Nite Fire: Flash Point

by C. L. Schneider

  It was a practice that made learning to self-regulate a priority, especially for those of us in the Guild. If you missed morning roll call because you were too intoxicated to get out of bed, the resulting punishment would ensure it never happened again.

  The biker came back from the bathroom. Noticing me noticing him, he assumed it was an invitation. He plopped down on the stool to my left. Fry grease stained his shirt. Dots of motor oil darkened his jeans. He smelled of both as he leaned in and pointed at the bottle in front of me. “Anyone who drinks that much tequila is either looking to feel less of something…or more.”

  “Definitely less.”

  “Then don’t let me stop you.” His hand rested on the back of my chair. “Glad I was wrong about you.”

  “How so?”

  “Dressed like that, I thought you were, you know…playing for the other team.”

  Cursing myself for giving him the chance to speak, I inched back.

  Crossing his well-muscled arms, the man fumbled for a way to keep me on the hook. “So, what’s your story, then?”

  “My story?” I thought a moment, wondering how I should answer: supernatural crime scene cleaner…empathic shapeshifter…fire-throwing dragon-hybrid…disgraced executioner from a parallel world. Maybe not. I frowned apologetically. “I’d tell you but…”

  Ignoring the space I’d put between us, he snorted and bumped my shoulder. “You’d have to kill me?”

  I held his eyes. “Not right away.”

  The man tensed, not sure if I was serious or crazy, or both. In case neither put him off, I made my point clear by turning my head and admiring the stairs. Someone was standing at the top, where the gloom met the entry lights. The shape of a woman in a long jacket, dark jeans, and low heels, was poised there, as if she were debating the wisdom of going down. A hand at her side, she was gripping her phone like it were a grenade in danger of going off.

  The screen brightened. She lifted it out of view, turned, and walked back upstairs, out of sight.

  The biker stood. Shoving his chair to get my attention, he muttered something unkind as he left the bar.

  And Nadine wonders why I don’t date.

  Trying to shake my mood, I took a deep breath—and got a nose full of something unexpected: lyrriken.

  I let my hair down and shook it out. Pulling the strands in close around my face, I tilted my head forward and let the scales out around my eyes and nose. My senses sharper now, I traced the smell. Top of the stairs.

  Remembering the woman, I slipped my scales away. I grabbed my bag as I stood. Nadine was in the back room. I pulled out some money and dropped it on the bar. As I turned away, I caught the biker staring at me. His legs were bouncing under the table with excitement. His grin was shameless. Holding up his phone, he shook it, waving whatever picture was open, and sneering in a way that changed his whole demeanor. The bad-boy air I’d found attractive was gone. Now he was just cocky and smug, gloating like he was better than everyone in the bar, like he’d just nabbed the biggest fish in the whole pond.

  As he lowered the phone, I zeroed in on the screen catching a split second glimpse. The picture was me, sitting at the bar. Shit.

  This wasn’t your average creepy stalker. He was watching me, IDing me for someone.

  Options ran through my mind.

  Luring him in the back and shoving my knife in his balls until he talked had a lot of appeal. But I hadn’t picked up on any lyrriken in the bar, which meant he was human. If one of us had hired him, the idiot had no idea what he was involved in. And the even bigger fish that did know had just walked out the door.

  Running up the stairs, I followed her scent through the entryway and out onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t smart. I hadn’t tangled with a fellow lyrriken for many years. If she was after me, by leaving the bar to walk the dark streets, I was giving her exactly what she wanted. But if she was an executioner or a retriever, why employ a human? Guild policy allowed involving the resident species in a hunt only as a last resort. Could be a coincidence, I thought. I’d be a good catch for a foolish young operative looking to make an impression with the Queen.

  Or is she something else?

  Searching for my target on the sidewalk, I peered around the gaggle of skirts and late evening dog-walkers. I eliminated the men, the heavy, and those with bare legs. I weeded through the odors. Exhaust, sweat, pizza grease, and cheap cologne dominated the warm air, but nothing on this world smelled like mine—except us.

