Dark Fire

by Chris D'Lacey

  “Good idea,” said Liz. “Take Lexie with you. She’d appreciate a change of scenery, I think.”

  Zanna turned toward her room, hesitated, and looked back. “On the subject of me and Lexie, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the past few days. I’ve decided that I’d like us to live in Henry’s house. You’ve been so kind, but we can’t go on being your tenants forever. If it’s OK with you we’ll move out right away. It’s not like we’ve very far to go, is it? Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Liz.”

  Liz opened her arms and they hugged again. “Everyone in this house has been shocked by Henry’s death, but to have you as a neighbor in his place is a blessing. Anytime you need me, just …”

  “Knock on the wall?”

  “Exactly.” They separated, smiling again. But then Liz’s face grew slowly more pensive until Zanna was eventually forced to ask her, “What?”

  “I know this is difficult, considering the will, but what are your thoughts about David?”

  Zanna sighed quietly and gathered one half of her hair into her fist. “Well, every cloud … as they say. When I’ve transferred my things next door, he can have his old room back, can’t he?”

  Some ten minutes later, Zanna ushered Alexa into the hall, buttoned her into a coat, and told her they were going into town. Gretel decided she was bored and wanted to go, too. Zanna zipped the dragon into her bag. Then with a wave at Liz, who was cuddling a rather sleepy-looking Bonnington, the party of three went out.

  Zanna usually drove the mile-long journey to The Healing Touch, a shop she had bought just a couple of years before, but on this occasion she took Alexa by the hand and headed for the pedestrian route they called North Walk. This was a wide asphalt path that cut through the professional heart of Scrubbley. The houses that ran along one side were mostly occupied by lawyers or accountants. Zanna adored the architecture of them and liked to imagine herself sipping morning coffee on the neat, railed balconies or holding dinner parties in the high-curtained stately rooms.

  Alexa preferred the other side of North Walk. There were houses and offices along here, too, and a fine museum of art. But dotted between the buildings were squares and rectangles of urban grassland, shaded by vast maple and oak trees. Lucy had once written a story for school about two squirrels that lived on the edge of such a square. The name of the story was “Bodger and Fuffle from Twenty-three Along.” The number twenty-three referred to the broken glass lantern, on the twenty-third lamppost from the top end of the Walk, where the squirrels had built their home. One of Alexa’s favorite games was to count the lampposts aloud, even though she knew exactly which one (by the double-mouthed blue mailbox just beyond the museum) was home to the legendary squirrels.

  So Zanna was happy to let her bowl ahead, zigzagging wildly across the path, slapping each post in turn. Fortunately, there were few other people about, so no one was in danger of sustaining an injury from a collision with the enviable zest of youth. As they reached eighteen along and turned the slight bend that would bring them to within distant sight of the High Road and the town, they had the path to themselves. This was Zanna’s favorite stretch. The path narrowed here and the branches of the trees came together in an arch. On a sunlit afternoon, the ground was always covered in dappled shadows. And for a moment or two, that was just how it was: idyllic. Then the leaves rustled and four things happened at once.

  In the distance Alexa said, “Mommy …?”

  The zipper on Zanna’s bag began to urgently rattle.

  A spill of unnatural darkness blotted out the checkerboard of light and foliage.

  A raven’s cark rent the air.

  Zanna whipped around to see a large bird descending. It was coming for her, claws out, angled like a bat. She ducked and it swept by, spitting venom. Then a second bird came in the slipstream of the first. This time Zanna swung her bag at it, caught the bird’s breast, and sent it spinning. It crashed into a bench and looked defeated for a second, its wing jammed between two slats, dislocated. But then, to her horror, it withdrew the wing as though it were a knife in butter. It reset the joint with an ugly-sounding snap and turned to face the girl again.

  It was hideous. Black-eyed. Awkward. Cruel. It appeared to have teeth. Hard fragments of bony material, nestling around a squirming tongue. Yes, it was a bird. But not a raven. More like a mutant of avian evolution. “Gargoyle” was the closest name Zanna could give to it. “Evil” was the generalization she preferred.

