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Snake Charmer

The dragon is dying.

The city feels it in bones of stone and iron, in scabby concrete skin. The otherkind feel it in their blood. Even Simon feels it, mortal as he is. The city waits.

The dragon will die, of age or violence, and another will take its place. Someone will eat the dragon's heart and take its power. A lot of people are interested in the dragon's demise.

Some are less patient than others.

Simon crouches in a narrow alley that smells of blood and piss and damp brick. Dark clouds scrape their bellies over the rooftops overhead, heavy with unshed rain and ash from fires that raged the night before. He tastes char with every breath.

A sacrifice. Everyone knows you have to bleed for the dragon, or burn.

Simon's already burned; now he sheds blood.

The man at his feet gurgles one last time and falls silent. He's spoken all he needed to. Simon wipes his knife clean on the dead man's shirt. Chance's knife, silver on one side, cold iron on the other--it works on humans too.

He's going for the dragon tonight, the man said. And, Mary Snakebones.

Simon uncoils from his crouch, knife vanishing into his coat. He's not done with blood yet. Maybe not ever.

And he still needs to find a costume.

*

In the Garden of Eden every day is Halloween. Freaks, geeks, and tattooed women.

Tonight isn't much different, except for the costumed crowd and the orange and black streamers hanging from the ceiling, flickering like flames in the draft of the overburdened AC. Dancers writhe in pits and cages, the bass throb of the music drowning a dozen conversations, a dozen propositions and transactions. The air is nearly solid with smoke.

A woman crawls across the main stage, wearing vinyl boots and fingerless lace gloves, a witch's hat balanced on her hair. Not much else. Simon watches her flirt with the crowd and smiles. Chance always loved costumes, fancy dress. She'd have liked his outfit tonight.

His smile turns bitter and falls away. Chance is gone, and the woman he wants tonight won't be onstage.

He slides through the crowd, a colder, cleaner thread twining through the murk of sweat and spilled liquor. Just another costumed schmuck, but elbows and shoulders move aside for him. He rides the current, lets it spit him out in a shadowed back corner where Mary Snakebones holds court.

She's enthroned in a wide, shallow booth, surrounded by pretty hangers-on. Mostly goths and would-be witches. He catches the scent of fae, but it's faint, half-breed at best. Sometimes she runs with a dangerous crowd, but not tonight. Mary's danger enough on her own.

He walks up slow, hands loose at his sides. Sweat trickles down his neck; the holster chafes the small of his back. He should have worn a shirt under the tailcoat. Mary's courtiers barely notice him. They'd all be dead, if that was his business tonight.

Mary notices. She watches him approach, eyes dark as sin under a weight of kohl. Waxy black lips curl. "Hello, Baron."

He tips his top hat, looks down over the tops of his dark round glasses. "Good evening, Marie."

She doesn't wear a costume. She doesn't have to. She's Mary Snakebones, Mojo Mary. The dragon's child. People would dress as her if they could pull it off.

She cocks one black brow. "Are you here for me, Baron?"

What would happen if he said yes? She looks so soft, so young, all trussed up in velvet and vinyl. Her smile isn't soft, nor her eyes young. He's almost tempted to find out.

"We need to talk."

Her eyes narrow, gaze burning through grease-paint and flesh. She's never seen this face before, but she nods. Maybe she can read his mind, or his soul, or invisible omens spinning around him. She waves a hand and the baby-bats scatter from the booth. "Sit with me."

"I was hoping for a more private conversation."

"Maybe later." She nods toward the stage. "My sister is dancing tonight."

He slides into the booth--easier than arguing. Leather creaks as he settles on her right. He keeps his eyes on the crowd, but the most dangerous thing in the room sits beside him.

"The ghost of Simon Magus." She studies him with a smile. "You're a boogeyman now, the thing waiting in the dark. They say you died too, that night."

He swallows. "I did."

"I like this face."

Whether she means the painted face or the one the surgeons gave him, he doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. "Sal is coming for you tonight."

