by Gregory Ashe
In the sky, two cut-out figures fell towards Cian and Irene.
“Run,” Irene said.
They forced their way into the next car. It had already been evacuated, with only an assortment of forgotten items to witness to the departed passengers: a briefcase open with papers scattered across a seat; a stuffed bear with a bandaged paw; a woman’s scarf that waved goodbye—or hello—in a draft.
Irene and Cian had made it halfway down the aisle when the rear third of the car collapsed. Metal folded, wood splintered, and the roof and walls of the car crumpled. The shock of the blow traveled through the car, knocking Cian and Irene forward. Cian caught the handrail. Irene watched him as she flew past and struck the corner of the door. Pain flashed in her forehead, and she felt something warm trickling down the side of her face.
As she got to her feet, she looked back to see what had happened.
From the rubble that had, moments before, been the rear portion of a passenger car, two golems stood. They forced their way through the wreckage, tossing aside metal sheets and broken beams without a pause.
Cian fired. The bullet took one of the golems in the face, knocking off its hat and snapping its head back. The abomination had only the crudest features—a misshapen, melted face that looked like the worst kind of sculpting. The bullet hole between its eyes didn’t seem to bother the golem in the slightest.
“Pearl didn’t do her job,” Cian said.
In response, one of the golems tore a bank of seats from the car and hurled them at Cian and Irene.
Cian dropped, and Irene slid to the floor. The row of seats struck the wall of the car and bounced back, missing them by inches. Cian scrambled to his feet, grabbed Irene, and then they were off again, racing into the next car.
“Your head,” Cian said as they forced their way into the next car.
“I’m fine.”
The next car, however, stopped them. It was packed with passengers, men in dark suits clawing at the windows, women in heavy coats and heavier stockings huddled with their children at the far end of the car. The door at the other end of the car was blocked.
Irene slumped against the wall and dabbed at the cut to her forehead. It stung. The train had begun to sway in earnest, and her stomach flipped over.
“Irene—”
“I said I’m fine,” Irene said, but then the roof of the train began to loom over her, and suddenly she was staring up into Cian’s eyes. “Such nice eyes,” she said, reaching up to pat his cheek.
For some reason, Cian’s lips came together in a tight line, and he grabbed her hand. He squeezed her fingers until Irene thought they might break, but she didn’t mind. At least, not too much.
Something heavy was coming towards them—pounding steps that rocked the train like a ship in a storm. And then Irene heard a familiar voice.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. If I could just—yes, perfect, thank you.”
Her eyes were heavy, and she was struggling to keep them open. But then she saw his face.
“Sam?” she said.
“Hi there, Irene,” Sam said. His voice was softer, the way Irene would speak to someone who was ill. The tone rankled. “Good of you to come.”
Cian let go of Irene’s hand.
“Now listen, Cian,” Sam was saying. He had his hands up and was stepping backwards. “No need to be hasty. We’ve got bigger problems coming our way. Those golems will be here in seconds.”
“Good. You won’t have to worry about them.”
“Cian, I can help you. I know how to stop them.”
“So do I.”
“Why am I lying on the floor?” Irene asked. Her eyes still felt heavy, and her stomach had twisted itself inside out, but something was pressing on the back of her brain. A warning. “Did I fall?”
Cian swore. He helped her up and pushed her into Sam’s arms. “Be careful,” he said.
“I always am,” Sam said.
“I meant be careful with her.”
And then Cian threw open the door and stepped out onto the narrow platform between the cars.
The door swung shut, and then all Irene could see was Cian’s shoulder, and the trembling frame of the car, and the landscape unrolling from icy spools. From outside, there was a crack of gunfire. Screams filled the car, and Irene pulled away from Sam, lunging for the door.
Her knees gave out as the car titled beneath her. Sam caught her and pulled her back.
“He’ll be fine. He’s a big boy.”
Irene pried at his fingers, but Sam wouldn’t let go.
