Hellfighters: The Devil's Engine Series, Book 2

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  She wiped the back of her hand over her nose, pressed on. The door wasn’t a sliding one anymore—or at least half of it wasn’t. The rest was wooden, and painted. She grabbed the handle, pushing until it opened fully. Beyond was something that simply couldn’t be, but was. A street, the width of the train. The train car’s ceiling had crumbled away in places, and through it fell a fine mist of rain. At the far end, where the door should be, was the bottom story of a building.

  His building.

  And Pan actually laughed with the relief of it. It was the building from her dream, the building in Queens where she had killed Christoph, the man who’d tried to take her as his own when she was thirteen. Which meant she was still asleep. Which meant that they hadn’t been found.

  She opened her mouth and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks. She laughed even when she saw a man through the red door of the building, even when he opened it and stepped into the car. It wasn’t Christoph this time.

  It was Mammon.

  The sight of him, even in this thing that had to be a dream, made her want to scream, made her want to throw herself into the night, into death. But it couldn’t be. Not even he could warp reality like this, could he?

  This isn’t a dream, he said without opening his mouth. His eyes were closed, too, like he was sleepwalking.

  “Sure,” she said. “The train just turned into a building. Just like that.”

  So what was that worm of discomfort that had burrowed into her stomach? The train was still moving fast but it sounded like it was struggling. Through the sash windows she could see sparks flying up from every wheel, like there was a fireworks show out there. And she realized that it was the weight of the building, the train couldn’t cope with it.

  “This isn’t real,” she said.

  You’re wrong, was his answer, spoken right into the middle of her skull. You are wrong about so much.

  “No,” she replied, putting her hands to her ears. Above him, the building was growing. Bricks splintering out of nothing, stretching into the sky like plants. A neon sign was sprouting from the luggage rack, flickering wildly. The noise the train was making was like an erupting volcano. How long before the car crumpled under its own momentum, before they were all crushed?

  Things could have been so different. They still can.

  “No!” she said again. “You bastard, you’ve got what you wanted. You have both the Engines. Why are you here? Just leave us, the world’s gonna end soon enough, right? Just leave us be.”

  No. Not until you see the truth.

  She shook her head, the sobs hauling themselves out of her so hard that her whole body was shaking. It was going to end here, she knew that much. Right here, on a New York City street that had appeared on a train in the middle of Europe. She didn’t even know which country she was in. It was all going to end, every second of her life leading up to this point.

  And then what? Then they would come for her. She was under contract and the demons would come, they would open up the ground beneath her feet and drag her into the fire. That would be her home until the end of time.

  “Just do it,” she said, or didn’t say, her voice so faint it might have just been a breath.

  You could have joined me.

  “Why?” she said, wiping the tears away, furious with herself for crumbling. “Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that?”

  Because things would be so much easier, he said. So much better. You’re wrong about everything.

  “Wrong about you breaking through the Red Door, about you killing everyone?” She spat out a bitter laugh. “How did that feel? Huh? Seth, he was an old man. How did it feel to kill him?”

  Take one life to save a million, he said, like he had pulled the thought right out of her head. They were wrong and they would not listen.

  “Not to you,” she said. “Not in a million years. And I won’t either.”

  She jabbed a finger at the man who couldn’t really be there. Fear burned in every single cell of her being—so much of it that it had seared a hole right through her, had left her hollow. She was too frightened to feel afraid.

  “Just do your worst, Mammon,” she said, almost choking on his name. “Just do it. You know what? I don’t care. Open the doors, let them in, watch the world burn. Make the most of it, because you know what? You know what, you son of a bitch? Someone will find a way. Not now, maybe not for a hundred years, but sooner or later somebody will kick your scrawny ass right back to where it came from, right back to hell. And I’ll be there, Mammon. I’ll be there waiting for you.”

  She laughed, a sound that belonged inside a madhouse, a sound that scared her. She felt like her body was a grenade, pin pulled, that any second now it would blast into a million parts. Only her anger was holding her together and she clung to it, clenched every muscle and just clung to it.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Mammon smiled. A soft, gentle smile, like somebody dreaming. Then his eyes opened, and it was as if a spotlight was shining through them, light pouring into the car like liquid, pooling on the floor. The sudden, shocking force of it made her stagger back, a hand to her face.

  I see you, said Mammon.

  The light burned brighter, hotter, louder. It was too much, too much.

  I see the truth of you, came that voice again, like he was whispering into her ear. So lost. So wrong. It isn’t too late, Amelia.

  “No,” she managed.

  It isn’t too late to change your mind, to come with me.

  “No.”

  They are lying to you. It isn’t too late to see how wrong you were, Amelia.

  “Never.”

  Look at me, Amelia.