Her smile widens. "Let him." Under the table she takes his left hand, her flesh warm through the leather of his glove. One sharp nail traces the underside of his ring finger, snags on the metal of his wedding band. "Poor Simon. Still wearing your grief like a brand."

Sweat pricks his scalp, trickles greasy through the white paint on his face. His scars tingle. She moves closer, velvet coat rustling against his shoulder, breath tickling his ear. "You've killed someone tonight."

Their lips nearly brush as he turns to face her, bittersweet perfume filling his nose--almond and clove and autumn leaves. "Only one." His fingers tighten around hers. "Sal is after the dragon."

Black eyes narrow. "And death comes to tell me this."

"This?" He touches the brim of his hat. "It's just a costume."

"No, it isn't." Her left hand rises to touch his cheek, thumb trailing whisper-soft over his cheekbone. "This face is very real tonight, Simon Magus."

"Don't call me that. I was never the one--"

Her hand trails down his chest, to the slick-ridged scar tissue over his heart. "I know a true name when I hear it, Simon."

He shudders, and wonders what else she knows. If she can read his heart, he's a dead man. She's too close, dizzying him--he could never draw in time.

The music stops, leaving only the ocean-murmur of the crowd and the surf of blood in Simon's ears. Mary shifts her attention to the stage and he fights a sigh of relief.

"And now--" The DJ's voice echoes over the speakers. "--Eve, and the snake."

A new song starts, slow and deep, and a woman glides onto the stage. Henna-red hair in wild gorgon braids, skin like cream and cinnamon. Her hair matches the python draped over her shoulders.

Someone in the crowd gasps. Simon sucks a breath through his teeth. The snake is longer than she is, muscle-fat tail wrapped around her waist. Garnet and cinnabar scales shine under the lights, shimmering with dusty yellow-and-black whorls.

Her name isn't Eve, of course, but Helene Dimanche. The dragon's priestess.

Beautiful as her sister, though they don't look like the twins they claim to be. Mary leans forward, her hand still tight around Simon's, eyes trained on the dance.

It's a real dance--Helene doesn't touch the pole, or leave her feet. Muscles play in her arms as she lifts the snake and twirls. Henna swirls across her back and breasts and belly, patterns rippling as she sways to the beat.

I've got something you can never eat.

She doesn't play to the crowd, either. No flirting or winking--she only makes eye contact with the snake. Money flutters onto the stage, but she doesn't touch it.

I've got something you can never eat.

Mary's chest rises and falls, café crème flesh constrained by her tight-laced bodice. Not the woman undulating on stage that affects her so, no matter what the rumors say, but the power Helene raises with her dance. It whispers over Simon's skin like electric wind. He learned to feel those things around Chance.

"We should go," he says. "It isn't safe here."

"This is my place. They wouldn't dare."

A rueful smile tugs at his mouth. She's young after all, young and cocky. "They came to my place, Chance's place. They dared, and now she's dead."

Her thumb strokes his palm, tingling through the leather to the roots of his teeth. "And you're here to protect me? My white knight."

"I want Sal."

"What else do you want?"

His stomach clenches. She'll know if he lies. "I want to rest," he says after a moment. Some of the truest words he's ever spoken. "And I want to see the dragon." Chance always wanted to see one. He can almost hear her voice, feel her drowsing in his arms--but he can't bear to remember it now, not here, not with this witch.

"Are you willing to pay the price?"

She strikes as the last breath of assent leaves his lips, her fingers tangling in his hair. He stiffens, hand twitching toward his gun, but she's pulling his head toward hers, her lips pressing his till he feels her teeth, till he lets her tongue against his and the rum-sugar taste of her fills his mouth and he can't breathe.

She's strong--he can't break her grip, not without hurting her. Her hand presses against his scars again, against his heart. He hasn't kissed a woman since Chance; he's never kissed a woman like Mary. Her teeth sink into his lower lip and he tastes blood.

He pushes her away and she lets him. The rush of air between them raises goosebumps. His chest and lip sting.

"Damn it, Mary..."

