The Fire King

by Marjorie Liu

  “You lie,” he accused.

  “I have no reason to.” Her gaze had hardened.

  Karr strained against his bonds. “A reason was never required for what was done to my kind. Lies would be no different. You ally yourself with the shifter, and for that you are the enemy, too.”

  Soria shook her head, tossing aside her small white rag—but not before he saw real anger flash through her eyes. It was quick, though, and became something far worse: pity. She looked at him as though he was a sad fool, and for a moment he felt like one. Something was not right here. Something had been not right since he had opened his eyes in the catacomb, but the way this woman looked at him suddenly made it all too real.

  “Maybe you are right about some things,” she said quietly. “But if there was a war, it ended long ago. You are not … where you think.”

  “Then why am I imprisoned?” Karr tried to flex his hands inside the iron cloth. “I am an animal in this place.”

  “You are feared.”

  “Am I?” he asked coldly. “And the shape-shifter? You should fear her, and yet you do not. She defers to you, I think. I wonder what that makes you.”

  Soria’s eyelids twitched but she did not answer the implication. “You hate her without knowing who she is.”

  “I know what she is.” Karr briefly closed his eyes, hearing sobs inside his mind—echoes of young voices, cut with screams. “Nothing has changed.”

  Soria leaned back, fingers tapping her thigh. “I saw you begin to change your shape. Are you telling me you are not like her?” She sounded surprised.

  Cold laughter escaped Karr, cutting his throat. “You can ask that?”

  “I just did,” was the human’s grim response. “And I am awaiting the answer.”

  Fury choked him. He could not believe such ignorance—almost accused Soria of more lies—but he stopped himself just before he spoke, caught by her eyes and scent. Brittle, both. Angry and weary. But not sly. There was no hint of guile.

  Karr blew out his breath, frustrated. Talking to this woman was impossible. She reminded him too much of his initiation through the old canyon core: confusing, dangerous, with no guide but instinct. No wings. No claws. Just his own fragile human flesh to see him through.

  He was still searching for words when he heard an odd popping sound outside the room, sharp sputters, a rat-tat-tat. Soria stiffened, staring at the door, and all the color drained from her face. Fear had entered her eyes. Fear. The shape-shifter had not frightened her, and neither had Karr, but this sound, whatever it was, was enough. And if it was enough for her, it was enough for him.

  Soria rose to her feet, flinching as she heard the sound again. It was louder this time. Much closer. Karr strained upward, his iron restraints pushing into his wounds. “What is it?”

  She shook her head and moved around him to the door. “I will return.”

  He had heard such promises before, in battle. Few had ever been kept. Karr bared his teeth and hissed, “Stay.” The woman ignored him and he growled, furious, “You are a cripple. You cannot defend yourself.”

  She shot him a startled look, but then the door to the room rattled. Soria slid two steps to the left, putting herself between him and it. Her spine was straight, chin raised. Her left hand was curled into a fist.

  “Release me,” Karr hissed—just as the door opened.

  Men crowded into the room. There were only three, but even one would have been too many. They wore dark, tight clothing made of a fine weave, and their heads were covered with black hoods that molded to their faces. Only the eyes and mouths had been cut out. It was a startling sight, yet too familiar, though the accompanying circumstances had changed. These men carried oddly shaped black sticks similar to what he had seen the soldiers in the wagon wield, and they were pointing them at the woman. They shouted deep guttural words that Karr would have understood in any language.

  Soria did not yield. The knuckles of her left hand were white and straining, her fist clenched so tight it shook. Karr had a fine view. Soria spoke quietly to the men, her voice far calmer than the tremble of her hand.

  One of the men aimed his weapon at Karr. Soria moved to block him, and another man lunged forward to grab her arm, yanking her close. He was fast but she was quicker. Even as she slammed against his body, her left hand came up in a blur and her thumb dug deep into his eye. Blood spurted and the man holding Soria screamed, jerking backward. He threw her away from him and Soria lost her footing, landing hard against Karr’s chest.

