by Mur Lafferty
She knew that was like saying she hated being sick, or hated being late, because she didn’t know anyone who actively enjoyed being laughed at, vomiting, or having all their friends resent them. But she was pretty sure she hated being laughed at more than most people, and she knew Kevin was laughing at her.
She didn’t feel threatened by any of the other people on her staff. While the vampires and zombies (one zombie, anyway; the other two had died because of zoëtist meddling last December) could eat her, none had threatened her beyond Kevin—besides Rodrigo, but that poor zombie had been messed with. Someone had put brain-freezing formaldehyde in his brain supply and he had gone feral. But he hadn’t threatened Zoë before that. The other coterie in the office ranged from friendly to neutral.
A week before, Zoë had gone to Gwen’s desk and said, “I want to do an experiment. If I intend very strongly to do something that is dangerous, like, say, think really hard about jumping in front of a bus, will you see my chances for death grow?”
Gwen sat back and studied Zoë with her glittering eyes. “Yes, intent can change your fate, if you’re honest about following through.”
“Right. I’m going to change my mind about something right now. You don’t even know what it is. I just want to know if it will be a dangerous thing to do.”
“Zoë, I’m not your carnival game—” Gwen started, but then her eyes grew wide as Zoë concentrated. “You could be dead within the day. What in the world are you planning on?”
Zoë sighed, thinking that she should be proud of her little “hacking the future” trick, but just feeling depressed. “I was thinking about firing Kevin.”
Gwen nodded. “If you fired him, he’d kill you.”
Phil had placed strict orders on all of the employees at Underground Publishing: do not harm the human. If she fired Kevin, he would have nothing to lose, no reason to fear Phil.
She did know how to fight vampires, but why fight them if you didn’t have to?
Now, trudging with her luggage behind her, leaving the smirking vampire, she wondered if she could handle herself if he attacked her.
She and Arthur followed the crew to the platform, the only busy spot in the terminal. Homeless people dozed against the wall here and there, but some of them had their eyes open—occasional homeless were spies for Public Works, making money here and there by reporting on coterie shenanigans. A dim whistle sounded in the distance, and she shivered as the air—already a frigid New York January brittle—grew humid. The air seeped in through her layers of clothing and pulled at her skin, making it break out in goose bumps. She craned her neck to look for the incoming train. It was only her keen awareness that Kevin was watching her, gauging her reaction for human weakness, that kept her jaw from dropping when she spotted it.
“Holy shit,” Arthur said behind her.
“No kidding,” Zoë replied.
She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. A white bullet train? She was used to only subway trains, all modern and practical. This train was wispy white, insubstantial, and not like the modern human bullet trains at all. Instead it was an old-fashioned steam train. The locomotive engine’s smokestack belched smoke, which sounded like the memory of a hiss of steam. It looked like a luxury train, Orient Express–style, with what might once have been chrome lining the engine, and heavy curtains covering the windows.
The words SLAUGHTERED KID were etched along the side of the engine, and Zoë shivered again.
Coterie faces looked out of some of the windows, each of them looking ghost-like itself, but she could clearly identify some demons and zombies among them. One of the cars was completely dark, with covered windows, a first-class vampire car, Zoë guessed. As the coterie started boarding, they stepped up on perfectly solid steps but then became transparent themselves, becoming ghosts as they entered the ghost train.
Zoë bit her lip, hoping she and Arthur could board this amazing train, knowing it would be supremely embarrassing if they just walked right through it. She watched with envy as her coworkers boarded the first-class cars, Kevin turning to flash her a pointy grin and wave. She looked away.
Something caught her eye. Several obviously human women were among the coterie lining up to take the ghost train. Zoë had spent a good amount of time studying people in the past few weeks, trying to discern who was coterie and who wasn’t—and it was harder than you’d think. With vampires and some fae looking fully human, gods and goddesses tuning down their divine presence, and shapeshifters such as dragons looking like humans did, Zoë found it tough to peg the coterie. But there was often a way of moving, of standing, and for some creatures of regarding others, that spoke of who, or what, they were. To her, the group of humans stuck out like a sore thumb, and she went to join them.
“Pariah car, ahoy,” she muttered.
Some humans, male and female, filed toward the train, some looking as if they knew what was going on, others simply following like sheep.
The zoëtists were obvious: most of them were women, each of them served by a small, three-foot-tall golem that carried her bags. A couple of thralls stood dazed, getting instructions from their master vampires, many of whom left their humans, concern looking odd on their vampiric faces.
One of the women had a boy of about ten with her, and he held his mother’s hand and poked little holes in the mud back of their service golem.
One man stood apart, clearly traveling alone.
He was white, thin, in his forties, with the easy way of standing that spoke of years away from sedentary office work. He wore Doc Martens as if they were still in style, laced tight, with jeans, a sweatshirt, and a heavy red trench coat. His hair was short and spiky, black with green tips. His face was slightly lined, and he looked around him without the defiant expression found so often on the younger men who dressed as he did.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, Zoë thought. And he’s getting on that train.
