Seraph of Sorrow

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “He can try,” Jennifer added, staring at a point right next to the shimmering item. “I’ll shove those coins down his throat if he does.”

  He marveled at her eyesight. “They’re coins?”

  “Two quarters. Maybe ol’ Smokey here thinks he’s a magician. An ugly magician.”

  Jonathan heard another impressed hum from the old creeper. “You can see him?”

  She lifted a wing claw without moving her head. “There’s an outline, and a few details. He’s hunched over, and he’s got large bumps down his back. Clubbed tail. Weird head—what are those, warts or your eye sockets?”

  He shook his head and tried to focus, but Jonathan couldn’t see what she was pointing out. All he saw were the coins, sliding and flipping over each other—zeep, zeep, zeep, plick.

  Despite his own inability to see, her description must have hit the mark, because Smokey didn’t attack. Instead, the coins continued their glimmering dance, and his voice rasped:

  The Ancient Furnace.

  They say she grows to see all

  Under crescent moon.

  In a flash, Jennifer shifted out of dragon form. Flipping her platinum hair, she put her hands on her hips, chewed her tongue, and squinted in a way that made Jonathan smile—Liz gave the same look when exasperated. “Do you have to do that? I hate poetry.”

  The switch to human form didn’t seem to sit well with Smokey. The vines behind the coins shifted, and the old creeper betrayed a few stumbling steps. For half an instant, Jonathan thought he spotted a shadow where a dragon might have been.

  In Crescent Valley,

  Dragons should be dragons, girl.

  But you insult me.

  Yeah, well, get used to it, Jonathan thought. Aloud, he said, “Maybe you should change back, Jennifer.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’m fine as is. If Mr. Coils here knows about the Ancient Furnace, then I’m sure he knows I can change as I like. And if he’s heard from Winona Brandfire recently, I’m guessing he knows about the silver moon elm and how it can grant any dragon the same chance to change shape at will. Right, Mr. Coils?”

  Jonathan took the silence for accord. So did Jennifer.

  “So if we can stop with the beatings and false offenses and get to the point, here it is: My dad and I need to learn what you know. It’s you, or nobody. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

  Zeep, plick. Zeep, zeep, plick, zeep, plick. The coins disappeared, and then reappeared, and disappeared again.

  Jennifer stomped her foot. “Yes, that’s a lovely magic trick, Las Vegas. Perhaps you could put the coins down and help out the next generation.”

  Zeeeep. Zeeeep. Plick.

  “Charming. Hey, Dad, I think I know what the elder creeper skill is: acting like an ass.”

  “I already know that one,” he quipped.

  A shift in light caught Jonathan’s peripheral vision. It was not Smokey or the coins, he was sure. By the time he spun to his right, it was gone.

  So you want to learn

  What no other dragon knows.

  Only old Smokey.

  “Well, duh.”

  “Jennifer!”

  She shrugged at him. “Did he not repeat what I already said?”

  “The guy lives alone on a glowing island. Cut him some slack.”

  “Fine. So, Las Vegas, will you please put down your magic trick and teach us?”

  Absolutely not.

  What you want me to teach you,

  You’d use against us.

  “That’s not true!” Jennifer protested. “I would never hurt another dragon! And neither would my dad. Anymore,” she finished lamely.

  Jonathan stepped forward. “Elder Coils, what good does it do dragonkind to let this skill die with you? This is a gift that generations have passed down for thousands of years. You’re bound by duty and tradition to help us.”

  The jungle hissed, and Jonathan thought he felt the gaze not of Smokey Coils but of the entire Blaze upon him. Though Jonathan knew those dragons were not here, the weight of their collective stare—of his guilt—was incredible.

  You’re beyond my help.

  You’ve murdered two dragons, and

  You’ll just murder more.

  Jennifer raised her voice impatiently. “So because you’re afraid of Dad, you’ll punish everyone else? That makes no sense. Your secret will die with you.”

  The risk is too high.

  Better it died here than died

  With the last dragon.

  “I know a little something about being the last dragon,” Jennifer pointed out. “Do you think I would let my father abuse whatever power you gave him?”

  Zeep. Zeep.

  “Unbelievable. Go screw yourself, Las Vegas.” Jennifer shook her head at Jonathan. “Dad, there’s no point in talking with this guy anymore. We might as well go home.”

  He didn’t answer. He found himself staring at her, feeling a cacophony of emotions. First was the same frustration she felt. They had come so far and would fly away with nothing.

  Second, and much greater, was the feeling of loss. He had lost the opportunity to help his daughter, lost it before she was even born, when he killed to defend the life of the girl who would become his wife. He never had a choice; he would have lost either way. He lost then; he lost now. He lost when Dianna gave birth to Evangelina, and both of them disappeared. He lost when Evangelina reappeared and laid out his failings, for all to see. He lost his father to that selfish secret, as he lost his mother to his irrepressible desire to tell her all about Liz. He lost friends, from Heather Snow to Winona Brandfire, to his character flaws and their consequences. Worst of all, he was now causing his daughter loss—in friends like Catherine, opportunities like Smokey’s skills, and even family like the other children he and Liz could have had together, had he been strong enough.