  The impact—and Soria’s elbow—knocked the breath out of his lungs, but he recovered quickly, meeting her gaze for one brief moment. Her face was very close to his. Karr could taste her scent, could feel the heat of her breath on his face. She was soft and warm, and very much alive. He realized, with some surprise, that he wanted her to stay that way. He was not done with her.

  “Free me,” he rasped angrily.

  “Too late,” she replied—and hissed in pain as the man she had attacked grabbed one of her braids and hauled backward.

  The man’s left eye was little more than pulp, his mask soaked with blood. Holding tightly to her hair, he kicked her in the ribs and then the stomach. Soria gasped, trying to curl into a ball, but he yanked at her again and began dragging her across the floor toward the exit. The sight broke something in Karr. Rage filled him—pure, striking bloodlust—and golden light clouded his vision until he felt blind. Muscles rippled beneath the iron bars, scales pouring upward through his skin. His shoulder blades tickled. His jaw began to lengthen, sharp teeth pressing against his lower lip. He snapped at the air, restraints cutting painfully into his body. Much more and he would impale himself. More than that, and he would slice himself into pieces.

  He was not certain he cared.

  The men froze, staring. Soria was still on the ground, trying to gain her footing, raw determination in her eyes. Her left hand was covered in blood. She leaned to her right, swaying unsteadily, and it seemed to Karr that she forgot, in that moment, about her missing arm. More pain flickered over her face.

  Karr heard another loud popping sound, similar to the sputtering that had presaged this entire encounter. One of the men jerked back, staggering. His companions began to turn, but more sharp raps rattled the air and Karr saw blood spray from small impacts in their masked heads. The men fell, one by one. Soria managed to roll sideways, barely avoiding them. She was staring at the doorway, where another man suddenly appeared.

  The newcomer was tall and fair, his hair a rare shade of red. He dressed in loose clothing the color of wheat, and silver flashed at his throat. He held in one hand a smaller version of the black sticks, pointed down at the fresh twitching corpses. He did not look at the bodies. He studied Karr. Then he considered Soria. He spoke to her quietly, and held out his hand.

  She ignored his help, standing on her own, swaying just slightly, enough that she placed her palm against her head. She was very pale. Somewhere close Karr heard more sharp pops, followed by screams. The redheaded man spoke again and Soria gave a curt reply before she glanced down at Karr. Conflict filled her eyes. Unease.

  “I came here to see if you could be trusted,” she told him.

  “Words are a poor substitute for action,” Karr replied. “Release me.”

  Soria hesitated. The redheaded man edged toward the door, where a young girl appeared, holding a very large knife. She wore startlingly few clothes.

  The man spoke to Soria, sharply. Karr did not like his tone, or him. Too cold. There was something ancient in his eyes.

  Soria ignored him and dropped down on her knees beside Karr. “Your name.”

  He did not want to tell her, but he remembered her standing between him and the men with their weapons, attacking with nothing but her bare hand, and a swell of dangerous admiration filled him. “Karr,” he said.

  “Karr.” Soria held his gaze a moment longer, then fumbled for the bolts binding his iron restraints. “You show me what you are made of. Good or bad.”<
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  I will show you both, he thought wearily. And hope I do not kill you.

  Chapter Four

  It was hard to breathe. Hard to think, hard to sit up. Hard to undo the bolts in the iron restraints. Soria worked fast, phantom pain shooting up her ghost arm, making her shoulder and head throb. They hurt like hell. So did her ribs.

  Having an eyeful of bleeding corpses did not help, either. Feeling her hand sticky with some of that same blood was worse. That she had been attacked at all, with a gunfight still going on—

  “Fuck,” she muttered, encountering a particularly stubborn bolt. It was the restraint that bound Karr’s wrist. She had managed to undo the ones holding down his throat, chest, and waist. It would have made more sense to start first with his hands so that he could help her, but she had put those off until now, part of her still wondering if this was a good idea. Giving herself time to change her mind.

