The woman by his side doubled over, gagging, and the man turned his attention to her. All Pan wanted to do was keep walking but something about the woman rooted her to the spot. She sounded like she was choking, and when she straightened up again there was a baseball-sized lump in her throat.
“Peekaboo.”
The voice came from the woman, but not from her mouth. It sounded like it was being spoken from deep inside her throat, like a ventriloquist. She made a noise like a cat trying to cough up a hair ball. Her whole face was bulging, like something was pushing against it from inside. Beads of blood were forming on her ballooning lips. The man in the suit staggered away, falling on his ass, and the woman lurched from the booth. More muffled words came from her ballooning throat: “I found you.”
“Ah, jeez,” said Pan, feeling the pins and needles in her arm as she prepared to unleash another charge. “This is gonna be bad.”
Understatement of the century.
ONE FOR SORROW
The woman grabbed a handful of her own face and ripped it away, tossing the bloody mess onto her dinner plate, where it sat like a glistening steak.
Beneath was another face, a man’s face, his grinning teeth the brightest thing in the world.
What the—
He lunged across the table, wrapping red-painted nails around Marlow’s throat and squeezing. It was like being suddenly underwater, Marlow’s lungs spasming so hard he thought his ribs were going to snap. The woman’s skin was sloughing off as if the man were wearing a suit, the flesh beneath smeared with blood and dotted with tattoos. Panic drove Marlow’s fist out before he even knew it, his knuckles ripping off another chunk of loose flesh. One of the woman’s dead eyeballs rolled out and there was another beneath, burning with fury.
“Marlow,” the thing mumbled, teeth pattering onto the table as new ones pushed through. “Mammon sends his—”
Something smashed into the creature’s face with a sound like a cathedral bell. The pressure on Marlow’s throat vanished and he clawed in a breath, reaching instinctively for the asthma inhaler he didn’t have.
“Move!” yelled Truck, barging past Marlow, a fire extinguisher gripped in his hands. He drove it into the man’s face, knocking him against the window, then again, and again, the sound of it making Marlow’s stomach shrivel. When he pulled it free there was nothing left of the creature but a cowl of loose skin, drenched in blood.
“What was that?” Marlow said, still gasping for air.
“A Magpie,” said Pan, pushing through the screaming crowd. She was trying not to show it but Marlow could see the fear there, in every movement. “The power to put yourself in somebody else’s body. I don’t know who first thought of it but it’s just about the worst thing you can do.”
“Good way to travel long distances, though,” said Night, hopping along beside. “You can leapfrog continents, so long as there’s somebody to leap into.”
“So he’s—” Marlow didn’t even have time to finish the question before a man at the back of the restaurant car started choking, putting a hand to his bulging throat.
“Nope,” said Pan. “They’re really, really hard to kill. Come on.”
She jogged through the door and Marlow followed, swallowing the fear down into his churning stomach. The whole train was in an uproar now, the aisles blocked with terrified passengers. Pan swore, grasping at her hair.
“This isn’t going to work,” she said. “Night, you think you can get up top?”
“Of the train?” she said, one eyebrow just about launching itself into orbit. “Sure, de nada.”
“Get to the front, try to stop the train. We’ll fight our way through and meet you there.”
“I’ll go with her,” said Marlow before he could even think about it. “I can keep up.”
Pan nodded, wiping a shaking hand over her mouth.
“Watch out for that redhead,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of powers she traded for but I’ve never seen anyone be able to conjure demons like that. Never. Not even the Pentarchy.”
Something roared in the railcar behind them, unleashing a current of screams. Pan glanced over Marlow’s shoulder and he could see it in her eyes—not just fear but something else, something that sent a bolt of panic up Marlow’s spine.
Resignation.
He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, careful not to squeeze too hard.
“Pan, we can do this,” he said. “We will do this.”
She offered him a weak smile, one that quickly took flight. She pushed him away, turning and plowing down the aisle.