She wipes a drop of blood off her mouth, licks her finger clean. "You have to bleed."

His ears are ringing, and the shouts across the room register a heartbeat too late.

The crowd parts, dodging away from men with guns in their hands. Simon draws, but they've already got the drop on him. Muzzles raise, take aim, and the look on Mary's face nearly makes him laugh as he grabs her and pulls her over the side of the booth with him.

The world shatters into screams and thunder.

Bullets thump into leather and wood, whistle over their heads. The air reeks of fear and cordite.

"They are dead men," Mary says. The words are lost in the cacophony, but Simon reads them on her lips and smiles.

"That's the plan, yeah." He leans around the edge of the booth and squeezes the trigger. Bad angle, and a man falls with a hole in his thigh, but still alive. Someone else shoots back. The crowd swarms; glass shatters as a waitress drops a tray and lunges for the emergency exit. There's a commotion on the stage.

Then a woman screams Mary's name.

"Helene!" And she's moving, coat billowing as she runs for the stage. Simon curses and lunges after her, gun kicking in time with his heartbeat as he lays down cover. Patrons shriek and dodge, clogging the front door. Pain like a wasp sting in his left arm and someone behind him screams and chokes.

He tackles Mary, knocks her into the sheltering T-intersection of the stage. Heat soaks his sleeve.

"Mary!" The cry is fainter now, closer to the door.

"They've got her." She struggles against Simon's grip, and he wonders if he'll have to hit her.

He hears the flames first, a crackling rush that floods adrenaline through him. Then the wave rolls over the ceiling, beautiful and liquid. Streamers rain down in sparks and ashes.

Sal's work. Simon's pulse stutters triple-time; a burning scrap of paper brushes his cheek and panic threatens to swallow him. He fights it down, prays for the ice to take it away. A woman twitches on the floor, blood bubbling from her mouth and chest. Lung shot--Simon contemplates a mercy kill, but doesn't want to waste a bullet.

"Back door," he shouts at Mary.

"They've got my sister!"

"And we can't get her back if we're dead." Already smoke sticks in his throat, makes his eyes water. Eyeliner bleeds ashen tears down Mary's cheeks. After a second she nods.

He pushes Mary ahead of him and slides along the side of the stage. The shooting's stopped. The woman on the floor lifts a pleading hand toward them. Simon pauses for an instant, then gives her what he can. Blood halos beneath her head.

Something hisses angrily in his ear, a second's warning. His left arm screams as he raises it, screams again as his hand closes around Helene's striking snake. The force jars through him and he barely holds on as its jaws gape in front of his face. Needle teeth glint, dark tongue flickering.

Its body writhes against his arm, looking for a grip to crush. A tube of heavy muscle, covered in oiled leather; his skin crawls at the touch. His hand tightens, glove blood-slippery, thumb squeezing under its jaw--

And Mary appears, black-nailed hands scooping up the python, cooing as she drapes its massive coils over her shoulders. It hisses at Simon as he lets go, then settles onto Mary, pacified by a familiar person.

"Follow me." Her heels beat a staccato rhythm as she darts for the door behind the stage.

Smoke billows after them into the raw cement hallway, grey tendrils eddying in their wake. "They'll use Helene to find the dragon," Simon says as they run.

"She won't tell them."

"Then Sal will kill her, and spread her guts out to learn the way."

Mary flinches, and for a second he thinks she'll turn and run back into the inferno. He grabs her arm. "Can you talk to her?"

"Yes," she says after a minute.

"Then tell her to take them to the dragon, and not to fight. We'll meet them there."

She nods, sucks in a deep breath; the python rises with the swell of her chest. Her eyes roll back in her head for a moment and she sways. Simon steadies her, blood dripping off his hand. She's back in heartbeats and the fear eases around her eyes.

She touches his hand, frowns at the blood. He cranes his neck, sees entrance and exit. The bullet went through the meat of his upper arm; not too serious, though it burns like hell. Blood soaks his sleeve shiny, drips in fat drops off his knuckles.