Arthur, too, approached the train with little trepidation, and Zoë cursed her hesitancy, stepping quickly to fall in behind him. She remembered that confidence was like the value of money—it was there as long as you had faith in it. She gripped her ticket and followed Arthur to board the ghost train.
Zoë noticed with a start that while it had seemed insubstantial while she was outside it, once she was on board it was as real as any train she had been on, and the rest of the terminal seemed to go gray and far away.
And oh, what a train. She had trouble thinking of it as a modern bullet train. The walls were mahogany and brass trim shone in the gaslights—seriously—gaslights—as the soft fires illuminated the interior. And this was just the coach car.
The seats were deep-blue leather and shone as if just polished. She ran her finger over one and was unable to identify what animal it came from, and realized with a start that it might not have been an animal at all. She swallowed, and spied a window seat that hadn’t been claimed by the dreamy thralls or chatting zoëtists.
She peeked out the window at the station and gasped. While she and the train were as real as anything she had ever encountered, the world outside the train had gone shimmery and transparent. The people and coterie outside the train seemed unreal, drifting along, and she could see nearly through the walls.
The zoëtists were talking loudly among themselves about their trip to Atlanta, Georgia, and how they were looking forward to touring Olympic Stadium. Apparently it had been built by the mentor of one of the women, an architect who commanded metal golems. They were all staying at a swanky coterie hotel and were greatly looking forward to the vacation. Luckily their chaos, with their golems and their luggage, was at the other end of the car, letting Zoë and Arthur stow their luggage above their seats. They settled in, and the man Zoë had noticed sat in the seat facing them over a table.
Zoë still hadn’t figured out how to ask someone else, “So what kind of monster are you?” so she busied herself with her laptop bag, stowing her heavy coat, red hat, and gloves, and getting her tic
ket ready for the conductor. She placed it on the table and then traced the grain of the dark wood with her fingertip.
The man across from her smiled. “First time on a ghost train?” His accent had that kind of lilt that was clearly not American but difficult to place; he was quite good at masking whatever it was.
“Oh, yeah,” said Zoë. “Is it that obvious? I guess even when you know what to expect it’s kind of a shock to start out with.”
The man nodded, his spiky hair bobbing a little. “Here’s a bit of advice. When the conductor comes through, leave your ticket and a hell note on the table and go to the bathroom. Best to do that rather than answer questions.”
Zoë frowned. “Is that what they’re going to do?” she asked, pointing to the women and the thralls. “The bathroom will be kinda crowded if we all do that.”
“Nah,” he said. “But they might ask questions to make sure you belong here. Don’t want just any human on the train, you see.”
She nodded slowly. Arthur looked at the man with suspicion, wriggled in his seat to get his hand into his front jeans pocket, and pulled out his talisman. “What do you think we have to hide?” he asked.
The man held up his hands, non-threatening. “I’m just saying it’s the path of least resistance. And if you deal with coterie a lot, you deal with a lot of resistance.”
Arthur grudgingly allowed that, but mumbled something about not liking bribes.
Zoë looked around the car at the zoëtists again, who didn’t seem uptight or offended in the least. They were perfectly happy to be in the human car, and were settling in for their trip.
Some had instructed their golems to climb inside duffel bags and then removed the magic command word from their foreheads, causing the creatures to crumble into the dust from which they had been formed.
The man thought, as if trying to pick his words. “Let’s just say,” he said slowly, “that the zoëtists are commonplace.”
Zoë noticed he wasn’t carrying the same bag of dirt as the women. “You’re not a zoëtist?”
The man grinned at her over his glasses. “No. And neither are you, are you?”
“Uh,” Zoë said. She didn’t want to reveal her status to a stranger, but clearly this man knew more about her than she had offered.
“We don’t have to tell you anything,” Arthur said. “Zoë, are there any other seats?”
Zoë looked around the car, but the seats were either full, or occupied by people stretching out for a nap during the trip.
The man was completely unoffended as they looked for escape. He leaned back in his seat and watched them.
“Looks like we’re here for the night,” she said.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get some sleep,” Arthur said. “It’s been a hell of a day, and I need it. It won’t take long to get there.”
“Yeah, you’ll need your rest for the next few days,” she said. “I’m not terribly comfortable sleeping on a coterie train. I’ll stay up.”
“We don’t need someone to keep watch like that D&D game you made me play,” he said. “Kobolds aren’t going to attack in the night. There’s a reason we’re in the human car. Get some rest.”
“I will, when I’m tired,” she said pointedly.
Arthur shrugged, balled up his down jacket and put it under his head, crossed his arms, and leaned against the window.
The train started to hiss and move, lurching forward slowly. Zoë felt the red wine begin to make insistent pokes at her bladder, and she wondered about the bathrooms, and how her human waste and the ghostly plumbing would work.
She decided not to think too much about it. Half of dealing with coterie was just nodding and accepting what was in front of you. Ghost train toilet? Better than wetting herself.
Zoë placed her laptop bag on the floor below her seat and rose, swaying slightly with the movement of the train. Bullet train or no, ghost train or no, the feeling was familiar to Zoë, who had gone on Amtrak trains with her mother when she was a kid.
