Fire's Daughter

by India Arden

  Police—police—hands on your head!

  Cops swarmed the green, converging on the shed, and I knew I’d seen the flaw in our plan too late. My father might very well want me back. But he wanted to flush out the Arcane Rebels even more. We had a plan, though—distract, disarm and retreat—so I braced myself for the fire. But that’s when I caught a glimpse of the approaching cops, and realized that one of them wasn’t moving quite like the others. His manner was stiff and robotic. Recognition dawned. It was the newest Arcane Master—or the newest official Master, at least: Flood.

  The gun in his hand was just a prop. My body knew firsthand how much damage he was capable of doing with nothing more than a flex of his Arcane ability. And even if there wasn’t a handy puddle of sewage available to poison us with, water was everywhere. For all I knew, he could suck it out of our very bodies and leave us a bunch of desiccated husks.

  If that creep was among the cops…. I scanned the crowd for the other Arcane Masters. Strike should be easy enough to pick out with his white hair, but I spotted my brother’s vivid auburn instead. Just wait until my father found out about the horrid extractor—then he’d realize which one of his kids he should’ve listened to.

  I searched harder and found Chad, watching me with his head tilted in assessment, the way he cocked it when he saw an error in a spreadsheet. Why would they bring Aspirants to the green? No idea. But my skin crawled before I even confirmed my worst fear. I turned to the final lineup of cops and found Gus, dead center, staring at me with his greedy, pale eyes. I shuddered.

  I couldn’t fathom what their plan might be…but it didn’t matter. One thing was clear—we’d walked right into a setup. Torch hadn’t been looking at me strangely because he didn’t believe me about the extractor. He’d known about it all along. He was just trying to see how much the Rebels knew.

  Arcane energy spiked all around, suddenly so thick on the air I could feel it flexing my eardrums. Two things happened at once. One, I expected—garbage flaring hot and high on either side of me as Ember ignited the decoy dumpsters. The other caught me entirely off-guard. Gus dropped his useless gun and raised a hand high, and the atmosphere around me focused in so tightly, it drew me toward him like an invisible rope.

  It couldn’t be. But it was. Gus wasn’t just an Aspirant anymore—he was an Air Master.

  But he hadn’t anticipated the fire, and by the time he’d dragged me forward a few yards, licks of flame from the dumpsters bent toward him too. I staggered as his pull died down when he turned his attention to blocking the fire instead. His push fanned the flames, and they leapt high and wild, showering sparks into nearby traffic.

  “The houses,” Zephyr yelled, but Rain was already on it. He fell into a crouch and slammed his hand palm-down against the dead grass. I felt a brief rumble through the soles of my rubber boots, and a moment later, the spigot shot from the top of a drinking fountain as water jetted up from the ground. While Ember did his best to calm the flames before they raged out of control, Rain directed the spray to dampen the area around it and keep the fire from spreading.

  I was stranded between the two groups: the Arcane Rebels by the shed, and my father just a few yards away, with dumpster fires on either side of me and a perimeter of cops all around. “Don’t shoot,” my father hollered at the cop at his side—and an ember of hope flickered in my chest just as hot and bright as the sparks raining down from the dumpster fires. “Not to kill. They’re no good to us dead.”

  And just as quickly, that hope dwindled.

  One of the cops broke formation and stepped around the flaming dumpster. Chad. He looked strange in a working man’s clothes. The gabardine hung awkwardly on him compared to his usual meticulously tailored and bespoke wardrobe, and the hat canted at an odd angle on his head. If he and Gus had Transfigured together, then he must have attuned to the power of Earth. When he echoed Rain’s motion and crouched to the ground, I wondered what he planned to do—grow some grass?

  And then one of the cobblestones popped free. It rocketed toward the shed and smashed through a window. The Rebels turned away to guard their faces as glass sprayed them. By the time they recovered, another cobblestone hit the building, inches from Zephyr’s head. He staggered back and readied himself to blow the next projectile off-course.

  But the Rebels weren’t the only ones who’d planned a distraction.