  I caught her scent again, a block ahead of me. Moving briskly, I crossed with the crowd. With the help of street lamps and store lights bleeding out their front windows, I centered on a petite, slender woman in jeans and a long hooded sweater-jacket. Abruptly, she banked right.

  Without hesitation, the woman stepped off the curb and darted into the street. The light was green, the crosswalk red. She went anyway.

  Four lanes of traffic swerved. Screeching brakes and shouted obscenities overrode the chatter of sidewalk conversations as I followed her path; hitting the street at a fast clip.

  Bumpers and engine heat skimmed my legs. Tires skidded around me. Objections fled open windows in my direction. But there was no point in stealth now. She knew I was here.

  I struggled to keep her in sight as she reached the other side and blended into the busy sidewalk. As my boots struck the curb a minute later, I caught a glimpse of her entering a building at the far end of the block. Briefly, she glanced back. But there were too many heads, too many bodies in between. I couldn’t see her face.

  For a breath, I thought about letting her go. I had zero proof she’d done anything wrong. For all I knew, her assignment here had nothing to do with me. There were lyrriken moles all over the human world. Maybe I was the one who spooked her.

  Maybe she ran because I chased her.

  Bullshit.

  Forced away from the edge of the curb by a row of food carts, I dodged a stroller with an apologetic smile. Unavoidable shoulder bumps earned me mumbled curses and dirty looks. Pushing through the street crowd was less dangerous than weaving through Saturday night traffic, but it was garnering the same level of animosity.

  The apartment building where the woman had gone inside was a white brick six-story structure. Canopies jutted out from the windowed façade. Inside, the lobby was crowded. Elevators were emptying and filling. My chances of finding her were dwindling fast.

  I flung open the tinted glass door to the surprised gasp of an elderly woman. Coming out as I was trying to go in, with her craggy pinched-face, she looked angry just to be alive. I tried to rush past, but there wasn’t enough room with her overstuffed pocketbook clutched to her chest.

  “Excuse me,” she demanded.

  I stepped aside. Slapping a smile on my face, I held the door open. The woman walked out in no hurry. Her heavy-lidded eyes trained on me like my urgency was an inexcusable crime.

  Finally, she moved past me. The way clear, I turned to throw her an apology. I felt the heat a fraction of a moment before the funnel of fire burst out the open door and enveloped her body. Continuing on, shooting vertically across the sidewalk, the blinding orange column incinerated as it traveled; striking a hot dog cart and launching it up; spoiling the air with the stench of roasting meat and human hair. Crunching metal overlapped relentless screams as the fire stretched out into the street. Cars collided, one after the other, smashing and spinning into the burning wreckage of a passing delivery truck whose side panel had caught (and held) the last of the flame.

  With a boom and rush of hot air, the blazing cart crashed onto the pavement, crushing a man’s legs and setting the corner newsstand on fire. Blackened corpses, frozen in the moment of death, toppled over, dissolving to ash as they met solid ground.

  In seconds, the sidewalk had become a smoking, stinking funeral pyre. The street was impassable. Fresh pain flowed in inky black trails, veining the sidewalk. It blended with the dark asphalt, becoming no more than an impression of motion against the ground, as driv
ers and passengers stumbled from their cars. Someone had pulled the building’s fire alarm. Cries for help echoed in from all directions. As the trauma pushed at me, I recalled the words of the del-yun.

  Certain parts of a lyrriken did possess properties others would pay for. If I shifted and made use of the energy in my scaled form, there was a chance I could save one or two of the injured. Yet the aftermath of revealing the truth would be far worse than the ensuing tragedy. And help was coming. There was a phone in the hand of nearly every onlooker.

  I can’t expose myself. Even if the attack was meant for me.

  And it clearly was. I followed her. She felt threatened and acted on it.

  But was that action planned, or had I provoked it? Had I jumped to conclusions because I was skittish after hours of studying the ashen remains of a mother and her children?

  Just because she’s lyrriken doesn’t make her a murderer.

  Maybe she didn’t do anything wrong.

  My eyes swept over the stiff scorched remains on the sidewalk in front of me. She has now.