  She had seen the videos—this man had practically taken off heads with his bare hands—and here she was, undoing his restraints. She had come here to judge him, to discover if he was a danger. And he was. He most certainly was. But the question remained whether or not he was a danger to everyone.

  There was no easy distinction between a “right” killing and a “wrong” one. Death was death; only the circumstances and intent made it different. Was Soria qualified to judge? Maybe. But the reason for that was not something Soria wanted to think about. Not with fresh blood on her hand, which was far more disturbing and revolting than she could afford to let on. It brought back bad memories. If there had been any more blood on her body, she was quite certain she would not still be conscious.

  She struggled with the bolt again, and felt Karr watching her. She could see his golden eyes beneath her lashes; steady, unflinching, restless. His was a dangerous gaze, utterly inhuman. Just like the rest of him, still covered in rippling patches of golden scales, each one the size of her palm, and iridescent as some sun-riddled desert pearl. His skin resembled metal or shell more than flesh.

  His face, too, had not yet regained its humanity: his jaw was long and pointed, his upper teeth sharp. This was less affecting to Soria than seeing him free of the mask for the first time, filthy, sweating, startled. So human. He had been fed with an eyedropper, but the food had clearly missed his mouth for part of the time, and a crusty film still remained on his face. All this only made him appear wilder, even more unpredictable.

  You’re risking lives on a theory, Soria told herself angrily. But she had run out of time to talk with this man. Nor was she going to leave him here to die or be experimented on. Even if it killed her.

  She bit her bottom lip as her left hand—still weak after all this time—refused to turn the bolt. “Robert,” she called over her shoulder. “I need help.”

  Robert. In his fine linen suit, looking as though he had stepped directly from the cover of GQ, straight into the firefight. Cool, calm, utterly unbothered by the violence. And Ku-Ku, standing guard in the hall, wearing mini-shorts and a pink tank top, chewing gum, holding a knife and semiautomatic in her hands.

  Soria was going to kick Roland’s ass. Oh, God, was she going to throttle him.

  “You should leave the shifter,” said Robert smoothly. But a moment later he appeared at her side, dropping gracefully to one knee. Soria made room for him, stepping over Karr to work on freeing his other hand. He was a big man, nothing but sinew and hard, lean muscle. She felt small beside him, practically Lilliputian.

  Thousands of years old, she thought. Impossible.

  Just as shape-shifters were impossible. Or mermen, gargoyles, psychics, and magic spells. Or women who could speak any language in the world.

  “Why are you here?” she asked Robert, flinching as more gunshots rang out down the hall. “Serena said nothing about you.”

  “And my contract said nothing about her. I was paid to be here, just as I was paid to intercept you at the airport.”

  Soria stared. “I told you, Roland wouldn’t do that.”

  “Not when he has an agency full of able-bodied men and women at his disposal? Interesting quandary, isn’t it. Maybe you should ask your esteemed boss what he’s so afraid of the others knowing.” Robert undid the bolt on Karr’s wrist, tossed it away, and then quickly reached behind his back, beneath his suit jacket. He pulled out a small pistol and slid it across the floor to Soria. “For you, fully loaded. Roland said you’re trained.”

  “Roland’s quickly becoming a jackass,” Soria replied, staring at the gun like it was poison. “I’m not touching that.”

  “I told you not to think too much about the arm.” Robert left the gun on the floor and backed toward the door. Ku-Ku glanced inside, pigtails bouncing, then disappeared again. “A gun is a gun. Not a reflection.”

  Soria remembered what it felt like to hold a gun in her hand. The weight, the smooth slide of the trigger beneath her finger. The kick and roar.

  “Who are those men?” she muttered.

  “Mercenaries. Well trained, expensive. Good equipment. They came by car, probably from Beijing.”

  “You think the Consortium sent them?”

  Robert said nothing, and pulled the mask off one of the dead. Soria did not want to look, but found herself staring into the face of a middle-aged man of indeterminate race; perhaps Asian, maybe Latino. A bit like herself: a mixture of different things. His features had not softened in death, but retained a coarse harshness; the brow lines were deep, the mouth twisted in a grimace.