  While my friends were busy containing fires and dodging cobblestones, the Arcane Masters brought out their heavy artillery. And it had nothing to do with all the guns pointed at us.

  Blaze stepped forward and joined my father. Side by side, the resemblance was striking, and Torch was clearly an older, paunchier version of his son. As one, they each raised a hand in the gesture Blaze had used to fry my dress. But this time, it wasn’t on impulse. It was slow and controlled. And it was synchronized.

  Fire tore across the dry grass as if it was eating up a trail of gasoline. But there was no accelerant driving the flames, just the combined will of father and son.

  “Propane,” Zephyr called out over the roar of the dumpster fires, the hiss of the geysering water and the crackle of burning grass. He hauled Rain to his feet and dragged him clear of the shed, while Sterling did the same for Ember. As the Rebels’ concentration broke, their magic was interrupted. The water jet ebbed and the dumpster fires flared, but only briefly—they were more smoke now than flame, as the fuel inside was nearly consumed.

  Rain had been slow to move, so deep inside his own head that he was oblivious to the things going on around him, and he pulled back on Zephyr when he saw what was happening. “It’s spreading!” He pointed to a corner store. Its awning was blackened and smoking, and customers were fleeing into the street where smoldering embers were still raining down.

  “Get Aurora,” Zephyr gasped, as he dodged a flying cobblestone by diving behind a park bench. I couldn’t see the gesture he made, but the effect of his magic was obvious. The drifting embers across the street all jerked in their paths and the smoking points on the building abruptly died. As the air around the sparks deadened, they turned to ash, and dropped harmlessly from the sky.

  The Masters’ flames reached the shed and set it ablaze. “It’s gonna blow,” Ember called out, and he and Sterling pitched forward. Not to protect themselves, I realized, as Sterling thrust his hand into the filthy sandbox just as the flames reached the propane tank.

  The shed went up in a ball of flame—which flared hot and bright, but only for a moment—before it was engulfed by a massive cloud of sodden sand that erupted from the ground with a force that made the whole park shudder.

  Cops had started breaking formation when the magic flew, and with the explosion, most of them scattered, with the ones who were left scrambling for backup. “Come on,” Rain called. We had a clear shot for one of the alleys. He held out his hand, vivid blue eyes pleading for me to take it, to run, to fight another day. I wanted to…and yet, I couldn’t just leave Sterling.

  Ember was dragging him up out of the sandbox, broken toys scattered around them in a blast pattern. Sterling was even paler than usual, and he moved like he’d just taken a tranq dart.

  “Help him,” I told Rain. Our eyes locked. And he saw that I couldn’t bring myself to take cover and meet up later at some rendezvous point. Not if it meant leaving Sterling floundering on the ground.

  “Oh, crap!” Zephyr cried out, and I turned to see him skid to a stop as one of the cops strode to the mouth of the alley he’d been headed for. Except it was no cop. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Stiff. Hands out at his sides, palm up. And the Arcane energy all around him drawing in with a sickening lurch as he readied to launch something big.

  Flood.

  Zephyr backpedaled. He snagged my arm just as the water main rumbled, and the cap blew off a nearby fire hydrant with enough force to crush a car like an empty soda can.

  Among the chaos—the flames, the water, the smoke and sand—I felt an incongruous surge of relief when I reached Sterling. He was wa
y too pale, literally translucent, with veins showing in his cheeks. But all that seemed to matter was that I touch him. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks by the time I hugged him to me. And even through the smoke, I could smell the faintest hint of patchouli.

  “It’s over,” Ember shouted over the chaos. “We’re herded together like animals. Plan B—I take full responsibility. The rest of you cooperate however you can to get an easier sentence.”

  “But no one’s arresting us,” Zephyr said hopefully. “And no one’s shooting.”

  Rain groaned. “That’s right. ’Cause they can’t milk Arcanum from us if we’re dead.”

  I saw it in my mind’s eye—a figure struggling, withering, the sigil going dark as the horrific extractor drained the Arcanum. Not the old Water Master anymore, but the Rebels. My friends. My saviors.

  “No,” I wept, as the hope in me turned to dread.