Then there was a muffled crash. Another round of screams from the passengers. The sound hammered at Irene’s head. She squeezed her eyes shut.
She heard the car door open. And then steps.
Sam shifted and he said, “Stop right there.”
“You little piece of shit,” Cian said.
Irene opened her eyes.
Sam still had one arm around his waist, but in his free hand he held a knife. “Listen, Cian. I like you. And I like Miss Lovell here. But I like myself more. I’m going to keep Miss Lovell with me until we get to the next stop. Then you stay on the train, and I’ll go on my way, and Miss Lovell will be just fine.”
“You’re as dumb as you look,” Cian said. “The Children found you. Do you think they won’t find you again? You can run all you like, but they won’t stop.” Cian paused, and a revelation showed in his face. “Good God, you didn’t give it to them, did you?”
Sam tensed. Irene slipped her hand into her pocket. The world was still sliding sideways, but she found the revolver.
“What was it?” Cian asked. “You gave them a fake?”
Sam laughed. It was a bitter sound. “I’m smart but not that smart. I wish I’d thought that far ahead. I left the box somewhere safe. I thought I’d just run through the deal and see what they offered. I didn’t expect them to lock me up and beat the stuffing out of me.”
“They’re going to do worse when they find you again,” Cian said. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Alone? Look who’s talking. You can’t see straight when you’re around Witte. He says black, you say white. He says left, you say right.” Sam took a step back, dragging Irene with him. She stumbled along as best she could. “I think I’ll be safer on my own than with friends like that.”
“Irene,” Cian said. He took a frustrated half-step forward, and Sam brandished the knife. “God damn you.”
Irene slipped the revolver from her pocket and set the muzzle to Sam’s jaw.
Sam froze.
“I’m feeling quite a bit better,” Irene said. “But I’ve still got a bit of a tremor. Why don’t you drop that knife before my finger slips?”
“Miss Lovell,” Sam said.
“Right now, Sam. Drop it right now.”
Sam let out a breath and dropped the knife.
The train stopped at Kirkwood, a small town to the west of St. Louis. The station had only a single platform, which was crowded as the passengers fled the remaining cars, braving the cold rather than another minute aboard the train. Cian kept a tight grip on Sam’s shoulder as they stepped onto the platform. To judge by Sam’s face, Cian had found one of the many cuts and bruises that were still healing. Cian tightened his grip, and Sam barked a few choice swears, his face paling.
As far as Cian was concerned, that was just fine.
Cian wanted to do worse. He wanted to break the little thief’s arms and throw him into the lion’s den. He wanted to knock the little shit to the ground and kick him until he stopped moving. He wanted, most of all, to make Sam as afraid as Cian had been.
But he settled for crushing the boy’s shoulder.
“He’s going to pass out,” Irene said. “Or be sick. Ease up.”
“He had a knife to your throat.”
“Well I have his knife now. And I don’t want his vomit on my shoes.”
Cian eased his grip.
Slightly.
Sam wiped sweat from his face in s
pite of the cold. He was sweating.
With an irritated grunt, Cian let go of the boy’s shoulder.
“Run, and I’ll shoot you.”
Sam nodded, massaging his aching shoulder. When Sam pulled his coat back, Cian saw fresh blood staining the boy’s shirt. Cian’s mouth tasted as though he’d been chewing limestone all morning. Heavy and dirty, all at the same time.
“Good God, what did you do to him?” Irene said.
“He tried to kidnap you,” Cian protested.
“I handled it.”
Cian opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Irene smiled and squeezed his hand.
His mouth snapped shut.
And he decided he would probably never understand women. Or, more specifically, Irene.
Automobiles crowded the streets around the station. Some of the new arrivals carried cameras and notepads, pushing their way onto the platform to snap photographs of the ruined train and the surviving passengers.
The surviving passengers. Cian’s stomach dropped below his belt. How many had survived? A fraction of those who had originally been on the train. A third? A quarter? How many had been left behind when Irene detached the cars.
