screen—a red one marked “lock” and a green one marked “unlock.” Of course they were on that side, since that’s where the utility guys came from, and of course the filters were locked, to keep trespassers out and rats in. I tried to push the unlock button, but it was just out of reach, my fingers straining through the filter as Teardrop called out, “
Es el estremo de la linea, puta
. . . it’s the end of the line. Time to meet Mister Kreamy Kone in person.”
I thought,
Of course! Mister Kreamy Kone!
I patted my pockets desperately and fished out the ice cream stick.
Squeezing it between my fingertips, I slid it through the filter and pushed the button. There was a
click
and a
pop,
and Teardrop crawled faster, panting with rage. I slammed my shoulder against the filter, dove through, and kicked it shut just as the red-eyed demon lunged. A quick punch to the lock button and it latched into place.
“No . . . no!” Teardrop howled, grappling at the filter, scraping it with sharp knuckles. It swallowed its rage, hissing, “Just wait. You’re mine.”
“I’m no one’s,” I said quietly, backing away.
The wall behind me was fit with metal rungs to climb in and out of the sewer. I went for the rungs as a rumble sounded from the pipe. It was followed by a noxious odor that made my stomach heave, and raw sewage rushed toward us. Teardrop heard it too, face pressed against the filter, gaping. “I’d close that ugly mouth if I were you,” I said, climbing quickly away. A stream of stinking goop rolled beneath my feet and I paused to watch it bubble up as high as Teardrop’s shoulders before subsiding. Trapped in muck, its eyes blazed up at me, but I was gone, rising toward a manhole cover. I pushed it aside and pulled myself into an alley, seeing the Biograph Theater across the street, which meant I was on Lincoln Avenue. It was showing a vintage Humphrey Bogart film, its marquee glowing with the title
The Stick-Up.
It reminded me of my savior, the ice cream stick. I looked at it now, seeing words stamped on it that had once been covered by a frozen treat.
It read,
Find Mister Kreamy Kone on Friendbook!
7
UNTIL YESTERDAY, I COULD ADJUST THE intensity of ghiaccio furioso but was unable to summon it. There had to be a perfect storm of emotion—intense hatred, love, or fear—in order for cold fury to kindle and flicker.
Not anymore.
Now I am its master.
Now I think of what was done to my mom’s hand, the horrific pain and shock she must have suffered, and blink my eyes just once. The blue flame leaps at my command as I burn with fury, all the while remaining as cool and calm as a blackjack dealer. I’m possessed by a sense of power that I haven’t known before, since cold fury was transitory, rolling in unbidden and blowing away like a hurricane. I lay in bed tingling with the new knowledge, then got up and looked at myself in the mirror. Slowly closing and opening my eyes, there was an internal, audible hum as my pupils went to pinpoints and the blueness deepened to cobalt. I’d never seen what they looked like while deploying cold fury since it normally ended almost as soon as it began, but now I saw what other people saw.
It was all of the loneliness that had ever existed since time began staring back at me.
It was abandonment and torture, humiliation and disease, rejection and death searching for a warm, pulsating place to infiltrate and infect.
My eyes were the nightmare mirrors of other men’s souls.
I blinked and was myself again, except that the other Sara Jane—the one who disappeared before my eyes—was also me. Being able to control cold fury added a new dimension to my double life, and I wondered if I’d be able to control the electricity as well. All I knew for sure was that my current evolution had been induced by a trauma so disturbing that it had broken down whatever mental or emotional boundaries had existed and drawn cold fury to my fingertips—and there I was
Es el estremo de la linea, puta
. . . it’s the end of the line. Time to meet Mister Kreamy Kone in person.”
I thought,
Of course! Mister Kreamy Kone!
I patted my pockets desperately and fished out the ice cream stick.
Squeezing it between my fingertips, I slid it through the filter and pushed the button. There was a
click
and a
pop,
and Teardrop crawled faster, panting with rage. I slammed my shoulder against the filter, dove through, and kicked it shut just as the red-eyed demon lunged. A quick punch to the lock button and it latched into place.
“No . . . no!” Teardrop howled, grappling at the filter, scraping it with sharp knuckles. It swallowed its rage, hissing, “Just wait. You’re mine.”
“I’m no one’s,” I said quietly, backing away.
The wall behind me was fit with metal rungs to climb in and out of the sewer. I went for the rungs as a rumble sounded from the pipe. It was followed by a noxious odor that made my stomach heave, and raw sewage rushed toward us. Teardrop heard it too, face pressed against the filter, gaping. “I’d close that ugly mouth if I were you,” I said, climbing quickly away. A stream of stinking goop rolled beneath my feet and I paused to watch it bubble up as high as Teardrop’s shoulders before subsiding. Trapped in muck, its eyes blazed up at me, but I was gone, rising toward a manhole cover. I pushed it aside and pulled myself into an alley, seeing the Biograph Theater across the street, which meant I was on Lincoln Avenue. It was showing a vintage Humphrey Bogart film, its marquee glowing with the title
The Stick-Up.
It reminded me of my savior, the ice cream stick. I looked at it now, seeing words stamped on it that had once been covered by a frozen treat.
It read,
Find Mister Kreamy Kone on Friendbook!
7
UNTIL YESTERDAY, I COULD ADJUST THE intensity of ghiaccio furioso but was unable to summon it. There had to be a perfect storm of emotion—intense hatred, love, or fear—in order for cold fury to kindle and flicker.
Not anymore.
Now I am its master.
Now I think of what was done to my mom’s hand, the horrific pain and shock she must have suffered, and blink my eyes just once. The blue flame leaps at my command as I burn with fury, all the while remaining as cool and calm as a blackjack dealer. I’m possessed by a sense of power that I haven’t known before, since cold fury was transitory, rolling in unbidden and blowing away like a hurricane. I lay in bed tingling with the new knowledge, then got up and looked at myself in the mirror. Slowly closing and opening my eyes, there was an internal, audible hum as my pupils went to pinpoints and the blueness deepened to cobalt. I’d never seen what they looked like while deploying cold fury since it normally ended almost as soon as it began, but now I saw what other people saw.
It was all of the loneliness that had ever existed since time began staring back at me.
It was abandonment and torture, humiliation and disease, rejection and death searching for a warm, pulsating place to infiltrate and infect.
My eyes were the nightmare mirrors of other men’s souls.
I blinked and was myself again, except that the other Sara Jane—the one who disappeared before my eyes—was also me. Being able to control cold fury added a new dimension to my double life, and I wondered if I’d be able to control the electricity as well. All I knew for sure was that my current evolution had been induced by a trauma so disturbing that it had broken down whatever mental or emotional boundaries had existed and drawn cold fury to my fingertips—and there I was
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