"That should have been mine," she says. She tastes his blood again, but she's not flirting now.

"Let's go, Mary." Smoke pours from the front now, the fire's roar louder.

He's afraid the gunmen will have the back covered, but the parking lot and alley are empty. Sal got what he came for. Simon's blood cools in the evening chill, and goosebumps crawl over his chest. The air still tastes like char. Sirens scream in the distance, getting closer.

Simon holsters his gun, wipes sweat out of his eyes. Somehow he's managed not to lose the hat.

Mary grins, sallow and tear-streaked in the sodium glow. "I told you it was a true face. I'll dress that for you" --she nods toward his arm-- "then we'll see the dragon."

*

Mary drives, sleek black car purring through the crumbling streets. Buildings rise like rotted teeth around them, tearing at the clouds. The city is dying, slow and broken.

The streets are nearly empty tonight--smart residents know when to stay inside and lock their doors. Halloween is dangerous enough, without a dragon's death for lagniappe.

And the dragon dies tonight, one way or another. Simon feels it in his scars.

The car reeks of blood and rum, both soaking the bandages under Simon's sleeve. It hurts, but he can use the arm. A crust of blood dulls his ring. He slides a fresh clip home, chambers a round.

Mary nearly hums with power, the electric smell of it tingling in his sinuses. They surprised her in the Garden--she won't let it happen again. Streetlights spark and die as they pass; maybe Mary's work, but he doesn't ask. They head for the docks and darkness follows in their wake.

*

"Is Sal the last?" Mary asks.

They walk now, the car--and the snake--abandoned in a dark alley. Simon hears water nearby, and the clang of train canisters loading and unloading. Thunder snarls in the distance, but still no rain.

"No," he finally answers. She'll know a lie. Long practice keeps his voice and pulse calm, but his stomach twists. Tonight will end ugly, one way or another. He touches his tongue to his swollen lip. "Sal's the last of the ones who killed Chance, but he didn't give the orders. His boss dies too."

"That's a lot of death for one man."

Too much for any man. "I'll manage."

"Sal is trying to break away," she says after a moment. "That's why he's after the dragon. He wants free of his masters."

Simon frowns. "He should have tried sooner."

Sal never set foot in their house that night, never fired a shot. Chance took two bullets, Simon three, but it was the fire that killed her. The fire that brought the ceiling down, costing Simon half his face and very nearly his left arm. Chance died screaming his name.

"What will you do when you're done?"

He sighs. "Rest."

"You don't have to waste yourself on revenge."

"If they die, it's not wasted. I don't have anything left, anyway."

Mary touches his arm, soft enough to make him shiver. "I can give--" She stops, hand tightening. "They're coming. And we're here."

Simon looks up at the building--five stories, cement and brick. It looks odd, and in a moment he realizes why. It was a parking garage once, now walled in. Heavy wood-and-iron doors stand where the ticket booth should have been.

Simon's hand tightens on his gun, and he double-checks the weight of the knife in his pocket.

Lights cut through the night as three cars pull up to the curb. Simon presses against the alley wall, pushing Mary back.

She hums under her breath as she balances on one foot, tugging off her tall-heeled boot. Simon frowns, glances at the glitter of broken glass on the ground. She's moved easily enough in heels so far. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Her smile makes his shoulder blades prickle; she slips her other foot free. "I walk on pins and needles, I walk on gilded splinters. I want to see what they can do." Her voice is lower, throatier. The air smells of rum and cinnamon and Simon's skin tightens. She shrugs free of her coat, vinyl corset shining red as heart's blood.

Car doors open and men emerge. Simon recognizes Sal's scimitar-nosed profile in a brief flicker of light.

Dominic Salieri. Nicky the Salamander, though never to his face. The whisper-stream says he's part ifrit. To Simon, he's just another dead man.

But not yet, because Sal reaches into the car and pulls out Helene. She's wrapped in a man's jacket, doesn't look hurt. Sal handles her gently enough, but Simon can see her tremble. He could shoot past her, but not fast enough to take down the dozen thugs before one of them could kill her.