Worried she wouldn’t have enough books, she had filled a black garbage bag with half her bookcase and her mother hadn’t noticed until the train station. She had tried to explain that she didn’t know what she’d be in the mood to read. Perhaps she wouldn’t be in the mood for Aerin the Dragon Slayer or Mad Harry who held the Blue Sword, maybe she’d want to read about Ramona Quimby or Harriet the Spy, or maybe Bilbo Baggins.
Her mother hadn’t been happy.
Zoë smiled when she realized Arthur had had the same reaction when it came to her packing heavy paperbacks for this trip.
As she made her swaying way to the bathroom, Zoë realized she was in a very fast, enclosed space with a lot of coterie. The humans wouldn’t be a huge threat, but the cars on either side of her would have creatures happy to hunt her and Arthur.
Attitude. That’s what she needed.
I totally belong to this club, she thought to herself as she walked down the aisle. I’m the biggest, baddest monster— She stepped on the foot of a mud golem standing guard beside its mistress’s seat as she dozed. The foot squashed beneath her, and she tripped forward, stumbling against the door to the bathroom, which fell inward. One hand went into the tiny toilet, and the other went onto the floor to break her fall. Her recently broken arm protested at this new stress, and she groaned in disgust as she pulled her soaking hand out of the toilet.
At least, she told herself, it was a modern toilet with only an inch of blue water within. She hadn’t soaked her sleeve.
It was a new train, right? And they would have to clean the bathrooms before a big trip, right? Sure, she told herself, but this trip had originated in Boston, not New York, so many of these people had been on the train for half an hour or so.
“Are you all right?” asked an amused male voice. The non-zoëtist man stood at the door, arms crossed and smiling.
“Oh goody, an audience, that makes this even better,” she said aloud, and pulled herself up, using the toilet, no longer the dirtiest thing in the room, for leverage.
“Ta-da! Totally planned that,” Zoë said, wondering if the train had any pure lye soap to wash her hand with. She didn’t meet the man’s eyes as she furiously washed her hands, impatiently hitting the faucet to engage the automatic water release.
He leaned against the doorframe, clearly not ready to leave. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Reynard, by the way.”
Zoë looked at his hand, and then at her own, which was growing red and cold from all the washing in the icy ghost water. “Really?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it?”
She took his hand and shook it, trying not to react to the realization that Reynard was missing the ring and pinky fingers of his right hand. The grip was solid and skeletal at the same time.
“Zoë,” she said.
Reynard didn’t say anything more, and Zoë looked pointedly at the toilet. “So… I came in here for more than acrobatics, and I’d kinda like some privacy. Is there something you need?”
“Just conversation,” he said. “Where are you and Mr. Cranky headed?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Making conversation,” he repeated.
“I have to pee,” she said.
“So you’re not doing what I suggested about the conductor?” he asked, mock sadness causing a frown as his eyes still looked amused.
“Why should I? I have every right to be here,” Zoë said.
Reynard nodded. “Sure, I just thought you might want to avoid zombies.”
Zoë forgot her bladder and narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I don’t know where I am, or who I’m riding with? Do you think I’m afraid of zombies? Why do you want to hide from the conductor, anyway?
“Human coterie aren’t always tolerated. And if you don’t have a golem by your side, they’re going to think that either you’re easy prey, or you’re not where you’re supposed to be. Or”—he dropped his voice—“you’re not who yo
u’re supposed to be.”
He left her then, and Zoë gratefully shut the door and took care of her business. When her mind was clearer and not occupied with avoiding a six-year-old’s potty dance, she wondered what he’d meant. Then decided he had been baiting her.
Lord, I’m tired, she thought. She furiously washed her hands again, examined the bags under her eyes in the mirror, and took a deep breath to face the smarmy dude with hair he really should have left behind him in college.
The gaslights in the car had been dimmed, and many of the zoëtists were dozing or reading tablets. Zoë realized with distracted interest that zoëtists seemed to be an Android-loving bunch, not iPad.
She returned to her seat, where Reynard faced her with wide-awake interest. Arthur was out, and Zoë envied him the ability to sleep anywhere.
She decided to go on the offensive and introduce herself again. “OK, now that I’m thinking past more immediate needs, and my hand isn’t in a toilet, I’m Zoë,” she said quietly. She pointed at the sleeping Arthur. “That’s Arthur. I’m the editor of a book about travel for coterie. We’re researching New Orleans.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really. That’s fascinating. Do you have humans writing for you?”
She shook her head. “Just me, and a bunch of coterie. I’m there because of my editorial experience. We’ve put out a New York book, now we’re branching out.
“So,” she continued. “Your turn. You’re clearly not a zoëtist either, so why are you heading south on a coterie train?”
“My employer is sending me to New Orleans, too,” he said, stretching his long legs across the unoccupied seat next to him. “I guess you can say I also work for coterie. I’m doing some research.”
“Who do you work for?” Zoë asked.
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Vampires too lazy to travel. They don’t want to deal with the risk of sunlight, understand.”
He nodded his head toward Arthur, who was breathing softly as he slept. “If you have no humans on the team, what is his story?”
Zoë shook her head. “His story is his to tell. But he’s traveling with me, so he’s seen a lot of what I’ve seen.”
