Aleo gestured to the debris. “I think you’re too late.”
“Not yet.” He took Aleo’s hand. “Come look at this.”
The oculus said nothing. He simply followed. Babieca stopped before a fresco. Much of it had been obliterated by the fire, but patches remained. He pointed to a blue smudge in the heart of a melted panel.
“Do you see that?”
Aleo squinted. “There’s not much to see.”
“It’s been here forever. No fire can destroy it. I thought it was a dolphin, but you saw what it truly was. Do you remember?”
Aleo stared at the wall for some time. He reached out, brushing it lightly. The soot stained his hand. He looked at the stubborn mark, and his eyes softened.
“I do.”
Aleo kissed him. Babieca felt the warmth travel down his spine, until it reached his sandals. Though it may have been the salamanders, pressing at their feet. It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It was strangely careworn, patient as the cinders and the relic that slept beneath them. It was a long game whose rules had gone up in smoke. They’d done this before, in a stone cell with a mechanical fox hiding beneath the bed. Different people in a different room, trying to prove that they were alive. The stones were the same, the dark thrill of fear, the heat at the center of things. Aleo pulled him deeper into the wreckage. Now his back was against the wall. He felt dizzy, like a prisoner tied to Fortuna’s wheel. His limbs were liquid. Aleo kissed his neck, and he murmured something, but it wasn’t a word. It wasn’t anything. His hands shook as he unfastened Aleo’s tunica. He kissed the line of moles on his breast. His fingers left sooty prints.
The narrow window cast moonlit stripes along their bodies, wrapping them in uncanny bands. They were side to side now, two stones that fit together. Babieca smelled the ashes in his hair. They were a hall joined by bone and timber, warmed by innumerable fires. Aleo squeezed his hand, as if he might break it, and Babieca growled in delight. Now they turned on desire’s lathe, chipping away at each other, sweat and sawdust. Now it was the scent of rain, thunder moving wise and slow from crown to slender foot. The charm in his mouth that tasted of long-buried gold, and Aleo sighing against him, caught in the spin. The wild throw in his arms, the cold die that burned him, even as he sought its pitiless edge.
Take it all. Fortuna knows it’s not enough, but it’s yours. My imposter song. My falling down. All that I’ve wrecked. My semiprecious cares, and the blistered fingers that would die to play you once, only once. I loved you like a house on fire, and this is the very last room. The beams are laughing in the blaze. Take that too, though I scarcely understand it. Every damned scrap of me is yours to raze.
The sweat was in his eyes, the dirt in his hair, and Aleo’s hands everywhere. They kissed, forming a brooch that writhed with animals and grinning lapidary. Babieca tasted until his mouth was slick with spit. Aleo’s smaller body held him, searching the edges of the map. Now he was shredding his parchment skin. His nails dug into Aleo’s shoulders. The shadow’s hands moved down his legs, smoothing the pelt, burnishing bare steel. He climbed the walls, burst through the fallen roof and into the gathering clouds. He felt himself unravel beneath Aleo’s hand. The blow went through him, and he shuddered as the heat covered his chest. Aleo cried out, though it may have been the house itself, or something far away.
They drifted in the flood, half-conscious. Aleo was shivering, and Babieca held him, stroking his hair. He wrapped the black tunica around them, noticing for the first time that a bloodred swan had been woven into it. His fingers traced the embroidery, then moved across Aleo’s back, drumming softly. They fell asleep in the ashes, locked tight.
It was deep night when they awoke. At first, Babieca couldn’t remember where he was. It felt as if he’d been dreaming for ages. There was a fierce warmth against him, fluttering but somehow steady. He realized that Roldan’s head was nestled in the crook of his chest. The auditor was snoring lightly, and Babieca could feel the tickle of his breath. No. Not Roldan. He remembered, then. He felt the pins and needles as circulation returned painfully to his limbs. Groaning, he shifted position, and Aleo woke. For a moment, his eyes were a blank slate. He looked bemused and sleep-heavy. Then he too remembered, and Babieca watched his face change. They looked at each other without saying anything. He thought that the oculus might kill him then. He couldn’t say why. There was a wildness in his expression that he’d never seen before.