She doesn't fight. She's waiting for Mary.

Simon's not sure Mary's here anymore.

Two men open the doors, another two rolling in to secure the room. Nothing happens, and Sal escorts Helene into the darkness of the dragon's lair.

Mary turns to Simon, pinning him to the wall. "A kiss for luck, Baron."

His swollen lip throbs and he braces for the pain. But she doesn't bite this time.

Her tongue burns against his, heat rushing through him, drawing out the pain, melting the ice. It hurts like something tearing inside, and he wants to push her away, but somehow his arms are around her, gun hand pressing the small of her back, crushing her to him. He hasn't ached for anyone like this since...

She pulls away, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he realizes he just kissed a goddess. Or something close to one.

"Mary--"

"Not quite."

"Erzulie."

Her smile is fierce and bloodthirsty, flashing bright as the knives in her hands. "Come on, Baron. The dragon wants blood."

And she steps out of the alley.

Six of Sal's guards wait by the door, and they all turn, guns rising. Simon's stomach clenches. She's blocking his shot, drawing their fire. He can already imagine the sight of her blood on the pavement.

But Mary starts to dance.

And Simon's jaw drops as he remembers who she is.

She writhes serpent-lithe, daggers like steel fangs. Her sister's dance was just a shadow of this. At first the guards can only stare as she swirls toward them, barefoot on the pitted, glass-strewn street.

Someone breaks the spell and fires.

But Mary isn't there, spinning out of the bullet's path like she could pluck it out of the air if it suited her. Then she's on the man and his throat opens in a red-black spray.

Simon's gun roars and men fall, one, two, three. Mary's heel catches one in the gut as her knife comes down on the other's gun arm. Simon aims and she slides out of the way, letting him finish the one doubled over retching.

She knows just where to cut as she opens the last man's chest. Simon's guts turn to ice water as she straightens, red to the elbows, blood dripping down her cheek. Her eyes flash like coals in the streetlight.

The smell inside the temple fills Simon's nose, makes his flesh crawl. Snakes, musky and autumnal, smoke and ash. His stomach cramps with atavistic terror, balls trying to crawl into his torso. He blows a long breath out his nose, wrestling the need to flee. He has to see this through.

Mary, or Erzulie, takes his arm, turns him toward her. She traces a wavy line on his forehead with one bloody finger and the fear recedes. He almost misses it.

Dim lamplight spills across the wide room, throws long shadows across the cement floor. Open spaces, wide ramps. Enough room for a bus to maneuver. Or a dragon.

"Which way?" he asks.

Mary's nostrils flare as she scans the room. "Down."

The air warms as they descend, and the smell worsens. Not just the reptile reek, but the smell of age, or illness. Of a dying beast.

A shadow flickers at the edge of his vision and bullets crack against the wall behind them. Simon dodges behind a pillar, but Mary's moving in a blood-streaked blur, bare feet silent on the floor. An instant later he hears a gurgle and a heavy thump.

"Follow me, boy," she calls. "Try to keep up."

Simon's face feels strange; it takes a second to realize he's grinning. Then Mary gasps in pain.

He rounds the corner to find two men bleeding all over the floor and Mary leaning against the wall, a hand pressed against her stomach.

"He had a knife." Her voice is mortal again, and strained.

Vinyl gapes and curls like skin, a wide gash above her navel. Her corset stays took the worst of it, at least, and nothing's punctured. Blood wells dark as pomegranate juice in the shadows.

"I'm fine," she says, waving him off.

It would be easier without her, but he nods. She keeps up, though sweat slicks her face and her lips pinch pale.

Shots echo below them, followed by a sound that curdles Simon's blood. Not a hiss, not a roar, not a volcano's belch, but all of them at once. The screams don't last long. They round the last corner and enter the dragon's chamber.

A blur of fire and ash, of smoke and embers. Red and gold and black and grey, cracking, shifting, seething. Winged and scaled and feathered and furred and Simon can't make sense of it. He staggers, goes to one knee.

The dragon.