  “Alexa!” She was already running toward the girl when another bird sank its claws into her shoulder, forcing her to drop her bag and sink to her knees. She threw back her head in pain and the thorny protuberances on the bird’s body became grossly entangled in her hair. The bird thrashed about among the long black strands, trying to deliver a blow with its beak. Zanna was not to know, but one stab deep into her ear canal would have caused an incurable infection and rotted her cerebellum in seconds. This was how close she came to death that day.

  “Lexie, RUN!” She drew back her sleeve.

  High in the trees, a third creature, the alpha male bird, stared at Zanna and zoomed in on the mark of Oomara. Without making a sound, it dropped through the chinks of light and clamped itself to Zanna’s right hand before she could fasten her fingers to her arm. She screamed in agony and rolled over with it, her cheekbone grazing against the path. The bird tore a strip of flesh between the tendons of her hand and even took one finger into its beak. Deep at its base, she felt the prickling teeth gnaw through to her bone. It was all she could do to stop from passing out.

  And all this time she was aware of a terrible scrabbling beside her. Three birds, maybe four, were scratching at her bag, trying to tear through the lining to get inside. Suddenly it broke and Gretel was loose.

  Fly, Zanna mouthed, through a blur of hair and saliva and pain.

  Instead, Gretel froze. She had flowers in the quiver she carried across her back. A knockout potion would have been easy to administer, if she’d had time to make it up. But she was surrounded and wholly outnumbered. She’d be dead, she knew, if she touched a stem.

  She raised her paws in surrender. The half-darkling ravens sneered. And then something happened that terrified even Gretel beyond her wildest nightmares. One by one, the birds changed shape. Until they were her shape. Four black Gretels. Four monstrous inversions of herself.

  Gretel felt something move inside her body. An auma shift. Deep within. And though she had always believed she would be far too strong to ever reach this state, she identified the feeling right away: the moment before a dragon sheds its fire tear.

  She was about to die.

  15 RESCUE

  But in an instant everything changed. A new and longer shadow fell across the path. Human. A man. Tall. Strong.

  The birds around Gretel turned their heads in concert and quickly reassumed their darkling shape. Chattering aggressively, they backed away from the oncoming figure, spread their wings, and scattered to the trees. The alpha male was not so fearful. It threw out its wings and lifted away from Zanna, but hovered for a moment assessing the battle strength of the intruder. One swift scan of the visitor’s auma warned it that engagement was not an option. It glanced at the darkling trapped in Zanna’s hair. The thing was beating out a message of distress. The alpha male flew to the trees, where it could observe its companion’s fate. The human figure stepped forward, put his hand around the bird’s neck, and squeezed the darkness out of it. It turned as white as ice, from teeth to tail, then collapsed inward in a gush of water that trickled down the path and found a drain.

  The alpha male recorded this and wisely flew away.

  “David …?” Sensing the sanctuary of the human form behind her, Zanna rolled over and stretched a bloodied hand.

  A firm hand took it. “Not this time, sorry.”

  That voice. That soft Scottish accent. Zanna raised her eyes. “You?” she gasped, before she finally fainted.

  Her rescuer was the journalist, Tam Farrell
.

  When she came around (a waft of scented flowers from Gretel) he had moved her to a quiet, shaded bench and was already securing a makeshift bandage, torn from his shirt, around her injured hand. She pushed him away with a startled breath and swept Alexa up in a desperate hug. “Are you all right? They didn’t touch you?”

  Alexa shook her head.

  Mouthing a silent prayer, Zanna steadied her by the shoulders and stroked her face. “Gretel? Are you OK?”

  The potions dragon gave a nervous hrrr.

  “Sit back,” said Tam. “Please. You’re hurt.”

  Zanna’s dark eyes faded into his. “Where did you come from? Why were you even here?”

  He shifted to the front of the bench and attended to her injured hand again. “Long story.”

  “Fine. I’m all ears,” she growled.

  He tied the bandage off. “I was coming to the house, spotted you and Alexa, guessed you might be heading for the shop, and tagged on behind. Lucky I did.” He looked at her kindly. “We should get you home.”