  But it was Sterling, barely clinging to consciousness, who wouldn’t let the hope die. “Well, kids, if ever there was a time to Bond…it’s now.”

  25

  STERLING

  I was almost nineteen the first time I got drunk, really drunk. A late bloomer. Like every other normal red-blooded American kid, up until then, I’d raided the parental units’ liquor cabinet and replaced whatever gin or vodka I’d siphoned off with water. But my folks drank only on rare occasions, and there was only so far I could water down the booze before I’d get caught.

  Once you’re out of high school, the arbitrary restrictions of age begin to blur. “What grade are you in?” becomes “What’s your major?” And pretty soon a whole world of interesting deviations is ripe for the picking.

  I wasn’t much for socializing, too involved in my classwork to get wrapped up in all the drama resulting from the sorts of liaisons people seemed to want from me. Let’s see, making out with some vapid, needy airhead who’d pester me with eight million texts, or storyboarding the half-claymation, half fractal-generated animation I was working on? No contest. The world inside my head was so much more interesting than trading chitchat and spit.

  It was a Saturday night my freshman year. My graphics card had gone glitchy and another one was still winging its way through the postal system. I hadn’t actually intended to wander into the Phi Lambda Alpha party, but a song I didn’t mind was drifting through the open windows, and when I poked my head in the door, someone shoved a red plastic Solo cup in my hand and pointed me toward the booze. The next thing I knew, I was waxing eloquent about the latest Adobe update with some frat boy in the corner.

  That pink cranberry vodka punch they whipped up for the girls who didn’t like beer? It packed a pretty powerful kick. And no matter how much I drank, the vat never seemed to get any lower. In retrospect, I must’ve been pretty wasted to think “let’s go somewhere we can talk” actually meant the guy was interested in the latest improvements to content-aware fill. And given the way the stairway and halls were stretching in a kind of funhouse perspective, I’d say I had a good buzz on.

  The second floor of the frat house was a single narrow hallway with a row of doors off either side. My conversation partner tried one door after another until he found one that was unlocked, then held it open as I stepped inside. The bedroom reeked of testosterone and old socks, which really made me appreciate my roommate Chao back at the dorms. His English might be shaky and my animations gave him the creeps, but at least the guy kept up with his laundry.

  “So anyway,” I said, “you make your selection—and this is the important part—go up to the edit menu….”

  I trailed off as I realized Frat Boy was rucking down his sweatpants. And he was really hung.

  To this day, half a dozen years later, I can’t drink vodka without experiencing the phantom aftertaste of dick.

  I don’t regret sucking him off, but if it were up to me, I wouldn’t have swallowed. The pink vodka punch was doing a number in my belly, and I didn’t appreciate the guy taking the liberty of clutching my head like he owned it. The room was spinning a little when I staggered to my feet and unhitched my jeans. Frat Boy glanced down at my fly and sneered, “What the fuck, man? I don’t wanna see that.”

  “Fair’s fair. I just did you.”

  “Listen, faggot. I don’t suck dick.”

  Label me whatever you want, I don’t give a rat’s ass. It was the way he slung the word that was offensive. “You just got another guy to blow you, and I’m a faggot?”

  “What did you call me?”

  Nothing, actually. But he slammed me against the wall before I could point out that it was more of an implication than a statement.

  He started carrying on, loud and drunk, about how I’d better keep my goddamn faggot mouth shut or he was going to pound me to next week when the doorknob rattled against its lock. A few tries, and then the door burst inward with a firemans’ kick. And there, in all his self-righteous glory, stood my old cohort Edward.

  He wasn’t enrolled at the university, not really. He worked on the maintenance crew and took two free night classes each semester. At that rate, maybe he’d have his bachelor’s by the time he retired.

  He might not be a full-time student, but he was young and handsome enough to get invited to their parties. Lipstick smeared the side of his mouth. The red streak took up where it left off on the lips of the disheveled blonde sorority girl behind him, who looked like she was ramping up to start screaming over the prospect of a fistfight.

