own heart is failing.
He turns, sees Helene and Marie Dimanche watching him, wide-eyed. Helene has her arm over Mary’s shoulder, and they really do look like sisters.
He raises the dragon’s beating heart. His hands are twisted char and bone. He’ll be dead in seconds if he doesn’t eat.
He’s been dead for a year.
The city needs new life. He can’t give it that.
All he wants is rest.
He steps forward, ribbons of melting rubber trailing from his boot soles. He falls to his knees in front of Helene and offers her the burning heart.
Chance. I’m sorry.
As she takes it from him Simon collapses, his wreck of a body giving out at last, and hot concrete rushes up to meet him, drives the last breath from his lungs.
Simon dies.
Simon burns.
Not the torturous fires of a hell he’s never believed in. Not even the fire of his own hell, all too real. This is clean.
No smoke, no soot, just white heat dissolving him. He wishes he could cry for the sheer relief of it.
The dragon is there, inside him, surrounding him. It eats his heart.
He failed, broke his promise, but this isn’t so bad. This is a better death than he ever imagined for himself.
And then it’s over.
Simon gasps, chest hitching painfully. His face is wet, the taste of blood and tears thick on his tongue. He opens his eyes—both of them—and stares at the soot-scarred ceiling of a parking garage. His gun gouges the small of his back.
He lifts his hands. Whole, clean. He sits up, and nothing hurts, but the skin on his chest pulls oddly as he moves.
His scars are gone.
He touches his chest, his arms, his face. Burn scars, blade scars, bullet wounds, the scars the surgeons’ scalpels left. Everything gone.
His breath leaves him on a sob.
“Welcome back, Simon Magus.”
Mary sits a few yards away, Helene draped motionless over her lap. No cleansing fire for her—she’s still ash-streaked and bruised. The dragon is gone, leaving only pools of blood flickering with green-gold flames.
Sal is gone too, and bloody footprints lead up the ramp.
Simon pushes himself to his knees and stares at Helene’s still form. “Is she—”
“She’s resting.”
“She’s not . . . ”
“A dragon?” She smiles her wicked smile. “She is, just a baby one. These things take time.” She strokes her sister’s Medusa braids with a gentle hand.
“Why am I still alive?”
“The dragon must like you. And my sister will need help, as she grows. She has a lot of work to do.”
Simon runs a weary hand over his face. “I just wanted to rest.”
“We rarely get what we want.” Her smug smile belies the words; Mary is used to getting what she wants. “Besides, a lot of people will need killing before this is over.” She shifts her weight and winces. “Help me get her home.”
Simon sighs and obeys, crouching to take Helene into his arms. Her skin is feverishly hot.
Mary catches his hand before he can stand, nails piercing skin. “If you ever hit me like that again, I’ll have your balls for a gris gris bag.”
He just nods, face carefully flat, and lifts Helene.
Outside it’s raining, the sky opened up to wash the city clean. Mary limps beside him as he carries the newborn dragon into the world.
Amanda Downum lives in a garret in Austin, Texas, where she drinks absinthe but tries not to die of consumption. Her day job involves silverfish, scorpions, and the rare snake. Sometimes she gets to dress up as a giant worm. She is the author of the Necromancer Chronicles—The Drowning City, The Bone Palace, and Kingdoms of Dust—published by Orbit Books. Her short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, and in the anthologies Lovecraft Unbound, Brave New Love, and A Fantasy Medley 2. Her novel Dreams of Shreds & Tatters is forthcoming from Solaris.
The City: New York City—more exactly: Greenwich Village in Lower Manhattan.
The Magic: A Faerie Wild Hunt leaves frightened mortals, flattened cars, and pavement glowing with hoofprints in its path. It’s up to the Archmage of New York and a few others—including a werewolf drag queen—to stop the Hunt.
THE SLAUGHTERED LAMB
Elizabeth Bear
The smell of the greasepaint was getting to Edie.
“Oh my god, sweetheart, and then she says to me, ‘Honey, I think you’d look fabulous with dreads,’ and I swear I stared at her for ten whole seconds before I managed to ask, ‘Do you think I’m a fucking Jamaican, bitch?’ I mean, can you believe the gall of . . . ”
Nor the mouths on some others, Edie thought tiredly, pressing a thumb into the arch of her foot and trying to massage away the cramp you got from a two-hour burlesque in four-inch stilettos. They were worth the pain, though: hot little boots with the last two inches of the dagger heel clad in ferrules of shining metal. When you took them down the runway, they glittered like walking on stars.
She looked in her makeup mirror, still trying to tune out Paige Turner’s fucking tirade about fucking Jamaicans, which wasn’t getting any more interesting for its intricacy. Edie’s vision was shimmering with migraine aura—full moon tonight—and the smell of makeup and scorched hair was making her nauseated. The fucking cramp wasn’t coming out of her fucking foot. No way she could walk in flats like this.
She didn’t want to go home: there was nothing in her apartment except three annoying flatmates—one of whom had an incontinent cat—and a telephone that wasn’t going to ring. Not for her
, anyway.
She wanted a boyfriend. A family. Somebody who would help her get rid of this fucking headache, and treat her like a person rather than a sideshow. Somebody who wouldn’t spout bigoted shit at her. She didn’t get that from her father’s family, and she certainly didn’t get it here.
“Fuck.” She dropped her foot to the floor, arching it up so only the ball and toes touched. “I’m fucking fucked.”
“Aw, sweetie,” somebody said in her ear—a lower voice than Paige’s, and a much more welcome one. “What’s wrong?”
Somebody was trying to distract Paige by asking her if she was staying up for the lunar eclipse. It wasn’t working. Edie wondered if a punch in the kisser would do it.
She looked up to see Mama Janeece leaning over her, spilling out of her corset in the most convincing manner imaginable.
“I gotta get out of here,” Edie said. “You know, I’m just gonna walk to the subway now.”
She jammed her foot back into the boot. The support eased the cramp temporarily, but she knew there’d be hell to pay all night. So be it.
“It’s fifteen degrees,” Janeece said. “You’re going to go out there in high heels and a wig and four inches of fabric?”
“I’ve got a coat. And a bottle of schnapps back at my place.” Edie stood. She smiled to take the sting out of it, then made sure her voice was loud enough for Paige to overhear as she gathered her coat. “Besides, if I have to listen to any more racist bullshit from Miss Thing over there, I’m going to be even colder in a jail cell all night. Somebody ought to tell her that it ain’t drag if you look like Annie Lennox.”
She sashayed out, letting the door swing shut behind her. Not quite fast enough to cut short the cackles of outraged queens.
Halfway down the corridor, she realized she’d left her cellphone behind. It wasn’t worth ruining a good exit for. She would get it tomorrow. Anyway, she didn’t have anybody to call.
The coat wasn’t long enough to cover her knees and the cold burned through those hot little boots. After ten steps, Edie regretted her decision. But going back now would be a sure way to convert triumph into ignominy, so she soldiered on, sequined spandex stretching around her thighs with each swinging stride as she click-clacked up Jane Street toward 8th Avenue. Sure, it was cold, but she could take it. Sure, her feet hurt—but she could take that, too. She was probably less miserable than the gaunt black hound with his hide tented over his hipbones that she glimpsed slinking aside at the first intersection.