But he didn’t pull away or reach for any of the weapons that remained close by. Instead, he curled back into his original position, head against Babieca’s chest. He could only imagine what his heartbeat sounded like, thready and panicked. But gradually, the blood stopped pounding in his ears. They were quiet and careful with each other. He smoothed Aleo’s hair, listening to the sound of night birds, the rustle of wind as it picked up flashes of dust among the alleys.
“Are they still here?”
Aleo shifted, wrapping an arm around him. “Who?”
“The salamanders.”
“Of course. We were their own private hypocaust.”
He chuckled. “I’m surprised they didn’t join in.”
“They’re lizards, not libertines.”
Babieca looked at him for a long time. “What does this mean?”
“It means we’re quite lucky that nobody stole our belongings. We fell asleep in the middle of an abandoned house.”
“You know what I’m asking.”
Aleo cocked his head. “I can’t say for sure. But I’ve always been on your side. Even when you couldn’t see it.”
“You’re with her.”
“More adjacent to her.”
Babieca pinched him lightly. “Don’t play with terms.”
Aleo kissed his eyebrows, a dark benediction. “My fealty is my own secret to keep. But you have to trust me.”
“How can I? You keep riddling me.”
He tongued Babieca’s ear. “You didn’t mind earlier.”
“I need to know that I can trust you.”
Aleo ran a fingertip down his chest. “Don’t lose faith. I promise that things are about to change. But I need you in this fight.”
“I’m essential, am I?”
“You’re the song that begins it all.”
He kissed Babieca, drowsy and slow. Then they struggled to their feet and dressed. Babieca was starting to feel the cuts and bruises now. He grimaced slightly as he slipped the belt on, tipped by the weight of sword and dagger.
He was about to say something when he saw the woman standing in the blasted doorway. She was flanked by half a dozen miles. Moonlight silvered the pearls in her hair, gleaming against the embroidered stola. She stepped across the threshold, and her smile chilled him, as the die had.
“Brilliant,” Latona said.
He stared at Aleo. He must have looked so stupid in that moment, like a fish gasping for air. He couldn’t say anything. There was grit in his mouth, and a spreading terror in his chest that nearly made him fall.
The miles strode across the room, swords drawn. One of them grabbed him by the arm, but he offered no resistance. He tried not to look at the spot where he’d buried the horn. Had the oculus seen him do it? Maybe I never left, he’d said. Babieca tried not to think about it, humming beneath the earth. He felt a distant pain in his arm, but mostly, he was numb. One of the miles unbuckled his belt, taking the dagger from him.
Latona examined the blade. “This belonged to a friend of mine,” she said. “Well, a former friend.”
“What do you want?” Babieca asked finally.
It was a ridiculous question, but the words came unbidden. He met her gaze. The basilissa considered him, as a storm might consider an island before tearing through it.
Her eyes surveyed the little cuts, the soot prints that still marked his bare arms. She looked at Aleo briefly, then back to him.
“A h
appy ending,” she said.
Aleo stared at the ashes.
PART THREE
MILES
1
Ingrid didn’t expect to find herself in the dragon’s lair. She was barefoot and had to walk carefully to avoid stepping on anything precious. She picked her way among the gilded harps and chalices, trying to be soft, like a real burglar. Her foot snagged on an embroidered pennant, but she managed to extricate herself. Smoke curled from the worm, asleep on his pile of treasure. In fact, the worm was made of smoke, and his rippling form stretched from one end of the barrow to the other. Ingrid crept near. Gemstones glittered within the transparent body. She’d forgotten her sword and feared that the dragon might be sleeping on top of it. She squinted but couldn’t make out anything for certain within the dim light. It was her fault. Leaving a sword behind was one thing, but you should never invite dragons into your life. The smoke parted slightly, and she saw a glimpse of the blade. All she had to do was reach in and snatch it back. The hoard itself seemed to be waiting for this. The harps watched her in hushed amazement. The dragon slept on.
