Rafe grabbed Isabella’s arm, “Accident at a gas reservoir.” The ground trembled again under their feet, and Isabella put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. More explosions filled the air, one after another, like a cannonade. Fire surrounded Ironheart on three sides, smoke mushroomed up into the sky, followed by the panicked clanging of alarm bells.
People ran out of their homes, some shrieking and crying, others white and wordless. The prisoners pulled at their chains in horror; the prison guards ran down the line, unlocking the men.
“Karzov,” said Rafe to Isabella, who nodded, lips tight.
A burly prison guard pushed Isabella aside in his haste to unchain Rafe. “Get away, to the water, the river, the coast, any way you can!” His breath and sweat stank of fear. There was more animal than man in his wide eyes and bared teeth. “Run, run!” His duty done, the man fled through someone’s yard.
“We have to go,” said Isabella, bleakly. “He planned this too thoroughly. Ironheart can’t be saved.”
“But her people can. Coop’s family—his sister’s house is not too far from here.” Rafe started off in that direction. After a moment, Isabella shrugged off her novice robes, and followed.
T
HE LIGHTS HAD ALL
gone out, but it didn’t matter. They could see well enough by the lurid glares that surrounded Ironheart. They leapt over the debris of what had once been houses, skirted mountains of rubble, and clambered into ditches, against the tide of people fleeing towards the water. Many pushed and pulled handcarts, wagons, trolleys, and bicycles. Most were loaded down: bulging burlap sacks carried over their shoulders, spare shoes tied at the laces and hung around their necks, even a string of onions looped like a necklace on one of the passersby. There was relatively little shouting, just the dead-white faces of terrified people streaming towards the only safety they could think of.
At Felicity’s house, Rafe banged on the door. A harassed Felicity came rushing from the back. “Thank good—” she began, then stopped, face twisting. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to help you,” said Rafe tersely. He went over to right the handcart she’d been struggling one-handed with, ignoring the mixed emotions on her face. Its wheels were stuck in gravel and he gave it a vicious tug that moved it not an inch. Hands covered both of his, hip touched his, and together, he and Isabella pulled. The handcart groaned, resisted, then came out with a plop that had him staggering backward. Isabella, of course, had perfect balance.
Felicity watched for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the tower of grey smoke nearest her house and the angry glow underneath. “Fenton Works just went up in flames. We’re sitting on some of the gas lines that come from it.”
“There are water tanks nearby? Firemen?” This fury was the other face of fire. Life-giving, life-sustaining on one hand, burning and consuming on the other.
“Aye, but the drought brought our supplies low and our volunteer firemen are scattered all over the city.”
“Then we’d better move. Where’s Coop?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Ver went to make arrangements for Gramps’ funeral.”
“We need to go now. Your baby.” Rafe indicated the bundle she held.
“Yes, yes. Here, you, make yourself useful.” One small part of Rafe’s mind had time to be amused as Felicity thrust the baby at Isabella, who reached out mechanically to take it, then looked surprised at what she’d done.
A wild-haired man, stripped to the waist, puffing at a pipe, hailed them from a house so dilapidated it was hard to tell if it had been damaged by the explosions or fallen into disrepair on its own. “Ho, Mrs. Riley! Look at this lovely light! They don’t like light, true enough. Do this whole place good to be lit inside and out, now and again.”
Rafe shot him a disbelieving look, but Felicity gave him a shove toward her house. “Take the cans off the kitchen shelf and put them in the cart. Peony?” She appealed to her neighbor. “Won’t you come with us?”
“No, lass. Why leave this beautiful, beautiful fire as it overcomes the awful, suffocating dark?” Peony stared rapturously in the direction of the burning reservoir.
“Right idea, wrong implementation,” muttered Isabella. She held the baby with surprising competence, but didn’t seem to want too much body contact with him.
Felicity remonstrated with her neighbor while Rafe went into the kitchen, swept the cans into his arms, and carried them out to the handcart. Isabella had her head back, out of reach of the baby’s curious starfish hands. Felicity turned away from her stubborn neighbor, chewing her lip in frustration.
Rafe threw over his shoulder, as he dumped cans, “Hold it closer, Isabella. It won’t turn you to stone.”
Felicity darted fish-quick back into her kitchen. “Rafe… potatoes!”
Isabella snorted, “Oh, you think so, do you? Here, your turn!” She dumped the baby into his arms as he turned around. “
I’ll
get the potatoes.”