  The sense of failure was nearly overwhelming. The only thing that prevented it from sending him into a spiral was his last emotion—love. Watching Jennifer stand there, tall and confident in the face of an unknown and primal force, set Jonathan’s will in steel.

  Here, it ends.

  He stepped forward and gently pulled Jennifer back. “Smokey Coils. Show yourself. I have an offer for you, and I want to look you in the eye when I give it.”

  “Dad, what’re you—”

  “One moment, ace.” Jonathan let out a deep breath as the form of Smokey Coils appeared. His scales didn’t relax into any one shade, instead shifting between jewel colors in a continual ripple. As Jennifer had described him, his spine and tail were covered in melon-sized lumps, ending with a club at the end of his tail.

  Smokey’s wings were folded in, and they might have been torn or shortened—it was difficult to tell. The wing claws looked torn by arthritis; one closed over the two coins he had been rubbing together. He had two horns, each above his deep eye sockets. The left socket was lined with clusters of warts and tumors. A deep, scarred canyon ran through this marked terrain, from the scales on the bridge of his snout to the height of his left cheekbone. The right socket held a blue-gray eye. It also held a green-gold eye and a red-violet eye. The three orbs pushed and rubbed against each other, one vying for position over the other two.

  “Dad, what’s with—”

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan interrupted her before she could say something truly undiplomatic. “Xavier said nothing about the appearance of Smokey Coils.”

  Smokey spoke, and yellow spittle stretched from tooth to forked tongue.

  Here an eye can lie.

  I grew two more, and now each

  Can check the others.

  As if to underline his point, several moongrove branches around them began to sway with no wind. Their gnarled branches flexed.

  Say your piece, Jonny.

  That ghost and I will listen—

  Jonathan spun to look where Smokey’s head had gestured, and he thought he saw something long and slender in the shifting tree limbs. It disappeared quickly. “Is someone e
lse here?” he asked.

  Smokey’s bizarre head tilted to one side, as if he were weighing something, or perhaps listening to a voice no one else could hear. Finally, he finished:

  Sorry. My mistake.

  The oddness of this dragon’s appearance lessened for Jonathan, and he found his resolve again. “Smokey, I asked you to show yourself so I could honestly say what I need to say. Here it is: I know you hate me. I know most dragons out there do.” He gestured vaguely with a wing. “They have nothing to fear from me, but I guess they hate me anyway.

  “It can’t be about me anymore. It has to be about my daughter. So I’m going to help you and everyone else focus on what’s important. I’m going to take myself out of the equation. I renounce my ties to our kind and banish myself from Crescent Valley. Jennifer will—”

  “Dad!” She interposed herself between her father and Smokey. “What the hell are—”

  He shoved her aside. “Jennifer will take my place on the Blaze. As the Ancient Furnace, she should receive some measure of goodwill from the others. If she has your blessing, in the form of your teachings, she’ll receive more.”

  “Dad, this is—”

  His wing claw over her mouth was firm. “I get why you’re out here, Smokey Coils. Like Roman Candlelight, you’re searching for something you’ll never find. In your case, it’s immortality. I can’t give you that, not after what I’ve done. But I can get you close. I can give you her, for a few days, to train.” He motioned to Jennifer. “One thousand years from now, nobody is going to know the name of Smokey Coils. Or Jonathan Scales. But her—her they’ll remember. We’ve got one chance, you and I, to make her legacy as strong as it can be. This is it. Right—owww . . .”

  He rubbed his wing where she had slammed her fist upon the bone.

  “You can’t do this! What, you’re not going to be a dragon anymore? You sound ridiculous saying it!”

  “Jennifer, stop arguing with me. Of course I’ll still be a dragon. I just won’t have to go to all those boring Blazes.”

  “And you’ll stay out of Crescent Valley? What, forever? What about when you die—I can’t bury you at the plateau?”

  He chewed his tongue. Her expression simultaneously darkened and widened.

  “You can’t be a venerable?! No, Dad. I won’t allow it.”

  A chuckle escaped him, despite himself. “Excuse me, ace. You won’t allow . . . ?”

  “I won’t allow it! I’m the fucking Ancient Furnace and I’m telling you: No way!”

  We accept losses

  Every day, young Scales. Someday,

  So will you, I fear.

  Elder Scales, think well.

  I will hold you to your vow.

  Do you commit this?

  “He doesn’t commit a damn thing, Las Vegas.” Desperation wrinkled her cheeks and brow. “Dad, Mom will be so pissed at you if you do this!”

  He looked at her. It might have been the island playing tricks again, but he was sure he saw Liz instead. The jungle and Smokey Coils disappeared, replaced by the city hall of Winoka and its fierce leader. Mayor Seabright had once refused an offer to give up the dragon inside.

  Because she spared me years ago, I can make this sacrifice today.

  “Your mother,” he said softly to the tearful vision in front of him, “will understand perfectly. I’ll go tell her myself.”

  He nodded at Smokey Coils. The recluse nodded back.

  It would have been nice, he mused, to be the hero of this story. I’ll settle for Jennifer.