Chance's voice in his head, soft and resonating. Beautiful. So beautiful. For an instant he can feel her beside him, smell the soft scent of her skin. Tears stream down his face, scalding.

He climbs to his feet. Sweat slicks his palm, slippery against the rough-hatched gun grip.

Sal stands in front of them, silhouetted against the dragon's glow. He's still got Helene, and Simon won't risk the shot.

"Sal!" His voice cracks, rough with smoke. "Let her go."

Sal turns, dragging Helene around. He's got a gun in his free hand; the muzzle gleams as he levels it at Simon.

And pauses. His face is in shadow, but Simon feels the weight of his stare.

"What's the matter, Sal? Don't you recognize me?" He strips off the torn and bloody coat, one sleeve at a time, tosses hat and glasses aside. Pink and white scars shine in the firelight. "Recognize your work?"

"Simon Marin?" Sal laughs. "So it has been you--the ghost, the thing that's got everyone jumping at shadows. You've done me a lot of favors in the past few months."

"I'll do one more. Let the girl go."

"What is this--revenge? You should know better. It was just a job, Simon."

"It was my wife."

"After tonight, I'll never work for Manny again. Hell, I'll turn him to ash. That was what Chance wanted, wasn't it?"

Simon fights the urge to spit. "Don't worry, that will still happen."

Behind him, Mary's breath hisses. Simon's chest tightens; she's finally read his heart.

He's starting to wonder how long they'll stand here like this, guns pointed, when Helene decides it for them. Her foot slams into Sal's knee and she throws herself down.

Simon dodges, pulling the trigger. Both guns flash. Sal falls, but his bullet catches Simon's left shoulder like a white-hot hammer. His vision washes red as he stumbles against a pillar.

His chest heaves, pulse echoing in his ears, louder than the dragon's rasping breath. His left arm hangs nearly useless at his side--pity it's not numb. So tired, but he can't rest, not yet.

He pushes himself up. Confirm the kill, but Mary's standing in front of him, black eyes narrow.

"You came for the dragon."

"I did. I have to."

"Do you even know what he is? Do you understand, or is this just another death?"

"That's what I do, Mary. The dragon is power--I can't take out Manny like this, as a man. I'll kill until there's no one left. If you want to cut my heart out then, I won't stop you."

"That's not how it works. My sister is the priestess, the chosen child. This city has enough killers, Simon. It needs new life."

His eyes sag shut for a heartbeat. "I don't have anything to do with life anymore."

She moves closer and he flinches, but she only lays a hand over his heart. "It's not too late. We can give you something more."

"I just want to rest. But I have to keep going. I promised Chance..." Strength drips out of him in crimson streams. Already his vision is dark around the corners.

He straightens, steps past Mary. "I promised."

She grabs his arm, nails gouging. "Simon, I won't--"

He punches her in the gut, gun still in his hand. She makes a noise like a run-over cat and falls, face draining grey.

"Sorry," he whispers as he turns away.

Helene lifts her head from where she kneels naked beside the dragon. Tears shine on her cheeks. "It's time. He's dying."

Simon staggers closer, heat washing over him in waves. He can see the beast now, massive head on the ground beside Helene, body long as a train car sprawled limp across the ground. Its chest heaves, dark smoke curling from its nostrils. One lantern eyes shines, half-slitted. The other is sunken and swollen shut, leaking black blood and clear fluids. Its forked purple tongue flickers amid broken bone-needle teeth.

Its hide is rough, dark as coal, but as it moves sparks of red and gold writhe through the black, like falling embers. Even dying, it's beautiful. Chance always wanted to see a dragon.

Simon brushes its snout with his left hand, hisses as his fingers blister. His blood bubbles as it drips on the dragon's nose. The dragon sighs, a rush of steam, and Simon's skin tingles.

Helene looks at him, hazel eyes shining by dragonlight. "I have to eat his heart." Tears drip off her lashes, evaporating before they reach her chin.