Rafe stared nonplussed at little Ellis Riley, with his face smeared with burn ointment, his body swaddled to keep his broken arm still. The weight of him was alive and warm and decidedly wiggly. He didn’t look the least bit bothered at being passed around from person to person.
“You know,
women
are supposed to look after babies,” Rafe shot at Isabella as she slung a sack of potatoes into the handcart.
“Do you good to get out of your rut for a while,” said Isabella amiably. “Broaden your outlook and all that.”
Felicity came out with laden arms. Cutlery and cookware clattered into the handcart, followed by a bundle of clothing. “There.” She took one last look around at her small home. “This was a good place to live in once.” She peered anxiously at the road. “No sign of Ver?”
“Not yet.” Rafe gave up the baby to his mother and grabbed the handles of the handcart. “Let’s go.” Drifts of smoke blew toward them, bringing the heat and hungry crackle of fire, maliciously prodding memories up to the surface.
Don’t think about it, don’t think of heat and oily flames rushing in from all sides, shooting through tunnels, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but jump into the gaping maw and dark depth of a mine shaft, because anything, even plummeting to death is better than being hunted by fire.
His sweat smelled of fear even to himself.
“Come with us, Peony.” There was no real hope in Felicity’s face, but she tried again anyway.
Isabella gave an impatient sigh, then quick-stepped over to the man. “Look at me,” she commanded, and he did. Her back was to Rafe and Felicity was throwing something else into the cart, so no one saw what she showed him. But the man’s face changed, horror and joy commingling in a weird combination. Isabella took him by the arm and he followed, unresisting and uncomplaining, like a meek child. His pipe dangled from his hand.
“Got him,” announced Isabella, as if she’d just fetched a pot.
Rafe pointed the handcart in the direction of the water and started down the road. Another boom ripped the air.
“That was the Potter substation,” said Felicity quietly. She’d put the baby in some kind of carrier, a complication of cloth and buckles securing the child to her chest. “Not long now.”
Isabella hoisted a pack onto her back and kept one hand on Peony’s wrist. The pavement was so cracked and buckled and strewn with rocks that Rafe had to concentrate on keeping the cart from unbalancing.
If they moved any slower, they might have to abandon it.
“Ver!” Felicity said the name as an exclamation of relief, revealing tears in her voice for the first time. Rafe looked up, glad, as his friend came bounding out into the street.
Isabella moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her whip out a dagger. Felicity screamed just as he cried, “Isabella, no!” and Coop barreled into him, trailing whispers, a blank, animalistic look fixed upon his face. Rafe went down.
Kill kill kill kill!
A knife ripped through Rafe’s shirt, slicing across his skin as he twisted. He grabbed Coop’s right hand with both of his. “Coop, what are you doing?” Coop’s expressions flickered; Rafe caught rage and darkness and madness. There was an oily blot wrapped around his neck.
Like in that mine.
The Soul Eaters. The krin.
Over Coop’s shoulder, he caught sight of Isabella, eyes narrowed and grim, strands stuck to her cheeks from the heat. “Don’t. Kill. Him,” he shouted, as Coop’s weight pinned him and his left hand wrapped around Rafe’s throat in a one-handed choke.
“You’re not making this easy, are you?” shouted Isabella. She grabbed Coop’s head, snapping it back. Coop twisted, all inhuman flexibility. The pressure on Rafe’s windpipe eased. Coop’s wrist slipped from his sweat-slicked palms as his friend—or the thing that was once his friend—attacked Isabella with a speed and strength Rafe had never known him to have. They went down in a flurry of blows, Isabella handicapped without her daggers.
“Go!” Rafe managed a hoarse shout at Felicity, standing horrorstruck. “Get away from here!” The smoke would kill them; it came down thick and soft and deadly like a pillow in a murderer’s hands. “Go. Save your baby.” He barely saw Felicity nod and reach out for Peony’s hand. He launched himself at Coop’s back.
And was promptly shaken off, like water off a dog.
This was
not
the way things were meant to be. Cooper was
not
the warrior in his group.
As Rafe climbed back to his feet, Peony shrieked, recoiling, “You want me to go… there. Into the
dark
?” He ripped his arm from Felicity’s grip, sent her stumbling back. He flung himself at her, fingers crooked, nails ready to rake and score. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t be sent to die!”