“Just get to the front,” she shouted back. “And if you can kill that bitch on the way then nobody is going to complain. Come on, Truck.”
“Good luck,” the big guy said, rolling after her with the gore-smeared fire extinguisher still gripped in his fingers.
“Yo y tú, amigo,” said Night, standing to one side and gesturing at a window. Marlow took one last look at Pan then jumped onto the seat, placing both hands on the glass and pushing gently. The pane exploded from its panel and the sudden rush and roar grabbed Marlow by the stomach and threatened to pull him out with it. He choked back a scream and grabbed the top of the window, his fingers squeezing the metal like it was dough. The world flashed past in shades of black and gray, too fast.
“I’m not sure if I can do this,” he yelled, his words swallowed whole by the wind.
“It’s easy,” said Night, appearing by his side. She stretched, grabbing the side of the train and pulling herself up, vanishing in a flash. “Just don’t look down.”
He looked down.
Beneath him the ground seemed to thrash and churn as if it were an ocean. Even with the power of the Engine inside him he wasn’t sure if he’d survive that fall. Maybe it would be better if he stayed inside the train? Yeah, Pan and Truck would need his help, he should definitely head back inside.
He heard the sound of the sliding door, looked down to see the Magpie stride into the car, peeling scraps of a stranger’s face from his own. The man scanned the crowd then found Marlow, spitting out a slab of pink tongue before grinning.
Screw this.
Marlow braced his foot on the edge of the window and reached up, gouging a handhold in the roof of the train. Then Night’s slender hands were wrapped around his, pulling him up. It was like being caught by a tornado, the strength of the wind unbelievable, making him slide along the smooth roof. He ducked down and rooted himself in place, tears turning Night into a blur.
“Come on,” he thought she said, his ears full of thunder. “It’s not far.”
He blinked, staring past her to where the head of the train coiled into the mountains, everything painted silver by the light of the moon. How many cars? Four? Night turned and vanished as she broke into full speed.
It’s not far.
Marlow lowered himself into a sprinter’s start, took a deep breath of freezing air, then started to run. Instantly the world slowed into blissful stillness, the wind dropping to a breeze, the world sliding past like a lazy river. Night shuddered back into view, leaping onto the next car. Marlow followed, careful not to trip on the vents. He propelled himself over the gap, the rush of it almost enough to make him smile.
He landed, sliding on the smooth metal, and for a second he thought he was going off the side. He collapsed onto one knee and time snapped back on, full of fury, the wind so powerful it actually lifted him off the roof for a second. He punched downward with enough force to put a hole in the metal, clinging on until the vertigo had passed.
A voice behind him, whisper thin. He turned to see her, the redhead, two cars back. She wasn’t holding a knife this time, she was holding a gun. A big gun.
Marlow pushed himself up, hearing the crack crack crack as she fired. He started to run again, the wind snatching the breath from his lungs. One bullet passed him, as slow as a paper plane, red hot. Then something caught him in the shoulder, not fast but relentless, burrowing into his skin.
He fell back into real time, landing hard, his shoulder on fire. The wind tried again to snatch him, dragging him toward the edge of the train, and he only just managed to stop himself tumbling over into death. He steadied himself, grabbed at his shoulder, and saw blood on his fingers.
I’ve been shot.
And even as the horror of it was sinking in he looked back, saw the girl leap over the gap between cars, saw her aim her gun and fire.
He rolled, trying to get back to the middle of the train. The bullet pinged off the roof, another searing just over his head. The coldness in his shoulder was fast becoming pain, the fingers of his right hand numbing—ohcrapohcrapohcrap—and she was still advancing, her hair a blazing pyre, her grin brighter than the moon. She leveled the gun again.
“Hey, puta!”
Night fizzed into view beside Marlow, waving her arms. Then she was gone again, the girl firing one more round into nothing. She chucked the gun, pulled out a knife, then lurched to one side like she’d been hit by an invisible sledgehammer.