Irene’s face was pale. Her dark eyes were wet. She was watching the crowd too.
Sam was still picking at his bloody shirt and, in general, looking like a particularly sulky child.
The sky looked like a piece of dirty wool that had been tacked into place by a drunken handyman. In places, the bunched up clouds drooped, sagging folds of gray, while in other parts the clouds had been stretched too thin. It was a dark, shitty day, and Cian wanted a drink.
More cars continued to jam the streets. In addition to the press, there were curious locals and passers-by, and family and friends who must have seen the trouble at Union Station and attempted to follow the train. Police were already at the station, segregating people for questioning.
Cian watched as a mustachioed police officer moved towards them. A woman in a massive black hat intercepted the policeman, and Cian grabbed Sam. By the arm, this time.
“Let’s go,” Cian said. “We don’t want to answer their questions.”
They moved around the edge of the platform, towards the steps that led down to the street. People on the sidewalk shouted questions, which Cian ignored. A man in a dark hat lunged in front of Cian, holding up a camera, and Cian shoved him back into the mass of bodies.
“You’ve got a good touch with the common folk,” Sam said.
“You’ll find out yourself,” Cian said.
He caught Sam grinning at Irene. Sam paled, swallowed his grin, and looked at the ground.
They were almost at the stairs when someone shouted Cian’s name.
Cian didn’t mean to turn. It was instinct. He glanced around.
And he met Captain Irving Harper’s gaze.
“That’s him,” Harper shouted. He had a white bandage around his forehead, visible under his hat, but he still looked as mean as sin. “Get him!”
Policemen plunged into the crowd, moving towards Cian and his friends.
“Hurry,” Cian said, holding Sam by one arm and Irene by the other as he rushed them down the steps.
“What’s that fellow want with you?” Sam asked.
“Shea!” Harper shouted. “Stop right there! You’re under arrest. Stop that man!”
A blocky fellow with a jaw-strap beard stepped into Cian’s path, holding out one hand.
Before Cian could move, Irene drove her heel onto the bearded man’s foot.
He went down with a howl.
“You’re both mad,” Sam said, staring from Cian to Irene. “Totally mad.”
“Keep moving,” was all Cian said.
Shouts were spreading now. Cian pushed Irene and Sam between the stalled cars. He kept an eye on Sam, because he didn’t trust the boy as much as an inch, but he had to keep an eye on Irene too. She’d gone loopy in the train after hitting her head, and although she seemed better now, there was no telling.
As though on cue, Sam twisted and tried to pull free, and Irene staggered.
“Help,” Sam shouted. “Police! Help!”
Cian let go of Irene. He took two steps, grabbed Sam by the coat and the back of the head, and slammed the boy into the closest automobile—a cream-colored Chrysler.
The crunch of a broken nose, and then the spray of blood across the Chrysler’s hood.
“My nose,” Sam shouted. He turned and swung. The blow was wild, glancing off Cian’s shoulder.
Cian landed on a punch on Sam’s chin. The boy’s eyes rolled up. His legs shivered like two old women in a draft.
Then he folded.
Cian dragged the boy over his shoulder. “Irene?”
“Fine,” she said, one hand pressed to her head. “Go.”
“But—”
“Go!”
A pair of policemen appeared between the cars, rushing towards Cian. He cast one glance at Irene and then ran, Sam’s weight throwing him off balance. The line of cars seemed interminable. Cian’s lungs burned as he pounded down the pavement. Sam might as well have been a sack of bricks.
And then, as Cian reached the end of the street, a Ford Model T pulled across his path.
Damn. Not a single break today.
Cian reached for the Colt.
Then the door swung open, and Pearl stared out at him. “Get in!”
“Irene,” Cian said. He jerked a thumb.
“I’ll get her,” Pearl said.
She dropped from the car, alighting with easy grace, and strolled away. Nothing more than a woman out on an errand.