Rafe caught him and hauled him off Coop’s sister. She had half-turned to protect her baby, and as soon as Rafe had hold of Peony, she fled down the road, away from the fire, away from the smoke, away from the madness.
Rafe thrust Peony away from him. Isabella was backed up against a wall, looking decidedly worse for the wear. She’d have bruises from this. Their gazes met briefly, as Rafe threw himself at Coop, and into the maelstrom of whispered violence, scenes of carnage, and a bottomless hunger that was Coop’s mind.
Something dark was riding him, and doing it hard.
Rafe felt frantically around for some of that quartz energy he’d been tapping into recently. A stretch of mental muscles and he found some nearby—a thin sickly stream. Rafe’s skin crawled at having to take in that muck, at having to shape it into a scalpel and work with it.
“Rafe! Catch!” Isabella aimed a blow at Coop, running full tilt at him, and tossed her light dagger at Rafe. Rafe fumbled for it, but its smooth cool hilt slid into his palm and took that poisoned energy. It hummed as it worked, cleansing it, turning it into a multi-colored thread that crackled as Rafe clumsily and shakily molded it.
Sel, the Hidden God, whoever is watching this, let this work!
“Come here,” he called. “Come here, bastard.”
Coop’s head turned as if on puppet strings. The dark thing’s yearning for the buzz of energy tugged at Coop’s body, pushing his torso forward, slanting his features downward, tripping up his feet.
“You want it?” Rafe had never been good at throwing knives, so he’d have to do this close up. “Come and get it!”
The Coop-thing lurched for Rafe and he stepped in to meet it. Strips of energy ripped off the dagger, spiraling into that dark maw, but he still had enough to form an edge and he sliced at the dark thing half-sunk into Coop’s head.
A horrible two-toned scream, one high-pitched and pinging in Rafe’s ears, the other in Coop’s wrung-out voice. The oily blackness peeled off Coop and made a mad writhing dash at Rafe. Isabella threw her black dagger and pinned it to the ground. Its anguish grew into a wind-shriek in Rafe’s skull. Isabella spoke to it sternly, reducing its voice to a gibber, but Rafe could only stare at the light dagger, bright with blood. Coop’s blood.
He threw it down with clatter and caught Coop as he folded. “He’s hurt. The back of his head is covered with blood.”
“I need to cauterize that. Make sure that we get as much of the krin out as we can.” Isabella picked up the light dagger. “Knew you’d find me some ka here.”
Rafe looked away as she passed the sharp edge over Coop’s head. Then, “There. We need a bandage.”
Rafe ripped off a shirt sleeve, and Isabella bound Coop’s head. Isabella coughed into her arms and said in a voice stung to tears, “We have to go.”
Peony, fist against his mouth, whimpered. “No, no! They’re here, they’re here!” He turned and ran towards the flames.
“Come back,” Rafe shouted, choking in the soot-specked hot wind. “Come back, you fool. The darkness is not going to hurt you as much as the flames will!” He charged after the man, forcing his aching muscles to give chase.
Peony did not answer, or pause; he kept on running, blind, mad, panicked. Smoke lay thick, the air glowed with heat, and a hungry crackling filled Rafe’s ears. The ground underfoot grew warmer. Most likely the fire was traveling underground as well. All around were signs of hurried departure. Clothing hung forlorn on lines, dropped shoes and pots and cans of food littered the streets. Some of the shacks had already toppled. Overhead, car cables groaned and swayed in the heat.
Peony slowed, veering off to the left, scrambling uphill, jumping from roof to roof of houses crouched together on the slope. Rafe followed, not calling, saving his breath for tackling the man. He saw an abandoned walking stick out of the corner of his eye, and he swooped down and grabbed it without missing a stride. Peony was not going to come quietly. A knock on the head would do the trick.
Above him, Peony halted on a tiled roof and stood staring down. Rafe scrambled up one more roof, keeping the stick down and out of sight, trying not to panic Peony any further. He called out reassuringly, “There’s still light, Peony, in the city. Oil lamps and firesticks and torches. You don’t have to go in the dark. Come with me. I promise I won’t let it get dark.”
Peony looked at Rafe, his pupils constricted to points, a strange, calm look on his face. “It won’t ever get dark. Look.” He gestured, and Rafe gained that last roof and looked down. Fire boiled against the slope, tearing and consuming everything, like a river overrunning its banks.