Blaze of Heroes

by C. J. Strange

  Perhaps it's better that you linger in the darkness of the dream a little longer, my dear...

  I'm thinking too much. Far too much. I wish I'd drank more, especially considering the amount of home-brew being thrust at me.

  But, I refrained. I was a good girl. And maybe, if I hint lots, Duncan will reward me for it.

  “Tank Girl, still awake?”

  I roll up into a sitting position, and my eyes follow a long pair of legs wrapped in padded leather up to the blond, bearded German-Briton who was previously introduced to everyone as 'Izzey'.

  “One of my favorites,” I reply, no need not to be friendly. “I'll take the compliment. And yeah, some of us like it late. I see you're one of them.”

  Izzey smiles. “It's my favorite. Look, we have a second little gathering starting up very shortly,” Izzey tells me, arms crossed over a jacket to match the pants. Coupled with a pair of aviators tucked rather blatantly into a pocket, I presume he has a bike somewhere. Or wants people to presume he does. “There's a small glade in the trees over there, by the wall. Not quite as ritualistic—well, have you ever participated in a Reykrrök Circle?”

  I'm able to keep my eyebrows from shooting up. “I can't say I have, no. Or that I've even heard of it. Another Novanite thing? Circles are fun, I like circles. Pancakes are circle. Teabags are circle—well, most of the time.”

  A light chuckle flutters past Izzey's lips, past the well-combed, well-groomed length of his gingery beard. “Well. I suppose this could be compared in some ways to tea. I'll make sure you're all filled in before you participate in anything illicit. Head on over if you're up for learning a new Magick trick. Afterparty starts in about ten.”

  Europeans are an unusual find these days, I think as he turns to wander away, swigging from an unlabeled bottle. Ever since we Brexited the fuck out a decade ago, accents that aren't one of our many different localized English/Welsh dialects are a rarity.

  I may muse upon it longer, but as that tight, leather-wrapped arse swaggers back around the bonfire, I see a figure emerging from the other side of it who immediately snaps my attention away.

  Alfie! My eyes widen, impossibly so, but I'm able to wrestle back my exclamation of joy and relief. And I'll continue to do so until Izzey is out of earshot. His eyes fall on me, and I can tell from a single look the emotional (and in many ways, physical) agony he's been through in the past few hours.

  I wave enthusiastically. Despite the weakened, broken aura he's wearing, he replies with a tired half-smirk.

  “Diesel—!” I want to ensure I'm the first to vocalize. At this point, I don't care who was wrong or who was right. I don't even care if he apologizes for storming off. I'm just grateful to see him safe.

  “I'm sorry, Pen'.”

  Perhaps he had the same idea as me, because he seems to be in a hurry to get those words out of his mouth. The lukewarm smile is mostly gone. “Look, love, I just—it's just been one of them weeks, innit? Y'know what I mean?” He scratches the back of his fiery copper hair awkwardly, avoiding my gaze other than to chance the occasional sheepish peek. “I've been all lairy for days and I ain't got no reason to be, just…”

  Alfie's low tenor trails off, but I give him his space. As captain of this quirky little brigade, learning how best to handle each of my lads has been of key importance in ensuring everything runs smoothly. And while Oliver and Duncan both require a bit of poking and prodding to divulge their innermost thoughts, Alfie's often an open book. He just needs a little time to organize his brain.

  “Y'know what, fuck it,” he says eventually, shaking his head. “It's dodgy, it's well too dodgy, I don't want you knowing how messed up I am.”

  My face falls into a serious, sober frown. I can't help it. I can hear the painful squirm to his words.

  “Mate, what is it?” I ask softly. He frowns helplessly at me.

  “Later,” is his eventual decision, and before I can dog him on it any further, he's waving me off. “Anyway, I don't wanna keep banging on about it, are people still up drinking and all that? I can't sleep yet. Jittery as fuck. What's on the docket for tonight?”

  As desperately as I want to get to the bottom of whatever's bothering my friend, I understand his need to just derail and deflate. This is one of those rare occasions where Alfie is entirely right: whatever it is, it can wait.