  “My hair’s wet,” she said, feeling the ends. “Have I got the blood of those things on me?”

  He shook his head. “Just melted ice.”

  “And where did a journalist from The National Endeavor learn to turn gargoyles into ice?” She grabbed his wrist and turned his palm up. Under the skin was the faint translucent image of a polar bear.

  “That’s another long story,” he said, and put her hands back into her lap. “I’ll get your bag.”

  It was lying, torn, on the far side of the path. Tam gathered up the contents and handed it to her. “They’ve made a real mess of it. Was it expensive?”

  “Don’t ask,” she said, chin in the air.

  So Tam spoke not a word on the entire journey back to the Crescent. But as they approached the gate of number forty-two, Zanna stopped him with a hand to his chest. “You’ve never met Liz, have you?”

  He shook his head. “She was ill in bed when I was here before.”

  “Well, she’s not ill now. Bear in mind she’s Lucy’s mother, OK?”

  “Am I unwelcome?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  As usual, Liz’s first priority was for Zanna’s and Alexa’s welfare. She bundled them into the kitchen, where Agatha Bacon was admiring the dragons and enjoying a farewell cup of tea.

  Agatha unwrapped the wounded hand. “What caused this?”

  “Birds,” Zanna told her. “Like mutant ravens.”

  Liz stepped back with one hand across her mouth. “Didn’t you say you saw ravens on Farlowe Island?”

  Zanna, looking harrowed, didn’t reply.

  “This is infected,” Agatha said. “In most cases I would prescribe a poultice of geranium and calendula root.” She raised a hand as Gretel looked set to fly. “Wait,” she commanded. “The flowers may not be necessary.” She rested Zanna’s palm on hers. “Look inside yourself, girl. The remedy is in your mind, is it not?”

  Zanna focused her concentration. “I can see it, yes. Geranium and —”

  “For others, certainly,” Agatha cut in. “But you are a sibyl. Concentrate harder. Think of the remedy; look at the wounds.”

  They were a frightful mess, made worse, Zanna suspected, by the bloodstains smeared and caked around the knuckles. But as she brought her sibyl mind to work on them, she understood what Agatha was getting at. As she focused her thoughts on the image of a clean, undamaged hand, the blood loss from the darkling’s bite was staunched and the severed tissues began to reknit. Within a minute, she had healed herself.

  “Oh, my goodness,” gasped Liz. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

  Zanna turned her hand as if it were new. Her fingers were bloodied but painless to move.

  “Excellent,” said Agatha, bristling with pride. “You have progressed at a speed I would not have thought possible. But that was before I visited this house and its colorful occupants, of which we now appear to be grateful for one more.” She studied Tam Farrell carefully. He was standing, out of the way, by the fridge.

  “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time,” he said modestly.

  “He frightened the nasty birds off,” said Alexa, going to sit on her mother’s knee.

  “And not by flashing his smile,” said Zanna. “Why didn’t the darklings go for you? What were they afraid of, T —?”

  “Tam?!” Lucy’s voice was louder, more insistent.

  “Hello, Lucy,” he said, turning.

  She stopped at the kitchen door and pulled a strand of loose hair into her mouth. He was still just as handsome as ever, even with a slim gold chain around his neck (she hated “bling” on guys) and unworldly dark brown eyes.

  “You’re supposed to be in your room,” Liz said.

  Which did not go over well with her daughter. “Oh, why don’t you just tell me I’m not going to get any dinner tonight either? Let’s go for total embarrassment, why don’t we?”

  “I think I’d better go,” Tam said quietly.

  “Thought you had a story to tell me?” Zanna threw him a penetrating look.

  “It can wait,” he said.

  “But you’ll be back?” Liz said, hurriedly, hopefully.

  Tam offered her his Lowlands smile.

  “You’ll be welcome, Tam.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling at Alexa as she waved him off.

  As he stepped toward the hall, Lucy flattened herself against the door to let him past. “Bye,” she whispered as he angled himself to face her.

  He looked kindly into her over-round eyes. A moment later, he was gone.