Marlow clambered to his feet, tested his shoulder again. It was bleeding, but there was no entry wound. It had grazed him. He started running, back the way he’d come, gritting his teeth against the agony. The world slowed and he saw Night skid to a halt, spin around, then start back. The redhead was moving impossibly slowly, twisting the blade earthward, stabbing it toward the roof. Marlow saw that it was made of old metal. It reminded him of the bolts Pan had used in her crossbows.
He leaped the gap onto the next train car, running at the redhead from one direction while Night converged from the other. Night got there first, shoving the girl with everything she had. The redhead teetered back in slow motion and almost fell, managing to get one foot behind her to brace herself.
Then Marlow was there, skidding to a halt, the roar of the wind like a building had just exploded next to him. He punched, the redhead weaving out of the way with expert grace. She ducked under his arm and deflected Night’s kick, twisting her body and planting a big black boot in Marlow’s gut. He staggered back, wheezing. The redhead crunched an elbow into Night’s neck then started to drive her toward the side of the train.
“No!” Marlow yelled, throwing himself at the redhead, unleashing a punch. She saw it coming, jabbing out her other elbow so that Marlow’s fingers crunched into it. He cried out, feeling like he’d plunged his knuckles into broken glass. Then that same elbow connected with his nose, once, twice, in an explosion of light and agony, another kick lifting him off the roof. The wind got under him, tossing him down the train car like he was made of paper.
He didn’t stop for long enough to let the pain in, running back the way he’d come, fast, fast enough to slow time again. Night was teetering on the edge now, almost over, and Marlow lashed out with everything he had, feeling the whole force of time as it crunched back to normal, all that power clenched inside his fist. It struck the side of the girl’s head like a cannonball and she dropped, rolling into the wind. Marlow used his momentum, stamping hard. She wormed back, his foot leaving a crater in the roof where her head had been. Then she flipped, landing on her haunches, the blade still gripped in her fingers.
“You guys just don’t get it, do you?” she said, shaking blood from her nose, from her mouth. She looked groggy, but she was still smiling. The Engine was already starting to heal her. “It’s over.”
Then she plunged the knife into the roof, and all hell broke loose.
ABOMINATION
There really was no accounting for how goddamned stupid people could be.
Pan had given up trying to push the other passengers out of the way and now Truck was taking the lead, crunching down the aisle like an icebreaker. People were scrambling to avoid him, but there was still a crowd up ahead as the passengers stampeded away from danger. The train was going faster than ever, each curve in the track making the car snap back and forth like a toy shaken by a kid.
“Move!” roared Truck, brandishing his fire extinguisher. He was right, he didn’t need his powers to be intimidating, he was the toughest guy she knew even outside of the Engine—a lifetime of bareknuckle boxing would do that. But he was flagging already, one trembling hand resting on the top of each seat, the other struggling with the weight of his makeshift weapon. He looked so human.
She glanced back, two dozen more people crammed right up against her, the whites of their eyes like the crests of waves. In the shifting gaps between them she thought she saw the Magpie at the far end of the car but she couldn’t be sure. Truck had stopped and the tide was crushing her, the stink of fear and body odor making her feel like she was drowning in flesh.
“Goddammit, Truck, go!” she yelled.
“Go where?” he replied. “There’s a bottleneck.”
Above the screams she could hear another voice, somebody calling her name. She looked back again, that bloodied face even closer than before, staring at her. She lifted her hand, ripples of light darting between her fingers.
She shunted the person behind her to the side, another couple of people jumping out of the aisle to avoid her. He was right there, a guy a little older than her, every inch of his body tattooed, dressed in the scraps of skin and cloth that was all that remained of whoever he’d leaped into. He flicked his fingers, spraying blood and fingernails, then charged.
Pan opened her hands, both of them, lightning burning out of her with such power that she felt like she was being turned inside out. She had to close her eyes against it, worried that it would burn out her retinas. When she opened them again the aisle was empty, the chairs reduced to sculptures of molten metal and smoldering cloth. The smell of cooked flesh hung in the air and she gagged at what it meant.