  She shook her head, the light carving its way into her brain even through her closed eyelids, even through the flesh of her arm.

  Amelia.

  “Don’t call me that!” She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t frightened little Amelia anymore.

  Amelia.

  So bright, so loud. She wasn’t even sure that she still had a body. The force of him might have disintegrated her altogether, might have reduced her to dust and ash, scattered her to every corner of the Earth. He’d killed her, he’d ended her, he’d taken everything that she was.

  Just like Christoph had, all those years ago.

  “No,” she said again. She reached deep down inside, into that sudden emptiness, and found a spark.

  Amelia, all you have to do is listen to me, and trust me. It is not too late.

  “I’m not Amelia, you asshole,” she said.

  She pulled her arm away from her face, opened her fingers, stared right at the abomination that stood before her.

  “My name is Pan.”

  I know, Mammon said. And I came here to help you.

  WHY IS THERE A HOUSE GROWING OUT OF THIS TRAIN?

  The demon hauled itself into the world, shredding reality as it came.

  It was like somebody had cut its shape from the train roof, the metal shearing loose into a structure of teeth and claws. Sparks detonated into the night as it tugged its bulk free—something halfway between a spider and a dog. It slipped on the metal, its back end falling into the car below, its huge claws gouging the roof for purchase. It had no eyes, but it didn’t need them. Its elongated snout sniffed at the air, turned toward Marlow, and peeled open like a crocodile’s. Then the demon lunged, faster than it looked, those jaws snapping shut so hard that they punched out a shock wave of air.

  Marlow staggered back, colliding with Night. She grabbed hold of his arm, both of them trying to stay upright on the trembling train. The demon threw itself at them, scuttling on eight or nine legs. It had moved only a few feet, though, before it exploded with the force of a car bomb.

  Behind it, the redhead was already plunging her blade into the next section of roof. Another demon was forming there, its birthing scream louder even than the roar of the wind. This one dropped inside the hole it crawled out of and Marlow could hear the cries from ins
ide the train, could smell the slaughterhouse stench as it carved its way through whoever was down there.

  “I got a million more,” the redhead yelled, retreating toward the front of the train. “This knife opens a hole between worlds.”

  She ducked down and jammed the blade into the roof again. Inside the car there was a muffled detonation, the windows shattering as the second demon exploded. The next one was on the move, long and stick-insect thin, struggling on three needle-shaped legs. It lost purchase, slipping off the side of the train, its flailing limbs almost decapitating Marlow as it spun past into the darkness.

  “How the hell is she doing that?” asked Night, her hand still on Marlow.

  He shook his head. It was the wrong question. The right one was how were they supposed to get close enough to stop her?

  The redhead spun the knife in her fingers. Past her, the engine barreled onward, visible a couple of cars ahead as it arced around a wide bend in the track. Marlow smudged the tears from his eyes, hunkered down closer to the roof. It had to be an illusion, but it looked like something was growing out of it. The car was changing, getting taller, sash windows appearing in its bulk. So many sparks were shooting from the wheels that it looked almost as if the train were a speedboat traveling on a lake of fire.

  “Marlow,” said Night, leaning in to him. “Why is there a house growing out of the front of this train?”

  Not an illusion, then.

  There was something else up there, too. Something beyond the impossible train. It looked like a darker patch of night, almost solid. Then he understood that it was solid. They were hurtling toward a mountain.

  Right into a tunnel.

  “Hey!” he called, waving his hands at the redhead. “You … uh. Nice wig, my mom has one just like it.”

  “What?” said Night. “A wig?”

  The redhead was frowning but he wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t heard or hadn’t understood. Either way, it was working. The pitch-black bulk of the mountain grew behind her, the mouth of the tunnel somehow even darker, like it had been cut right out of time and space.

  Just a few seconds more.

  “How do you keep it on in this wind?” he yelled. “Glue? Duct tape?”

  The redhead yelled back, but her words were snatched away by the wind. She lifted the knife over her head, ready to plunge it down again. Behind her the tunnel mouth opened wide, the top surely low enough to rip her head clean off. Marlow grabbed the roof, sinking his fingers into the metal, bracing himself. Night must have seen it, too, because she swore, throwing herself onto her stomach.

  The front of the train punched into the tunnel hard enough to demolish the top of the building that was growing there. It was enough of a warning, the redhead dropping without even looking back. Then they were sucked into the tunnel so hard and fast that Marlow’s lungs locked, his whole body tight with panic. He couldn’t even scream, just clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. A few feet above his head the ceiling ripped by, light fixtures whumping past his ears like bullets.

  Ahead, bathed in weak orange light, the redhead fumbled with the knife and thrust it up into the ceiling. She screamed, the speed of the train ripping the blade from her fingers. Not before another demon had crawled loose from the wound in the tunnel roof, though, this one as big as Truck and almost as ugly. It shook itself like a bear, its face made up of a chunk of concrete and rock and half of a light fixture—the yellow plastic cover looking almost like an eye.