  “Well,” I start, “that Izzey bloke was just by this way. Mentioned an afterparty, some kind of ritual-not-ritual. I'm trying to remember what he called it.” I strain my mind back, past the persistent thoughts of Vetrnætr and Illiam and bearded men with tight arses and pretty accents.

  “Rey, Rey, Rey-cur-something-something.”

  “Reykrrök!?”

  I blink at his sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Yes?” is my cautious reply. “I'm going to go ahead and assume you clearly have more knowledge on the subject than I do?”

  “Have a laugh, are you joking?” All of a sudden, it's as if the past several hours never even happened. Alfie's ability to flip from panic to manic in the space of a sentence is nothing new to any of us, but it does still take a few seconds to adjust to the change.

  “It's been years—!”

  Before I can protest, he's snatched up my hand in one of his hot, calloused ones, and is tugging at me.

  “Seriously, you are going to love this shit,” gushes Alfie, as we cross the bailey in Izzey's wake. “I promise you, it's right up your alley, girl.”

  9 Alfie's Aggression

  She trusts me.

  I have no bloody idea why at this point, after years of the shit I've put her and others through. But that's one of the things about Penny Starling: she sees through all that. She sees the person I am inside, the person I strive to be. It's not fucking easy, but she sees the struggle. She just... she gets it.

  “Tank Girl, you made it.”

  Mr. I'm-Clearly-Overcompensating-For-Something-With-This-Fancy-As-Fuck-Beard stops ogling Penny long enough to notice I'm next to her.

  “Ah, and I see you brought a brigade mate.” He puts out a hand. “Izzey. Honored to meet you, my brother.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the accent. I wasn't expecting that. “Yeah, yeah, Diesel. Watcha, mate. Didn't realize they were still letting your kind into the country.”

  I don't need to turn my head at all to know Penny's eyes are on me. She. Is. Pissed. But, counterpoint to the cocky remark, I've already reached out and warmly shaken his hand. European, Wall-jumper, it doesn't actually bother me owt. Penny likes to lecture me on how comments like mine only embolden hateful and hurtful behaviours and societal stereotypes.

  And, to be fair, she's probably totally right.

  “They aren't. My family moved to Essex in 2015.” Izzey handles it with total class, which I'm both happy and annoyed about. “That's some serious heat you seem to be packing there, Diesel.”

  I snort. “Oi, easy, son. Easy. I'm not into blokes.”

  “So, I'm sorry to say that's Diesel,” interjects Penny. She's using her Captain Voice again; I don't think I'll ever be drunk or high enough to tell her how much it turns me on. “He'll be joining us for the whole Circle thing, if that's all right with you lot?”

  “Yeah, mate, and I've done Reykrrök before, innit.” While he probably took my comment for what it was, I'm still feeling a bit sensitive, and I don't want to have to worry about Penny being pissed off at me for the rest of the night. Might as well throw on a smile and crank up the charm. “Hell of an experience; really appreciate you having us along, mate.”

  “Any child of Nova's is a friend of mine, of ours.” Izzey motions to a pride of five or six Anomalies sitting around a much smaller concrete fire pit built into the earth. “Still two minutes until we begin, if you both want to make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Two minutes?” asks Penny.

  “Witching Hour,” is my reply. I like it when I get to teach her about something, and I like it even more when she takes an interest in my spirituality. “Best way to get proper accurate
results.”

  Penny and I join the circle around the fire pit, dropping down onto the pillow pile they've set up. I can tell she's edgy, but again, for some dodgy reason, she trusts me.

  “Spectre, are you here somewhere waiting to be a dick?” Izzey suddenly asks aloud, stripping his leather jacket off. I roll my eyes, but a splatter of colorful tattoos up and down his arms catches my attention in a more positive way. Huh. Not bad, not bad. If you're into cheesy shite like skulls and roses.

  Everybody sits silently, waiting for a reply we don't get. Izzey seems satisfied with that. He drops down next to me to close the circle. I hope he catches the face I pull, because his aftershave is way too fucking much, innit.

  “Reykrrök,” he says, probably to Penny but there might be other first-timers too, “is a flowering plant only able to grow in very specific areas of this country, areas that have been blessed or made sacred somehow by Nova. It's used in rituals of clairvoyance, either crushed into a gritty paste and chewed or, more commonly, dried and smoked like tobacco.”