Lose a life to save a million, she quoted Herc, blinking away tears. It’s the only way.
And even as she thought it she saw the Magpie appear behind a mangled chair, his skin pocked with burns—that dead man’s grin still there, like he was a painted doll. She tried to will another burst of charge but she’d burned herself out, there was nothing left inside. She clenched her fists, her jaw. Let him come. That was the thing about wishing to travel into somebody else’s body, the contract was so complicated that you couldn’t wish for anything else alongside it. She could take him.
He took a step toward her, the train rocking so hard that for a moment she thought it had come off the tracks. His eyes never left hers. The exhaustion was a chain around her ankles, a noose around her neck. She could barely even raise her finger to goad him on.
“Come on, then,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Uh-uh,” said Truck, planting a massive hand on her shoulder and pulling her out of the way. He stepped past, resting the fire extinguisher on a chair. “I got this. You find a way to stop the train.”
“Truck—”
“Go!”
Pan paused for a moment more, long enough to rest a hand on his back. His skin was so hot, like he had burning coals beneath his shirt. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to collect some of his strength, or just put the last of hers into him. Either way, she couldn’t face the thought of letting go. He glanced at her, winked.
“I got this, kiddo,” he said again. “Go.”
She snatched her hand away and turned, gritting her teeth to keep a scream inside. She could barely see the people in front of her, they were just obstacles to be moved, and she punched and pushed her way through them until she got to the door, squeezing through into the next car. The tide here seemed to have turned, people pushing back the way they’d come.
Great.
It was easy to see why. Or … not see so much as feel. There was something wrong in here, something bad. It hit Pan right in the gut, like somebody had plunged cold, dead fingers into the squirming mass of her intestines and was scratching her spine with dirty nails. Pan gasped for breath, pushing farther into the sickness, into the evil, godforsaken wrongness of the car.
Then she was free of the crowd and the aisle lay ahead of her, suddenly
quiet. The last person scampered out of the door and the screams became muted, like they belonged in another world. The car bucked to the side—nothing to do with its speed, everything to do with her failing equilibrium—and she sat on the edge of a seat to catch her breath.
It seemed like forever before she remembered how to stand. She started walking, feeling the air around her grow thick and hot, heavy with the stink of sulfur. Whatever was up there, it smelled like it had crawled right out of hell’s backside.
Turn around, said her head. Find another way out.
But the train had to be going at 150 miles an hour, maybe more. She might survive, Marlow and Night, too—might—but Truck would be reduced to paste. She had to find the engine, had to find the brakes.
Just keep walking.
She did, reaching the end of the car just as the train plunged into a tunnel. Her ears popped with the change in pressure and she flexed her jaws until her hearing returned. Something was different about the train here. Parts of the walls had crumbled away, and in the gaps she thought she could see something pink. She ducked down, taking a closer look.
Bricks.
There was no doubt about it. There were bricks inside the train walls.
The connecting corridor was pitch black, the lights burned out, and she pushed through it into the next car. If the last one had been weird, this one was off the charts. Most of it was made up of bricks, the kind you’d find in a house. The window frames were half metal, half painted wood. Even as she watched, the floor seemed to alter its shape, carpet sinking away into asphalt. The seats were juddering like they didn’t know what to do with themselves, like they wanted to run. The train was shaking even harder, every tremor making her bones ache.
She wanted to stop. Because if hell was a place you could get to only on your own two feet then why on earth would she keep walking?
Her body wasn’t listening, carrying her down the aisle. A strange light seeped in through the next door, yellow and orange and red, and she walked toward it like a fish approaching a lure. Plaster dust was raining down from the ceiling, great cracks appearing there with wooden boards visible behind. Pan had the impression that she was walking through a theatrical set, that the whole thing was about to be pulled down around her.