  I watched more and more swirls of black emerge from the survivors. Fed by their shock and sorrow; their trauma was a feast for my empathy. But absorbing it wouldn’t ease their pain, so I did the only thing I could: I turned away.

  Elbowing my way through the panicked throng, I entered the building. The lobby was packed as people poured from the elevators and the stairwell. The rush of heat had set off the sprinklers and washed away her trail. There was only the fear-sweat now, clinging to the survivors, and the smoldering death blowing in from outside.

  It was so strong. I couldn’t go back out there. It would swallow me.

  Head spinning, I followed the signs down the hall to the emergency exit. Alarms were already blaring, so I shoved open the metal door and stepped out into the night. Turning in the opposite direction of the approaching sirens, I disappeared into the shadows of the alley and left the growing bedlam behind.

  Six

  Putting my face to the glass, I searched for signs of life. I knew the windows were too smudged and dark to see through. I knew the door wouldn’t open. It was 10:35 PM, and the Closed sign was facing out. I tried the door anyway. Raising a hand, I knocked against the tinted glass with the words Sal’s Gym in big red letters scrawled across the middle.

  Normally, Sal didn’t hang around for the late-night stragglers, even on a Saturday. He was tough on the outside, but not so much inside. When he got tired, he’d kick us out and go home. Still, if Sal hadn’t left yet, he’d open for me. There were perks to knowing the owner since he was born.

  After another knock, I turned my back and headed up the block. It’s just as well, I thought. After witnessing the grisly scene outside the apartment building less than an hour ago, I was far too restless to focus on anything, even working out. My mind kept circling back to the same handful of questions.

  What could a hairstylist with two kids have done to earn such contempt? Was it a Guild-sanctioned hit, or a lyrriken screw-up? A bad screw-up, I thought. Most lyrriken who came here (with or without permission) weren’t looking to get noticed by the police. It can’t be the Guild. No operative would risk being so showy.

  Not unless they wanted attention…

  But creating a spectacle capable of exposing our world wouldn’t earn the kind of attention anyone wanted. Not anyone sane.

  “Why the hell did I come back?” I grumbled, pondering Nadine’s question aloud.

  I could have stayed out west. Settled in a tiny quiet town where the most excitement was the occasional grease fire. Not that I knew much about settling down. It had been a long time since I’d stayed in one place for more than a few months.

  I could have made it work. I could have quit. Oren would have understood.

  He’d never admit it, but I knew, at least initially, our arrangement was nothing more than busy work. Giving me contracts, feeding me leads on unexplained attacks or deaths, made me feel useful. It kept me on the move. But no one was looking for me anymore. The retrievers had stopped coming years ago. Maybe they’ve forgotten. Maybe it was all a mistake.

  I laughed to myself. It was an old joke, a ridiculous fantasy I once conjured on a bad night. I’d let grief and desperation convince me I could still go home, and I planned the whole thing out. How I would slip unnoticed through an exit, sneak into the Citadel and infiltrate her lair. I’d beg Naalish to take me back. She’d fold her great wing around me and proclaim it was nothing but a grave error.

  A part of me still missed the way it felt to stand before her. The Queen’s attention and affection had made me feel important and cherished.

  It wouldn’t be anything like that now. I’d shamed her by running. I’d failed the Guild and endangered my squad. If I went to Naalish, I’d be dead within a day.

  Sal’s Gym far behind me now, I crossed the street. A whiff of chemicals blew with the breeze as I passed the drycleaners. Farther down, the stationary store and the boutique with silver mannequins in the windows were locked up tight. I paused, eyeing the mannequins; topless with stiff arms crossed over their shapely silver chests. Their leather pants and black boots overloaded with buckles looked like half my closet. I still wanted them.

  More proof the Guild would kill me, I thought. Coveting wealth was a respectable dragon trait, but coveting material goods like a human was not allowed.

  I walked by my favorite coffee shop—also closed. On the next street, the brownstones were quiet with dim lights and muffled conversations drifting out through open windows. Inhaling the smell of fresh popcorn, my stomach growled, reminding me a bowl of ice cream split with a cat was not dinner.

