In seconds, Hell Gate was devoured in flame.
It sounded as if the wind had climbed inside a lion’s mouth and was holding onto its fangs while it roared.
The explosion ripped Hell Gate in half. Stone and tile tore through the air like incendiary bombs. Flames snapped up and swallowed the shrapnel, dragging it back into the writhing mass.
The fire was a black, orange monster. It burned on a sticky, tar scented substance that coated the stones and birthed more flame. Worse, it bled a lung-charring smoke—one the wind knew would suffocate any being who breathed it for too long.
The wind dashed at the flame monster and then darted back when the fire hissed and clawed at the wind. The fire burned and scorched, and the wind shrieked.
The battle-hardened brother leaned against the hot-breathed wind and sent a final violent flame to wrap around the stone. It wove itself around the building like a chain of liquid fire. He grunted in exertion, sweat dripping down his brow, ash coating his hair. Then he twisted his hand, snapping the chains through the walls. Hell Gate collapsed.
The brother stared at the flames, satisfaction marking his face. His skin was streaked red from the heat and black from the smoke. His eyes glowed, reflecting the fire.
“Anyone see a creature crawling out?”
No one did.
The brother nodded. He stared into the violent flames, and for a moment, his mouth softened and his gaze turned graveside-somber. His expression was dying-flame wistful and end-of-summer sorrowful.
Perhaps he was thinking of the girl.
Perhaps he was remembering she’d once been something like a friend.
While he stared, the flames snapped at the fallen stone like a pack of wolves fighting over bones. The heat and the smoke gripped the wind, and it coughed at the bitter, acrid taste. There was barely enough oxygen to feed the wind; barely enough air to float on. The fire had devoured it all. Soon, it would burn itself out.
Finally, the brother let out a long sigh. “It’s done then.”
He turned, the melted iron gates and a wall of flame behind him. The Smiths were about to leave the ruins of Hell Gate when the battle-hardened one held up his hand. They stopped.
In the distance, a lone man strolled down the sidewalk. He was whistling a tuneless melody, swinging his arms in the carefree, loose-limbed manner humans did when they didn’t have any worries.
“Bard,” one of the Smiths said, and the battle-hardened one smiled.
“So it is.”
The wind rushed toward the trickster and blew furnace-hot air and choking smoke over him. The trickster’s eyebrows rose the tiniest degree, and his carefree stroll hitched for half a stride. But then the trickster smoothed his expression, made a trilling whistle, and continued his song.
When he stepped through the boundary of illusion, his whistle trailed off into a low, falling-off-a-cliff downward note. He smiled at the Smiths and ignored the violent flames behind them.
“Good morning.” The edges of the trickster’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at the Smiths lined up in front of him. He put his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
The battle-hardened brother stepped forward, and behind him, the Smiths pulled free their weapons.
The trickster’s smile widened to a grin.
“Bard.”
“Smith.”
“Nice song.”
“Thanks. I composed it myself. Took me all morning. Maybe I’ll become a musician. Bask in the world’s adoration.”
One of the Smiths snorted, and the trickster shrugged.
“What can I say? It’s an addiction. Us Bards love to be loved.”
The wind stilled, curling around the trickster’s ankles. He looked relaxed, but under the loose-limbed façade, he held himself like a jackaltooth about to spring.