Cian, on the other hand, felt like a sack of dirty laundry. Dirty laundry that had been trampled by a herd of angry cattle. He climbed into the back of the Ford, dropped Sam, and pulled the door shut.
Harry took one glance at Sam’s bloodied face. Then he turned his attention back to the street.
As they pulled away from the station, Harry spoke. His voice was careful. Non-committal. The voice of a man walking a tightrope.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Irene wheezed. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Everything smelled like sweat and fear and the unmistakable need to give her hair a good wash. She leaned against one of the stopped cars. The metal was cold, pulling her skin close with a frozen kiss, but it felt good against the fever heat running in her blood. Shouts came closer along with heavy footsteps.
One of the policemen raced past her. The other stopped. He looked at her and hesitated.
“Miss? Are you alright?”
Irene nodded. His breath smelled like tomatoes.
And then the world went sideways, and her knees went out. The policeman caught her and called for help. He carried her to the ledge of the platform and helped her sit. More policemen raced past them, still in pursuit of Cian. Irene took slow breaths and patted her cheeks with snow. The policeman who had helped her looked up and down the street—anywhere but at her.
Irene wished that falling had been part of a plan. Instead, it was simply convenient. One fewer pursuer for Cian.
It was also hellishly embarrassing.
“Who is this?” a rough voice asked.
“I’m not sure, sir,” the officer responded. “She was being dragged along by that big fellow. I think he hit her, sir. See that cut to her forehead? She’s having trouble standing.”
“Miss?” the rough voice said.
Irene looked up. A bulldog-faced man studied her. His cheeks and jaw were covered with graying stubble. His eyes were folded in sad, dark pouches. Irene counted a half-dozen stains on his tie alone, and his suit and winter coat were frayed and dirty. He wore a revolver that looked like it could stop an elephant.
“My name is Captain Irving Harper,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Irene Lovell,” she said.
And then she realized that, all things considered, another name might have been a wiser choice. Everything seemed fuzzy after hitting her head. She
wanted to lie down and sleep. Right here in the snow, if these men would be kind enough to allow her.
The bulldog-faced man—Harper, he’d said—looked at her as he pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket and the stub of a pencil. He scribbled something and jammed the pencil between his teeth.
The ache in Irene’s head redoubled.
“You look familiar,” Harper said. “Have we met, Miss Lovell?”
Irene shook her head. But then she remembered where she’d seen Harper before. First in the alley, after the sauria had attacked and almost killed Cian. And then again in the hospital, when she’d gone to rescue Cian. The bulldog-faced man had walked right past her. She turned her face down and massaged her temples.
“Strange,” Harper said. “I could have sworn I’d seen you. No matter. Would you mind telling me how you know Cian Shea?”
“Who?”
“The man you were just with.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”
“You don’t? I find that hard to believe, Miss Lovell. You were running with him. I saw you.”
“I was—I didn’t know him. He grabbed my arm.” Irene’s eyes watered. “I’m afraid my head is aching terribly. Could we speak about this later? I believe I should lie down.”
“Of course, Miss Lovell. Just a few more minutes. You say you didn’t know him and that he grabbed your arm. Why were you running with him then? You weren’t resisting. I heard the young man call for help. You, on the other hand, were silent. There are plenty of men here who would have leaped at the opportunity to help a woman in distress?”
“I’m a grown woman. I hardly need a man for everything that happens.”
“So you were not afraid when Shea grabbed you?”
The throb behind Irene’s eyes had crystallized into luminescent halos that clung to the everything she looked at. She closed her eyes. It helped a bit.
“Miss Lovell?”
“I’m so sorry. My head—”
“A moment longer. Could you explain your relationship to Cian Shea?”
“Cian?” It was growing harder to think. Words and images slipped through Irene’s fingers like sand at the bottom of the river. She cracked open her eyes. Light stabbed the back of her brain. She shut her eyes again. “Are you his friend?”
