Free Crossroads by Stephen Kenson Page A

weren’t going to look into it. The forensic division didn’t have time for blanks. I never realized how little open ground there was in the plex until I had to think about finding a place to bury someone. I remember staring into the funeral pyre in the open lot in the Rox for a long time and it was then, standing there looking into the flames, that I knew what I was going to do.
    I made my way back to the apartment I’d shared with Jase for almost a year since he had taken me in. I went through all the old books, printouts, and chips he’d been using to teach me magic, looking for something I’d seen once in passing, an old formula Jase had tucked away, all but forgotten. I hadn’t paid it much attention before, but now I studied the wrinkled fanfold sheets with a burning purpose. I worked on it all night and into most of the next day. A couple of people stopped by, then politely left me alone when I yelled at them to frag off.
    Pushing what little furniture there was in the main room of the apartment out of the way and rolling up the colorful throw rug, I took chalk and paint and started to draw on the worn wooden floor. I worked for hours, I’m still not sure how long exactly. Time didn’t seem to have any meaning. When I was done, the floor was covered in a complex diagram. There was a large circle and a smaller triangle, edged with mystical runes and sigils.
    Placing candles around the outside of the circle and braziers at the four quarters, I took a small silver knife from Jase’s collection of magical tools. Soon, the flames were flickering and fragrant incense smoke rose from the braziers. A larger brass bowl filled with coals simmered in the center of the triangle. With the sharp edge of the gleaming dagger, I placed a shallow cut along the palm of my hand. Three drops of blood fell onto the glowing coals in the brazier, hissing droplets that covered the incense with the coppery smell of burning blood. Three more drops fell, followed by three more. A silken cloth stopped the flow of blood, and I bound it into a simple bandage.
    From the center of the circle I gathered my anger. I hadn’t slept in a couple of days at least. The sweet smoke of burning incense and burning blood filled the room, making my eyes water. The outlines of things seemed to blur. I thought about Jase’s funeral pyre, staring into the flames of the candles, the smoke. I called on the fire, the fire of my anger and hatred. I stoked it slowly, lovingly, building it hotter and hotter. Flames crackled from the braziers, highest in the bowl where my blood fell.
    I shouted arcane words, I wept, I ranted. At the height of my passion, I loosed the flames of my heart, felt them drawn to the flames where my blood burned. The flames flared with a roar that echoed my cry of anger, and a cloud of flames shot up and seemed to fill the room.
    I found the Asphalt Rats partying later that night in a dead-end alleyway deep in their turf. From the amount of booze and discarded chip cases scattered around, it looked like they had recently come into some nuyen. I looked into the alley and saw those bastards partying and laughing after they had killed the best person I had ever known. I literally saw red, a rage that totally obscured everything else in a blood red haze. One of the gangers looked up from his debauchery and saw me standing there.
    I raised my arms and screamed my grief to the heavens, a roar of rage that shot into the alley and erupted into a raging inferno of flames. It was as if Hell itself opened onto the street. Some of the gangers tried to run, a couple reaching for weapons, but most didn’t even look up before being engulfed in a blast that charred their skin and set their hair aflame. A few moments later, the gas tanks of the bikes went off like a succession of bombs, and a black and orange fireball boiled out of the alley to the sky, blackening the sides of the nearby buildings with soot and ash.
    I stood at the end of the alley and