Mary staggers closer, limping now, hunched over her bleeding stomach. "You don't have to do it, Simon. You think we won't take care of this? You think you and yours are the only ones Manny's ever hurt? There will be vengeance, all you could ever want, and you don't have to die for it."

"Yes I do."

He holsters the gun, draws his knife. Silver and steel gleam like a flame in his hand as he stands over the dragon. Mary curses softly; Helene watches him with eerie golden eyes.

The dragon doesn't fight, just rolls, baring the hollow of his breast. The hide is softer here, like oiled leather.

The knife slides home and Helene lets out a strangled scream. Then Simon can't hear anything but the roar of his own heart.

Blood like boiling oil. Clinging. Burning. The pain is worse than anything he's ever imagined, until it simply stops, too much for his body to hold and it rolls over him. His vision tunnels, and all he can see is the ruin of flesh in front of him, the blackened skin of his arms.

The blade melts as he cuts, barely lasts long enough to sever the great throbbing veins. The gush of blood sears half his face, blinds his right eye. The fluid dripping down his cheek is too thick to be tears.

And then the heart is free, pulsing in his hands. Fire ripples blue-green, washing up his arms. Consuming him. His own heart is failing.

He turns, sees Helene and Marie Dimanche watching him, wide-eyed. Helene has her arm over Mary's shoulder, and they really do look like sisters.

He raises the dragon's beating heart. His hands are twisted char and bone. He'll be dead in seconds if he doesn't eat.

He's been dead for a year.

The city needs new life. He can't give it that.

All he wants is rest.

He steps forward, boot soles dripping ribbons of melting rubber. He falls to his knees in front of Helene and offers her the burning heart.

Chance. I'm sorry.

And as she takes it from him Simon collapses, wreck of a body giving out at last, and hot concrete rushes up to meet him, drives the last breath from his lungs.

Simon dies.

*

Simon burns.

Not the torturous fires of a hell he's never believed in. Not even the fire of his own hell, all too real. This is clean.

No smoke, no soot, just white heat dissolving him. He wishes he could cry for the sheer relief of it.

The dragon is there, inside him, surrounding him. It eats his heart.

He failed, broke his promise, but this isn't so bad. This is a better death than he ever imagined for himself.

And then it's over.

Simon gasps, chest hitching painfully. His face is wet, the taste of blood and tears thick on his tongue. He opens his eyes--both of them--and stares at the soot-scarred ceiling of a parking garage. His gun gouges the small of his back.

He lifts his hands. Whole, clean. He sits up, and nothing hurts, but the skin on his chest pulls oddly as he moves.

His scars are gone.

He touches his chest, his arms, his face. Burn scars, blade scars, bullet wounds, the scars the surgeons' scalpels left. Everything gone.

His breath leaves him on a sob.

"Welcome back, Simon Magus."

Mary sits a few yards away, Helene draped motionless over her lap. No cleansing fire for her--she's still ash-streaked and bruised. The dragon is gone, leaving only pools of blood flickering with green-gold flames.

Sal is gone too, and bloody footprints lead up the ramp.

Simon pushes himself to his knees and stares at Helene's still form. "Is she--"

"She's resting."

"She's not..."

"A dragon?" She smiles her wicked smile. "She is, just a baby one. These things take time." She strokes her sister's Medusa braids with a gentle hand.

"Why am I still alive?"

"The dragon must like you. And because my sister will need help, as she grows. She has a lot of work to do."

Simon runs a weary hand over his face. "I just wanted to rest."

"We rarely get what we want." Her smug smile belies the words; Mary is used to getting what she wants. "Besides, a lot of people will need killing before this is over." She shifts her weight and winces. "Help me get her home."

Simon sighs and obeys, crouching to take Helene into his arms. Her skin is feverishly hot.

Mary catches his hand before he can stand, nails piercing skin. "If you ever hit me like that again, I'll have your balls for a gris gris bag."

He just nods, face carefully flat, and lifts Helene.

Outside it's raining, the sky opened up to wash the city clean. Mary limps beside him as he carries the newborn dragon into the world.

© 2006 Amanda Downum