  As I turned the corner, I reached into my bag, ready to throw whatever change I had into Henry’s beat up guitar case. Legally blind in one eye and mildly neurotic, Henry claimed to live on the streets by choice. Seeing as I’d done the same for years, I wasn’t in a position to argue. He’d been on the corner the day I moved in; playing his guitar like it was a part of his body. Somehow, he’d convinced me I could learn to do the same. Since then, we’d met a couple of times a week. I fed him. He tried to teach me.

  Despite Henry’s best efforts, though, I wasn’t sure I’d gotten any better. In fact, I was positive I hadn’t. Still, I liked the idea of having a hobby, something positive to focus on in my downtime.

  Usually, only the rain kept Henry away. Yet, tonight, even with clear sky above the city glow, there was no sign of Henry. No gym, no coffee, no guitar.

  The neighborhood was rarely so empty and peaceful.

  Maybe it knew what I needed tonight more than I did.

  Halfway down the block I traded the change for keys and headed into the alley. It was a crowded dead end, full of old potholes and old dumpsters. Stores on both sides had their back doors cracked open, bleeding yellow light out over the chipped asphalt. Background noise and a variety of smells escaped as well. Trapped between the buildings, the warring odors produced the distinctive aroma of fermenting bread dough soaked in sewer water and burnt sugar. It wasn’t a kind combination, but for now it was home.

  Shoes shuffled on the sidewalk at the edge of the alley.

  Wary, I spun. Just as quickly, I relaxed. The figure walking by had both hands shoved in his faded brown duster. A worn guitar case was slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey!” I hollered, catching Henry’s attention. “You’re late.”

  He paused. Turning toward me, a strand of shoulder length black hair fell to stripe his round face. “Maybe you’re early,” Henry teased. “Feel like strumming a while?” Striking a pose, he played a few chords on an imaginary guitar.

  “I do,” I laughed eagerly. “But I shouldn’t. I have an early meeting in the morning.”

  “On Sunday?” Henry winced in commiseration. “Maybe some tunes will help you drift off. Didn’t you say you have some trouble sleeping or something?”

  “Thanks, but drifting off isn’t the problem. I have these…” Nocturnal empathic visions. “Night
terrors,” I said, settling on that versus the truth. I couldn’t tell Henry I was empathic, let alone, that my extra sense reads my own past trauma differently. Instead of manifesting it as a dark cloud, it replays the moments in my sleep, over and over, like a movie on perpetual loop. “It’s not that bad. I’m used to it.”

  “Sure you are,” he said, making us both smile. “See you around, Nite.”

  Henry turned to leave. I jogged up to him. I pulled out ten dollars and stuffed the bill in his pocket. “An advance,” I said, cutting off his objection. “Tomorrow, I expect a symphony.”

  “With one guitar?”

  “I have faith in you.”

  Granting me a grateful nod, Henry moved on, and I turned back down the alley.

  The frozen yogurt store beneath me was open late. Its back door right next to mine, it swung open and a young, perky, ponytailed employee danced out to the music blasting in her earbuds. Swinging the plump bag of garbage in one hand, she gave me a thumbs up as she twirled her way to the dumpster.

  I was glad to see someone was having a good night.

  Unlocking my door, I jogged up the creaky steps to my apartment. A single bulb was at the top, affixed to the wall. It flickered and hummed behind frosted glass as I jiggled my stuck key. Turning the knob, I gave it a shove. Persuading the door past the warped frame, I pushed it open and dropped my keys on the table inside the door. I locked up and went straight for the kitchen.

  Flipping on the small light above the sink, I tossed my bag on the countertop and snatched a beer out of the fridge. I closed my eyes as I swallowed. But there was no dark behind my lids, only flames; engulfing an elderly woman; burning the legs off a little girl.

  All she wanted to do was dance.

  I discarded both memories and took another drink.

  Stripping off my t-shirt, I pitched it on top of the washer at the far end of the kitchen. I straightened the black tank top I’d worn underneath and took a fast drink. Pressing the beer bottle to my forehead, I pulled my hair out of the way and moved the chilled glass to the back of my neck. The night was warm, and the cold felt good against my skin.