She waited for the smoke to part again.
Don’t bother. It was her foster mother’s voice. You’ll only botch the job. Go make some more coffee. That’s what you’re good for.
Ingrid hesitated. The hoard sighed, or maybe it was the dragon. They were inseparable. For the first time, she noticed that Paul was perched on a collection of gleaming breastplates. He was six years old and wearing stegosaurus pajamas. His knees were drawn up to his chest. He saw her and put a finger to his lips.
“Get down from there,” she whispered. “Safety first. Always. Don’t you remember?”
Now he was trying on the armor. He fumbled with the clasps, and she wanted to show him the right way, but the dragon was turning again. This was her last chance.
She could see the chipped hilt of her gladius. Her hand darted forth, grasping it. Triumph made her smile. But then the smoke closed over her arm. It was impossibly cold. Ingrid shivered violently as the dragon regarded her with countless winking eyes.
Too slow.
It opened its jaws, and for a moment, she saw through the smoke. She saw the monster’s heart, a summer berry ripe with blood. Her eyes widened.
“I know you.”
Then it rushed in, and the weight of the hoard was on top of her, the gold crushing her as the dragon unfolded, unfolded.
Ingrid woke to find Neil’s nose pressed an inch away from her own. He was lying on her stomach, and one of his small hands kneaded her forehead, like it was a dough. When she opened her eyes, a brilliant smile spread across his face.
“Mummy! You have waked up, and next to your son!”
She shifted position. “You’re actually on top of me, bubs.”
He rolled onto his side. “I have brought you something.”
Ingrid stroked his hair. “Precious. What is it?”
Neil handed her a painted rock, closed in his left fist. It was yellow and green. She remembered decorating it yesterday. That was before the science experiment involving propulsion, but after the dragon egg scavenger hunt in the backyard. It had been a busy day. All she’d been able to think about was how pitiful the shrubbery looked, battered first by snow, then by dry heat. They needed to buy some potting soil.
He placed the rock in her hand. “This is the last of the high loves, Mummy. It is mine very special present to you.”
She gathered him in her arms. “Sweetness. Thank you for this.” Then she sniffed the air, frowning. “Do you smell that?”
“Paul has made a small fire in the kitchen,” he murmured into her chest.
“Let’s just see what that’s about, shall we?” Ingrid set him down. She slipped on her bathrobe and padded down the hallway on bare feet. One of her toes had a surprisingly painful bruise. She couldn’t remember the reason. Wounds were common in her line of work, and sometimes their origins remained obscure. Neil chirped behind her. The extra hour of sleep had been Paul’s gift, but now she had to catch up with her son’s ebullience. When she entered the kitchen, she found Paul standing on a chair, waving a towel at the smoke alarm. The air was heavy, though it smelled delicious.
Paul grinned. “Sorry. I was making tamale pie, and it got away from me.”
“That happens to the best of us.”
“Coffee’s on.” He stepped down. “I mean, it’s always on. There’s no real sense in turning off the machine. But at the moment, it’s semifresh.”
Ingrid poured herself a cup. It took a certain amount of restraint not to finish it in a single gulp. The last visit to the doctor had provided a graphic description of what excess coffee was doing to her insides, but Ingrid couldn’t imagine drinking less. It was her only vice, except for the very occasional cigarette, consumed in secret as if it were stolen Easter candy. She held the cup in her hands, trying to absorb its properties through osmosis. Neil was climbing on her, but she set him on his own chair. Before he could protest, there was a plate of garlic toast and rolled-up ham before him. Sometimes Paul had a dancer’s timing in the kitchen. The boy frowned at it for a moment, then popped the ham in his mouth.
Touchdown.
