Chapter 94
The explosion rocketed the wind across the river. Its thin tendrils spiraled wildly, and it screamed as the inferno’s scalding breath shoved it beneath the black water.
The cold splash doused the hellfire heat. Figments reached for the wind, trying to capture it with their iron chains, but the wind rushed on air bubbles to the surface. It popped free and splashed over churning waves, struggling toward the red night sky.
The wind was so thin in Queens it had barely tracked the progress of the solemn one. What had he mattered when the boy was fighting the horror? But now, the boy was flying on one of his metal automatons, racing toward the orange blaze, and the wind was trying to gather itself to follow.
It needed more of itself here. It needed to gust and blow. It was through with watching. It was done with being everywhere.
It needed to be with the boy.
Oh, hurry.
The solemn one’s gray eyes glowed brightly in the orange hellfire. The blaze painted his scars red and caught the auburn sheen of his soft hair. The flames curled around the Smith fortress, sparking like the interior of a volcano.
The stench of bitumen and Furtig rolled off the marble mansion in waves of black smoke. Already, sirens were sounding in the distance.
The Smiths would be all right. The wind could hear them shouting inside the blaze. They were shielded by the battle-hardened one’s illusion. His crackling fire shield kept the talons of the omnibus’s fire from tearing the flesh from their bones.
The wind had always thought the Smith fortress could withstand anything. The marble walls held against the fire even as the windows exploded.
The flames roared, and the wind coughed, dragging itself closer.
Oh, hurry.
Hurry.
Hurry.
The solemn one had brought slipshots and growlings. They circled the fortress, waiting like vultures to swoop on injured Smiths as they poured from the inferno. They clasped knives in their hands and their teeth. Their claws were out. The leggerock had promised they would kill conjurers tonight.
The solemn one led them. Who could stand against the Knife? They weren’t afraid.
Choking smoke clogged the air. It burned beings’ eyes and made ash-soot tears fall down their cheeks. The heat licked against the solemn one and reddened his skin.
He stalked forward, refusing to bend to the roaring fire.
The Smiths weren’t coming out, so he would go in.
What had he promised the leggerock? To kill them all. To start a war.
For what?
What did he want in return?
The solemn one kicked at the burning front door. The all-seeing eye blinked. The solemn one kicked again. He would knock down the door and shove his way into the blaze.
The wind pulled itself together. Winding, winding, yanking, as quickly as it could. It was big enough to blow now. It was big enough to gasp.
So it gasped when the solemn one rammed against the Smiths’ front door and shoved it opened.
The all-seeing eye blazed. A swarm of fire, like a dragon’s flame, spewed from the door. The all-seeing eye blinked, and the door slammed shut.
The solemn one was thrown backward. It was as if he’d been picked up by an invisible hand and flung into the night.
The wind screamed, rushing on the air, as the solemn one was rejected by the all-seeing eye.
The wind had suspected, but the eye had confirmed. There was no good left in him. Not even a sliver. Not even a shard. Nothing could pass through the door if it didn’t have even a dust-mote-size speck of good.
The solemn one was thrown over buildings, across the park, past leafy trees.
He slammed into the giant stone base of Hell Gate Bridge.
The wind was knocked against the stone and fell with the solemn one.
It felt the sharp crunch of one of the solemn one’s ribs breaking.
It rode on his jagged inhale and his pained wince.
He moaned and coughed as he hit the patchy grass.
Then, digging his hand into the dirt, he shoved himself upright. Blood trickled from his lips as he struggled to stand. The wind fluttered under his shaking limbs, pressing on the bruises on his chest and his back.
What was he doing? What?
The solemn one’s gray eyes flickered. He clenched his jaw against the pain. Then he straightened, inhaling sharply at the groan in his cracked ribs. Had they punctured his lungs? Was that a soft wheeze the wind heard?
The solemn one closed his eyes. He slowly let out a shallow exhale. Smoke, bitumen, and the bitter tint of Furtig clung to his singed clothing. Pain lines whitened the edges of his mouth.
Then he opened his eyes and stared at the red flames shooting toward the sky. They were blocks away. The solemn one gritted his teeth and limped toward the Smith fortress.
Overhead, the boy streaked past, not noticing the man struggling to stay upright.
The wind caught the tail of his flying machine, shrieking as it flew as fast as a comet. The boy laughed, his eyes lit with delight. He threw his arms wide, balancing on the swooping kite.