  “No,” Robert finally replied, staring thoughtfully at the corpse. “I don’t think these men belong to them. Someone different is running this show.”

  “How can you tell?”

  A brief, sardonic smile touched his mouth. “Professionalism precedes itself. These men were not psychotic enough to be Consortium.”

  Nausea climbed Soria’s throat. She looked away, and focused on the bolt beneath her fingers. Karr, watching both her and Robert through narrowed eyes, worked loose his other hand, shaking off the chain mail wrapped around his fist. Soria held her breath as his immense hand flexed—and then forced herself to start breathing again as he sat up and reached over to where she was fumbling with the other bolt.

  Their fingers brushed. Karr rumbled, “Who is that man?”

  It was easy for her to understand him, his language crystalline in her mind, rich with nuance, though it was still difficult for her mouth to form the right words to reply. Different muscles made unique sounds, and the rolling growl of some vowels made her feel as if she were imitating Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman.

  “He is no one,” she told him.

  “More a wish than the truth, I think,” he replied, and then, “How did you loosen the others?”

  “Turn it, like this.” Soria showed him how to handle the bolt, still taken aback every time he spoke with calm and thoughtfulness similar to the restraint he had initially shown in the video, so at odds with his bursts of rage.

  She looked up and found Robert watching them, smiling faintly. “I’ll be close,” he said, and stepped out of sight into the hall.

  Close, my ass. Soria gritted her teeth and started working on Karr’s ankle restraints.

  He freed his other hand, and sat up quickly, spine cracking, gauze sliding off the long lines of sores and wounds she had treated. In the few moments she had looked away, his face had regained its humanity, as had his flesh. The scales were gone, jaw normal, teeth no longer razor sharp. Only his eyes still shimmered with magic, lost behind a rough mane of golden hair.

  He helped her free his ankles, fumbling at the last moment as a faint tremor raced through his body. When the last shackle was loosened, he stood, swaying, his joints still popping. The sheet fell away. Soria ducked her head, trying not to look, but Karr reached down and grabbed her hand. He pulled her up, fast, and then bent to pick up the gun.

  He held it awkwardly on his palm, the barrel pointed at her. Instinct took over. She reached out without thinking, plucking it deftly from his grip.
He let her, though his eyes narrowed.

  “I did not free you to hurt you,” she said, remembering the video of the catacomb, and how a simple reassurance would have probably prevented the deaths that followed. Maybe. Except for Serena.

  Karr’s jaw tightened. “That means nothing to me.”

  “Mercy,” she whispered, struggling to pronounce the soft growl. “I think that means something to you.”

  He went very still. Soria tore her gaze from him, looking down at the gun. The safety was off, and the weapon felt odd in her left hand, unnatural. Holding it frightened her, but Soria could not bring herself to put it down. A crazy woman. She was crazy for doing this.

  It won’t make the dark place go away inside you, whispered a small, hard voice in her head. It won’t make it easier to sleep at night. You were reckless the last time you got hurt.

  And before that she had been reckless, too; in that free-spirited, love-of-life way that had taken her on long journeys down unfamiliar roads, into the most remote regions of the world, with only luck, brains, and a gift for languages to keep her safe. She had considered the consequences and danger but never let herself be ruled by fear. She’d never imagined that what could go wrong actually would. She had trusted people as much as her instincts would let her.

  Now, here, she felt that same drive in her gut, that old intuition. She had thought it dead inside her; trust, gone forever. Maybe it should have stayed dead.

  Karr glanced sharply at the open door. Soria heard nothing, but in two smooth movements the shape-shifter crossed the room and pressed himself against the wall. She followed, but was several steps away when he lunged through the door into the hall, golden light streaking across his skin. Soria heard a muffled snarl—and watched in horror as Karr stumbled back into view, a leopard clawing at his shimmering body.

  Soria ran forward, but there was nothing she could do as Karr slammed his arm into the leopard’s mouth, trying to push her away. Robert and Ku-Ku were nowhere in sight. The gun was useless in Soria’s hand.