Ingrid drank her coffee in delicious silence, allowing herself to stare fuzzily out the window. Her mind was still pulling itself together, but she liked these hazy moments. They reminded her of drifting on the surface of a pool in summer, eyes closed, letting the sun make shapes against her eyelids. Nothing was terribly essential. Neil’s feet drummed rhythmically against the table. Paul walked in circles with a tiny fan. Birds gathered at the feeder outside, and she could hear splinters of laughter in the distance. Now her mind was rumbling through its latest checklist, but she told it to hush. The last of the high loves. She’d better enjoy it.
Paul gave Neil a glass of juice. “Remember that you’re going to Erica’s birthday party,” he said. “You’ll have to get dressed as soon as you finish your breakfast.”
This was a fatal miscalculation. Neil put down his fork and began contemplating the food distantly. If he refused to eat, he could stave off getting dressed indefinitely.
Paul knelt beside him, whispering: “I hid a pudding cup in your closet. Once you finish eating and get dressed, you can search for it.”
He wolfed down the food and ran to his room.
“That was sheer poetry,” Ingrid observed.
Paul shrugged in mock deference. “I hid the pudding cup under his clean outfit. We’ll call it a dragon prophecy—that should be enough to convince him to wear the khaki shorts.”
“I think he’s on the verge of seeing through this prophecy business.”
“We can still milk it.” He grimaced. “Milking dragons. That must be a dangerous business, and an image that I’d rather not think about.”
She laughed, nearly spitting out her coffee. “Like having sex with a porcupine. Something that needs to be done very carefully.”
Ingrid said nothing about the dragon of smoke in her dream. Nor did she mention Paul’s six-year-old self, fiddling with the armor. She supposed he was a warrior after all, even if his battles were fought with utensils and permission forms. Her brother. Where would she be without his help? They’d be living on a diet of buttered noodles and potato salad. The fridge door would be a chaos of forgotten bills and progress reports, instead of the orderly triumph of charts and stickers that it was today.
“I couldn’t do this without you,” she said.
Paul blinked at her from the kitchen. “What?”
“All of this. The breakfasts, and the birthday parties, and the sleepless nights. And the Lego. My God. All those pieces. And the cartoons, the apps, the everything. You’re a bloody super-dad, and I love you for it. Because I’d be lost without you.” She could feel her voice breaking now. “And you didn’t have to do any of it.”
Paul walked over and gently
took the cup from her hand. He sat down next to her.
“I wanted to,” he said quietly. “I’ve always wanted to. Don’t ever think it was a tough choice, because it wasn’t. Neither of us planned on any of this, but I love that sweet whelp with every atom of my being. It’s an honor to be his uncle. Or whatever I am to him.”
“He calls you mine Paul.”
Her brother snorted. “A bit too Germanic for comfort, but I’ll take it.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
At that moment, Neil burst into the hallway, naked from the waist down. He held the pudding cup with an archaeologist’s expression of wild discovery.
“It fell into mine grasp!”
“Pants first, buddy,” Paul said. “Then you can have it.”
Neil mumbled something darkly, then went back into his room.
“At least we don’t have company over,” Ingrid said. “That’s generally when he decides to forgo wearing pants.”
Paul gave her a long look. She knew precisely what it meant but feigned confusion to buy herself a few more seconds. “What?”
“You know what. You said it yourself. We haven’t had company in a while.”
“We’ve been busy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t uh-huh me.”
He sighed. “Where’s Shelby?”
Ingrid stood. Too late, she realized how dramatic the gesture seemed. “She’s working on school stuff. Comprehensive exams.”
Paul laughed bitterly. “You think I don’t know what working on comps really means? You’ve used that one too many times.”
She was stricken for a moment. She’d always suspected that Paul could see through her lame excuses, but he’d never confirmed it until now. He didn’t seem angry. In fact, there was something eerily parental about his tone that made her recall the “super-dad” title that she’d given him seconds ago. Was he also raising her? The thought was slightly mortifying, but she couldn’t immediately discount it. Throughout their childhood, she’d been the older sister, the nervous steward, keeping him out of harm’s way. But when Neil arrived, Paul had proven himself to be unexpectedly capable. Over time, it seemed that he’d crept into her former role, while she drifted further into slippery chaos.
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