The wind rolled over his fingers, holding his hands. They were sticky, bloody, and slimy, and they smelled like crushed insects and smashed larvae. But—they were the boy’s hands. The wind hummed and rubbed against him, holding on as they shot toward the fire.
“Wind!” the boy laughed. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be everywhere! You’re supposed to—”
The wind pinched his hand. Then, flying up his arm, it flicked his ear.
“Oh. Well. I only meant I’m happy you’re here.”
The wind moaned as the inferno reached out toward them.
Fire trucks surrounded the Smith fortress.
Their lights bounced over the street, birthing strange light monsters and red and blue apparitions.
The firemen sprayed giant jets of water.
The rainbow arc of it sizzled and turned to steam.
The men doused the building with fire-suppressing chemicals, but what could a man-made thing do against bitumen and blood and Furtig?
The Smiths would have to stop this. Or the boy. The wind nudged him.
He nodded and, twisting his hand, shot a storm of cool mist and not-air that smothered the flames.
The wind rubbed against his cheek. The boy touched a hand to his soft stubble and smiled.
“You worry too much,” he said happily. “There wasn’t any reason for you to come. You should stay with Lia or my sister, or even—”
The wind huffed and shoved the boy again.
He wobbled on his flying machine and laughed. Then, straightening, he said, “Look. There they are.”
The wind trembled as the boy floated to the ground.
He leaped from his machine and darted through the shadows.
The battle-hardened brother was leading his cousins down a narrow, smoke-filled alley.
Flames licked around the corner, but he shoved them back.
They were shielded and hidden. They stood like Smiths did: battle-ready and dangerous.
The wind moaned. It didn’t like how the flames danced over the hard steel lines of the brother’s expression. It didn’t like the unyielding slant of his back. The wind didn’t like the memories of this place. It didn’t like—
“It’s all right,” the boy whispered. “You don’t have to worry. I’m here, Wind.”
Once, the wind would’ve huffed. It might have shoved. It could’ve flown over the Atlantic or crossed into the stratosphere to show the boy that a being as wondrous as the wind did not need a human boy. Why should a human boy think the wind needed him?
I’m here.
Ha.
But that was once. That was before. Now, the wind was very glad the boy was here. Just like the boy was glad the wind was with him.
It slipped into the boy’s hand.
It would be all right. The solange-eyed one had made a truce with the boy. He was here to help.
He lighted quietly in the alley and held out a hand to the battle-hardened brother. “Darin,” he said. “Easy. Whoa. I’m not here to fight.”
The battle-hardened one had conjured a fire sword like his father’s. “Ward,” he said, eyeing the boy. “Did you do this?”
His Smith cousins shifted, forming an arrow behind him.
The wind shrieked. Why would the boy set the Smith fortress on fire? The boy was polite! He didn’t set houses on fire.
The boy wrinkled his brow. The battle-hardened brother watched him like one predator eyeing another. He shifted subtly, moving so he was in the best position to strike.
The wind moaned, warning the boy.
The boy nodded. He knew.
“No,” he said, holding his hands loosely at his sides. He gave his disarming, friendly, harmless smile. “Finn sent me. The Clarks let loose a monster. It wants to devour the city. He’s fighting Primus now. He asked me to tell you to come. To help—”
“You met with him earlier today? You made a truce?”
The wind sniffed the battle-hardened brother. Why did he smell like brittle steel? Why did he smell like a blade broken and mended?
The boy nodded. “Yes.”
There was a quiet, muffled roar. It was the horror. The noise of it reached all the way to Queens. The Smith cousins shifted uneasily. The battle-hardened brother’s eyes narrowed.
“He needs us?”
The boy didn’t answer. His eyes had that faraway look that meant he was inside his shadows. Then he stiffened and whispered, “Wind, Lia!”
The boy tensed. He was going to turn and run. The citrus and pearl dust scented woman was in trouble.
“Go, Wind. Go,” he whispered.
The wind touched his cheek. And the boy turned to hurry with it.
“Ward,” the battle-hardened brother called.
The boy paused, half-turned.
“You’re going to help Finn?”
The boy nodded. “I’m going to do what’s right.”
The battle-hardened brother smiled. “Good. Me too.”
He held out his hand. The boy hesitated, but then—he was always polite—he took the brother’s outstretched hand.
They shook.
The wind shrieked.
The boy turned toward it.
No!
No!
The wind’s cry distracted the boy. He was searching for whatever had scared it. He looked away from the battle-hardened brother.
He looked at the wind.