  “Smoking it's the way to go,” I mutter to my captain. “Get that shit stuck between your teeth, you'll trip balls when you find it the next day.”

  “Personal experience?” she shoots back, and a bunch of us laugh at my own expense. This time, I'm all right with it, and I nod with enthusiasm.

  “It'll wake you up if you're hungover, I'll tell you that much.”

  “Speaking of hangovers,” says Penny, and she's looking to and fro between me and Izzey. “Exactly how manky am I going to feel come nine o'clock tomorrow morning? I'm fine ditching breakfast, but I was hoping to be mostly lucid on the road.”

  Izzey chuckles. He's tugged a leather rucksack into his lap (is everything this geezer owns dominatrix-themed?) and is rummaging through it. “Well, considering I'll be joining you, I like to imagine we'll be just dandy.”

  “It's pretty damn cleansing, I'll be surprised if you even have one,” I tell her. I'm secretly glad he answered like a twat, so I could be the one to do it properly. “You'll feel all relaxed, rehydrated, and, for real, best sleep of your bloody life.”

  “Jesus to fuck, no kidding.” Penny stares at us, dumbfounded, as a couple others in the circle giggle at her reaction. “Why the heck aren't more people taking part? I saw some serious boozing going on this evening.”

  “Not everybody agrees with tempting or touching their own fate,” says Izzey, as he pulls a couple of items out of the bag.

  “Can't argue with that. You clearly don't have a problem with it.”

  Izzey smiles up at us grimly. “I like to partake whenever I get the chance. I find it an incredibly useful tool when it comes to my work.”

  “What line of work you in, mate?” I ask, casually as I can. Something about him rubs me the wrong way. Then again, Penny and thistle-dick would argue a lot of blokes rub me the wrong way.

  “Personal security,” says Izzey, popping his rucksack out of the way. “At current, anyway. I suppose think of what I do as what you do. Only not as high-profile or exciting, and nowhere near as honorable. Considering I usually require payment for my services. But I owe Elder Beaumont and some of my brothers here,” he nods across the circle, “a favor or two. Plus taking on the odd philanthropy case does wonders for my sense of self-worth.”

  Penny smirks at me, then re-crosses her legs another way and leans into me. My breath is instantly sucked out of my lungs, thankfully silently so nobody hears. Especially her.

  Last thing I need in life right now is for her to figure out I'm fucking mental about her. Absolutely fucking mental. Every minute of every day. Always have been, always will be.

  … it's not sad, you're sad.

  Izzey's packing a long, curved pipe with the rare flower. It's a stunning color, a vibrant purple-green, and has been ground extremely fine, another detail necessary for an accurate read. The sharp, woodsy scent reaches my nose. I inhale deeply, hungrily; it has a weird odor, sweet and strong, a combination of pine sap and sage, with zesty notes of lemon.

  “Kapitän?”

  With way too much flourish, he offers Penny the pipe.

  “Why don't you take vanguard?” he suggests, with a smug smile that's suddenly trying to attract my fist. “If you want to participate, that is. The effects of Reykrrök, other than a painfully vague glimpse into one's future, are a sense of euphoria and relaxation, increased spirituality, increased sensuality and sensual perception, a little metacognition…”

  Penny frowns, though doesn't look entirely put off. “So, I'll trip balls and witness other time periods, a la Harry Potter and his big magic punch bowl?”

  Several in the circle laugh at that, but not in a way that's malicious. Not in a way that bothers me as much as Izzey's smirk does.

  “You may feel some residual emotion,” says Izzey, as Penny gingerly accepts the long pipe from him and admires it between her hands. “But the reading itself is a bit less thrilling than a hallucination.”

  Penny nods, and for a moment I join her in just admiring the pipe. It's an intriguing piece, blown or carved from obsidian-purple glass. I'm tingling with excitement, from the pit of my gut to the tips of my fingers and toes. Reykrrök is an experience, and there's nobody I'd rather get to spend an experience like this with than Penny.

  “If you're all happy to trip-sit me,” laughs Penny, reaching into her butt pocket.