  Outside, at the top of the path, Tam checked his cell phone and found he had a new voice mail waiting. The message was breathless, spoken with an anglicized German accent. “Mr. Farrell, please call me. I have a story for you. One which is going to change the world.”

  Tam snapped his phone shut and opened the gate. Over the creak a voice said, “Steiner?”

  David was approaching along the sidewalk.

  Tam gave a nod of recognition. “I’m guessing he’s translated the photographs.”

  “Good. Then you know what you have to do.”

  “The shell of the article is already written. I’m just waiting for Steiner’s input.”

  David nodded and looked anxiously at the house. “What happened?”

  “Birds. About double the size of a normal raven. Not full darklings, but close enough to matter. Liz mentioned they were there on Farlowe?”

  “Yes,” said David, thinking back, showing in the merest tightening of his lips that he’d made a mistake in letting them go. “How many were there?”

  Tam shrugged. “Half a dozen.”

  David looked away. Six. He’d remembered more than that. “What’s your assessment? What would Kailar say?”

  Tam turned his right palm up, where the image of the polar bear David was referring to was glowing luminescently under his skin. “He’d say things were going to get worse. That the enemy are learning fast what they’re up against. That they’ll step up their efforts to achieve what they want. Maybe attack on different fronts.” He glanced at the house. Gwendolen was watching from Lucy’s window. “You need to know something, David. Zanna was badly hurt in the attack, but she’s recovered, through her own magicks.”

  “And Alexa?”

  “Untouched. The birds didn’t come for Alexa. I believe they came to scare Gretel. My guess is they were looking for another tear to invert. You need to deal with that piece of obsidian, or none of what we’re doing is going to matter.”

  David nodded again. “Did you speak to Lucy?”

  Tam moved the toe of his boot across the ground. “I didn’t think the moment was right. You really want me to chaperone her to Scuffenbury?”

  David glanced at Tam’s left hand, at the second bear image imprinted there. It was younger than the bear on his right hand, with a far more intelligent profile. What it brought to Tam were memories of
the Arctic; every story of the North was right there, in his palm. David said, “Isn’t that what the Teller of Ways would desire: to be present when a dragon rises out of stasis? You did well, Tam. Stay close. I’ll call you.” And with that he clapped the young Scot once on the shoulder and walked away silently toward the house.

  16 KITCHEN TALK

  For a while, it was a time of comings and goings. As soon as David walked in he was updated with the news of what had happened on North Walk. Shortly afterward, Agatha Bacon left in a taxi, Alexa went into her mother’s room to play, and Liz announced she was going to the university to collect Arthur.

  “After what happened to Zanna?” Lucy said.

  Liz glanced at David. “They won’t touch you,” he said.

  “Oh, you are such a piece of work!” Despite the soothing qualities of a mug of chamomile tea, Zanna couldn’t keep an angry snarl out of her voice. “You waltz in thirty minutes after the event and assure us everything’s fine and dandy. How can you be so blasé about this?”

  “They want a dragon,” he said. “Another Gwillan.”

  Every dragon in the room shrank back in fear.

  Zanna glared at him for a full three seconds. “If you’d been there, feeling their claws ripping into your skin, you wouldn’t be coming out with a cheap remark like that.”

  “I’m not saying you weren’t in danger,” said David. “But you weren’t the real target. Tell her, Gretel.”

  But the potions dragon, in a fierce display of solidarity, flew to Zanna’s shoulder and refused to say a word.

  Liz sighed and picked her car keys out of the fruit bowl. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Please be kind to each other while I’m gone. A bit of TLC all around wouldn’t hurt.” She checked her hair in the mirror and set off toward the hall. On her way out, she paused and said to David, “These creatures: Will they attack us here?”

  David glanced at the listening dragon. Its tall frail body was shaking in time to the refrigerator pump. He sent it a calming impulse and said, “I doubt it. The house is too well guarded. And we’re wise to them now. If I’m not here, Zanna and Bonnington will keep them at bay.” As if by magic, Bonnington popped in through his cat flap and rubbed himself against David’s shins.