  He kissed his daughter on her trembling forehead, told her he’d see her back home, ignored her pleas, and kicked off into the twilit sky for one last flight through Crescent Valley.

  PART 2

  Glorianna Seabright

  I’m not a person who thinks the world would be entirely different if it was run by women. If you think that, you’ve forgotten what high school was like.

  —MADELEINE ALBRIGHT

  CHAPTER 5

  Tested by Fire

  At the age of fifteen, Glorianna Seabright was grounded for the first time.

  That evening, the idea that she would someday be mayor of a town named Winoka would have made her laugh nervously and twirl a finger in the shiny, straight dark locks draped over her neck and shoulders. She did not live in Winoka, which was called Pinegrove at the time. The farm where she lived and raised ewes and lambs with her father was outside a sleepy town in the Red River Valley, far in the northwest corner of Minnesota. In a couple of years, when she finished high school, Glorianna planned to go to a community college in-state—or maybe across the border in North Dakota—and become a cosmetologist.

  That was a long time from tonight. Tonight, she was preoccupied with plans to run away.

  It wasn’t a serious thought, she had to admit to herself as she lay in the dark with nothing but an oversized nightshirt protecting her from the early spring chill. But it was persistent, keeping her up for the last couple of hours since she had gotten home—late. She had run through the plan over and over, restlessly. It was easy: Get up, jump through the open window, and dart off across the farm.

  Theirs was a close-knit town, and her family was popular here. She would have no trouble finding someone to take her in for a few days. Heck, her friend Andrea was a mile or so down the road, at a neighboring farm. No doubt she was in trouble, too, since the two girls had been out together in the woods until after midnight splitting a forty-ounce bottle of Midnight Dragon malt liquor. They had traded stories and laughs about how ridiculous their parents were, with their tales of imaginary monsters and the absurd “training routines” they both had to do, as if anyone would ever have to use them.

  Even if Andrea was also in trouble, her parents were always kind to Glorianna, and maybe they would understand. At least going there would give her time to come up with a longer-term plan.

  Ultimately, the reason she wouldn’t go had nothing to do with Andrea’s parents, Glorianna thought as she caught the faint scent of cow manure through the window. The reason had to do with her father.

  As if on cue, there was a knock on her door. At four in the morning?

  Without waiting for an answer, Richard Evan Seabright opened the door.

  “Get up,” he told her.

  “Wha—”

  “Put on pants.” Off in the distance, she could hear the sound of screaming fire engines.

  It can’t be, she told herself as she rummaged through her dark wardrobe and finally managed to find a pair of flowered stretch pants. While she had faithfully listened to her father’s stories of demonlike things, and played along with routines like sword practice, she could not bring herself to believe the delusions of a bereaved man.

  When he came back to her room with sword in hand, she realized she could be wrong.

  “They’re here?”

  He nodded. In his other hand, he held a pitchfork. “You’ll need this.”

  Stammering, she held her hands up in protest. She noticed her own fingernails, where she had painted tiny blossom patterns that had caused Andrea to proclaim Glorianna the Next Great Salon Worker of the Great Plains. “B-but I c-can’t—”

  “You’ve practiced. In the barn.”

  “On straw bales! Don’t real targets move?”

  “We don’t have time to discuss this. Take it.” He thrust the pitchfork into her hand, breaking a nail. “And get in the truck.”

  As they scrambled into the pickup truck with cold dew and dirt on their bare feet, she squinted at the crescent moon among the fading stars. The truck tore out of the driveway and left their quaint, white farmhouse obscured by billowing dust.

  “Are you sure it’s them?” she asked him. “Maybe it’s a fire, or some emergency response exercise.”

  “It’s them.” His pale stare fixed on the red glow over the road far ahead.

  She shook her head and then realized that she hadn’t had time to brush her hair. “You’re just a farmer. How can you know stuff like this?�
�

  “Just a farmer.” He licked his lips in distaste.

  She felt the chill air through the heating vents and rubbed her knees. It was unlikely the cab would have time to warm up before they would be downtown.

  “Why are you bringing me with you? I’ve never seen one of these things before.”

  “Always a first time,” he muttered at the dirt road. “They never get less dangerous.”

  “If they’re half as dangerous as you say, won’t I be killed?”

  “You’ll be tested.”

  “Tested.” She chewed her tongue. “Was that what happened to Mom? She was tested? Did she fail?”

  “Glory!” She could not tell if the look he gave her was determination, or despair.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  They spent the last few minutes in silence, until they reached the town center—a single intersection of crumbling streets that ran past two bars, a liquor store, and a few struggling retail shops. The liquor store was already ablaze, and a few of the nearest residents had already gathered to the south of the intersection, not far from where the fire engines had stopped.

  Before anyone could do anything to douse the flames, they would have to do something about the winged monsters that circled in the dark above. As she got out of the truck, it was hard for Glorianna to make out exactly how many there were—four? Six? A dozen?

  How can we possibly fight them? she wondered in awe, flinching at a bellow from far above.

  Nevertheless, she pulled the pitchfork out of the truck bed. If pointy sticks were all they had, then pointy sticks it was.