  I snap my fingers to birth a flame, eager to assist. But before I can, another hand stretches across me with a teeny, tiny flame cupped in its palm. The skin is blackened, charred, a brilliant hot-orange glow soaking through dents and cracks in the crust. I follow the arm all the way up to Izzey's face.

  He's… he's a fire Anomaly!?

  “Here,” he says, in that way what blokes do when they think they're being all smooth and suave, “let me help you with that.”

  A bolt of anger surges through me, fizzling out the premature excitement in my veins. I want to seize his wrist and elbow in my hands, and snap his forearm in two over my knee. Imagine the crack is soothing, more soothing than it probably should be. Should I be concerned about my borderline psychosis? Does that shit even count for anything anymore?

  “Oh, I don't use other gamers' dice, it messes with my ju-ju.” Penny winks and her hand emerges with a throwaway Bic lighter. I fight without much success to hide my big, fat, fuck-off smirk.

  Izzey tilts his head, clicks his fingers, and the baby fire disappears. Show off bell-end, I think, my smirk only growing wider.

  “All right,” murmurs Penny, cupping the small bowl of the pipe in one hand and resting the tip of the bit against her plump lower lip. “Here goes nothing. Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte agad-sa,” is my reply, and I hear a couple others in the circle mumble it along with me.

  “Zum Wohl,” says Izzey, and with that Penny's thumb flicks the Bic alight, drenching her perfect, porcelain face in the heat and glow of the tiny flame.

  10 Penny's Omen

  I have absolutely no idea what to expect.

  Well, that's not entirely true. I have some idea. And in all frankness, I like to leap without looking, and preferably into the deep end. And more so when I'm with Alfie, too. Something about that boy brings the devil out in me—the maniac, the wild one, the flame.

  Something about his spark, his fire, makes me reckless. Always has done, always will do.

  It's not the first time I've smoked. I avoid it now, for the most part. Most working class and street kids in Britain have partook in their own fair share of ganja in their time, and I quit nicotine in June 2026 (after smoking cigarettes to kill my hunger after Dad had to go deep underground), and never looked back. I'm proud of that. My job isn't exactly stress-free.

  The glass is impossibly polished against my lip, so cool and clean and glossy. I've always found pipes a little phallic, not that I'd admit that to anyone in this circle. It sparkles almost wetly in the light as I move the flame close to the bowl.

  “Take a single hit, Kapitän, as sh
ort or long as you wish,” instructs Izzey from the other side of my brigade mate. “And then we will interpret your Reykrsýn.”

  My—my what? I think, at quite literally the moment I release the choke at the side of the bowl and inhale the contents of the pipe into my lungs. Bit too late now. While bits of Old Norse have crept back into the modern vernacular of British Anomaly communities, only Novanites tend to study or understand it. Which means for all I know, my 'Reykrsýn' could be some sort of crazy Irish jig this stuff's about to make me erupt into.

  The strange, warm, wet scent of the ground flower is second to its taste in unexpected pleasantness. My lungs expand to draw in every last cubic centimeter. It's denser than I anticipated, heavier, without the chest-opening lightness of tobacco smoke. The taste in my chest and my nose is earthy and sweet, and as it creeps back up my throat, I exhale.

  I'm not expecting the plume of smoke that billows from my mouth to be a fuchsia color, and it causes me to cough a little in surprise. Or that's the story I'm going with, anyway.

  The pipe is gently eased from my hand. I let it go, my mind no longer on its presence. I'm left buzzing. Tingling. Trembling. My chest, belly, and nether regions all flutter in harmony, as if chakras I've never focused on are being teased to life. My vision vignettes purple at the edges, sharpening in the middle, and the crackling of the fire suddenly sounds a thousand miles away.

  “... well, fuck me,” is all I have the sense of mind to say.

  Several different laughs rise up and I can easily discern Alfie's amongst them. If I were feeling at all anxious before, I immediately relax. While some may have labeled him borderline criminally insane in the past, loose canon or not, he's on my side. And I have no doubts he would do anything and everything in his power to protect me—heh, even knowing I'm pretty bloody good at protecting myself.