  Edward registered that the two of us knew each other with a flicker of surprise, then smoothly insinuated himself between me and the surly owner of the dick. “That’s enough,” Edward said, with the authority of someone who people actually listened to. “No one’s pounding anyone. So, get out of here. Now.”

  I might not be particularly intimidating, but apparently Edward was. Plus, it was two against one now. “Goddamn creepy fag—lucky your boyfriend was here to save you.” The jerk pushed past the drunk sorority girl and lurched off down the hall.

  Edward turned to me. Not judging me. No…Edward’s ideals were too lofty for him to stoop to something as common as judgment. “Are you okay?”

  Pity, though? That was always in ample supply. “Thanks,” I said dismissively, “but I had it handled.”

  “That guy was twice your size.”

  “I know Taekwondo. Remember?”

  “Tripping someone on a mat when you’re twelve doesn’t mean you can handle yourself in a—”

  I turned away from his berating and vomited on the bed. The froth of pink vodka punch and semen tasted pretty much the same as it had going down. Plus, bonus—it shut Edward up.

  “Let’s get you back to your dorm,” he said.

  “I think I know the way.”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not saying you don’t. But I didn’t like the looks of that guy—”

  “Weirdly enough, neither did I. He’s totally not my type.”

  “—and for all we know, he’s waiting around out there with a few of his frat house buddies to kick your ass.”

  “Fine.” I sighed dramatically—which was how I knew I was well and truly drunk. I loathe drama. “On one condition. You leave me to my own devices once we get there, and we never speak of this again.”

  “That’s two conditions.”

  “And there’s at least three of you swimming through my field of vision. So, it all works out.”

  Edward draped my arm around his broad shoulders to let me take some weight off my rubbery legs, and also to help me figure out which of the multiple doors I was seeing could actually be walked through. Out in the hallway, the sorority girl said, “Eddie? Are you coming back?”

  “I think it’s best to call it a night.”

  “She called you Eddie,” I snorted.

  “Good thing we’ll never speak of this again.”

  Evidently, Frat Boy didn’t care enough to regroup and jump us. Once we were away from Phi Lambda Alpha, the atmosphere was placid. The night air felt good, and while it didn�
��t exactly sober me, it did make me chatty. “You got quite an eyeful back there.”

  Edward considered. “I’ll admit, I was a little bit surprised…I’ve never seen anyone puke like a swan.”

  The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’d thought my relationship with Edward had evolved. Several times, actually. We were different people, he and I, at eight and twelve and twenty-six. And yet, when I felt the Arcane power surge out of my body as I smothered the flames, it was not unlike that moment when I realized I’d had one too many cups of pink vodka punch. And just like that unpleasant night, Edward was there. No, not Edward. Ember. He hauled me up off the ground to drag me toward an alley. We were too late. Obviously. Zephyr and Rain were practically there, dragging Aurora directly behind. They would make it. Maybe Ember would have, too, if he hadn’t been worried about me. But when does he ever think of himself first?

  I wouldn’t have blamed anyone for leaving me there. I had no desire to be the scapegoat, but it only made logical sense. If we couldn’t all escape, those of us who had a chance to get away should at least try. But no. When push came to shove, they thought with their hearts, not their heads. Aurora saw I was down, and she faltered. That brief pause was all it took. And then all three of them were heading back our way.

  I’d be lying if I said I was entirely disappointed. But I didn’t want to make a habit of relying on the kindness of others.

  I’m not sure who was dragging who. Ember had me under the shoulder, and Rain was hauling on the opposite wrist—and that’s when things got weird. It was a lot like that moment when a film projector snags. The world lurched, with us inside it. Things went murky, and at first, I thought it was just me blacking out…but I’d never had a blackout hang there at 50% gray. Funny thing was, the other guys saw it too. I could tell by the way we all staggered to a stop, and they looked around as if they’d just woken from a really weird dream. But the really freaky dream stuff had just begun. And the rest of the guys, they were still in Technicolor, while the cops around us were not only desaturated to the point where they were nearly black-and-white, but they had slowed down in time and space, too. The world was slow motion now. And only we were moving.