Reading Group Guide
Soon Nike would burn.
Ahead, her father hunted through the pools of shadow that filled Kensington Market's empty produce stalls. Sign of the alien's passage hung in mucousy tendrils from a bakery's awning and drooled down the edge of a fire hydrant.
A notification lit her phone, and she fumbled it to shield the screen's glow, bright in the dark.
Too late, her dad spun on his heel, coat flaring. "Get off that thing," he hissed, gray eyes thunderstorms. His finger jabbed the air. "It's on the fire escape." She followed the length of his arm into the alley's murk but couldn't see anything.
Without looking at the phone, her fingers tapped gtg, or so she hoped. She slid it away. "I want to go out tonight . . . after," she said. Her father's charged gaze had already swept back to the alleyway. "I know it'll be late, but can I?"
He stomped ahead. An overripe dragon fruit burst, squashed beneath his boot, the sweet rot thick in the air.
She gripped her gloved hand, the pressure easing the pain of still-raw fingers, but it did nothing to dampen her annoyance with her dad. His gray oilskin coat half-vanished in the mist. The hem of her coat was embroidered with licking flames, like a witch in a bonfire.
A violet glow erupted from his palm. Strapped to his hand, the ultraviolet light ignited bright colored graffiti she'd painted a week prior. Beneath the wall, a snoring man of perhaps fifty stretched out on a cardboard box, his grimy socks pointed toward them.
"There," her dad said, as if she could actually see the threat. She couldn't. All she could make out was the sleeping man and the snotties fluorescing under the ultraviolet glare betraying the trail of their enemy, his enemy—a raitgur. "Light up."
He was telling her to set herself on fire; the least he could do was answer her question. "So, can I?" Nike whispered.
"Light up?" He wasn't even looking at her.
"No, go out with Joula, after."
Her father lifted his other hand, fingers splayed, palm out toward the sleeping man. "It'll be too late. What are you burning tonight?"
She'd have lots of time if the hunt ended soon. Her best friend wanted a paint-off and graffiti was best done after dark anyway.
"My butt," Nike said. She stood firm, chin high, when he swung back to her. "My right butt cheek."
"Bone, Nike, I need bone."
Nike carefully tugged off her glove to reveal bandages. Her fingernail itched at the tape, catching the edge. She unwound the gauze, wincing with every orbit of her hand. Beneath, fire had carved away the pinky and most of the finger beside it; it was angry red and glossy with the salve she'd spread over the wound.
He looked away. "Your buttock would be worse. It may sound like a good idea due to size, but flesh burns too fast these days."
"You're saying I have a fat ass?"
"Nike."
"Trayling." She slung her neck forward to squint into eyes nearly level with hers.
"Dad," he warned.
Their stares clashed. He glanced back to the alley. "Its tentacle is on his face. I need you. One more minute and the man is gone."
Nike's reluctant fingers found the chain around her neck and drew it out. Threaded through the necklace was a thick slab of chewed leather. She slipped the leather between her teeth and bit, the earthy taste churning her stomach. From the pocket of her coat, she plucked a gold Zippo, flicking it open and running the striker across her arm so that the flame chased shadows. The skin of her ruined hand caught. It fizzed, then lit, scabs crackling and smelling of beef on charcoal. She jerked her head away. Like all Burner sources her flesh lit like cardboard.
Her father's hand glinted. Then he sucked up more power.
Her finger blazed like a road flare.