  It roared, pushing itself up, strong enough to tear pieces from the tunnel walls. Then they were sucked out into the night again, the pressure change like daggers in his ears. The bear demon charged at him on all fours.

  Come on, Marlow thought, bracing himself. Explode.

  It didn’t. It bouldered over the gap between cars and then it was too late. Marlow started to run toward it, an instant of slow motion where he could see the demon’s immense torso—made of rubble and concrete but as flexible as dough—and the way the ugly mess of its head seemed to open like it was hinged, the gaping darkness of its throat visible beyond. Then they collided, a tackle that shook every single bone in his body to dust.

  The momentum of the demon spun Marlow around but he managed to keep his feet on the roof, his hands gripping fistfuls of stony flesh. He punched it once, not caring where, shrapnel exploding from his knuckles. It howled again, blasting Marlow with the stench of sulfur. He ducked under its jaws, felt a claw peel open the skin of his back. The pain was so intense it didn’t feel real, and he launched an uppercut into the demon’s chest, following it with a punch to the head. It teetered back, found its balance, started forward again, then blew itself into chunks.

  Night hopped over the debris, reached his side, and together they looked toward the front of the train. The redhead stood there, glaring back at them. Then she glanced to the side, took a deep breath, and hurled herself into the darkness. Behind her the engine car was more distorted than ever—that same brick building seeming to grow up into the night. Even as he watched, Marlow saw a neon light flicker into life.

  “This is really weird,” he yelled above the roar of the wind.

  “You think?” said Night. “Come on.”

  She set off, taking her time so as not to slip on the remains of the demons. The train seemed to be traveling faster than ever, tearing around another bend in the track. Marlow was leaping between cars when the wall of mountains to both sides gave way and the world opened up onto a vista of silver. There was an immense canyon right ahead, bathed in moonlight. Crossing it was a bridge that could have been the remains of a dragon—skeletal ribs and arches that must have stretched five hundred feet to the other side.

  Speeding train. Bridge. Demons. Canyon.

  Not a good combination.

  He dug deep, broke into a sprint—everything but him slowing to a crawl. The locomotive was actually morphing, pieces of metal splintering into spinning fractal shapes before reassembling themselves into bricks and guttering. It was back to the height it had been when they’d entered the tunnel, and growing fast. Marlow could make out drywall, pipes, even a toilet in the shifting mass of its interior.

  He was halfway down the penultimate car when a different force hit him—like a sledgehammer in the stomach. He faltered, skidding onto his knees and clutching himself. It felt like everything that made him him had suddenly festered inside, turned to rot. Night had stopped right next to him and the expression on her face said it all. He knew this feeling. He’d experienced it once before.

  Back at his school.

  Back when it had been destroyed.

  “Mammon,” he whispered. Night clenched her fists and kept moving, her body leaning into the wind. She reached the gap between the car and the engine—the building—and stopped.

  Marlow growled against his terror, forced one foot forward, then another, until he was standing next to her. The building was close enough to touch. Definitely not an illusion. Those were real bricks, covered with real grime, daubed with real graffiti. The flickering neon light looked like it had been cut in half, reading otel.

  “Hey, anytime you’re ready.”

  Marlow glanced at Night, then nodded. He reached down and grabbed the edge of the roof, peeling it back like he was opening a sardine can. The car below was drenched in darkness, the only light coming from the sparking wheels. He thought he heard a voice down there.

  Night hopped in, making no sound as she landed. He leaped after her, landing on a floor that had to be asphalt, wet with a rain that wasn’t falling outside. Right ahead of them was the door to the next car, leading into the darkness of the connecting corridor. The squirming in Marlow’s guts was worse than ever, and there was definitely somebody speaking.

  Pan.

  He pushed through the door, slipping on the wet asphalt. Through the final door the world was alight, bathed in illumination so bright that it might have burned right through his skull. He could make out a silhouette in the cold fire
, one that looked Pan-shaped.

  “That you guys?” somebody said behind him and he almost screamed. It was Truck, scrambling in from the car, that fire extinguisher still gripped in his hands. “This is really weird.”

  “Yeah, we got that,” said Marlow, blinking spots of light from his vision.

  “I think it’s … I think she’s in there with Mammon,” Truck said.

  “Yeah, we got that, too,” Night said.

  “We should probably go help,” said Marlow.

  “Yeah,” Night replied. But nobody moved. Marlow glanced at her, then at Truck.

  “Hey,” the big guy said, shrugging. “I’m powerless, unless she’s on fire.”

  “Mind if I borrow it?”

  “Be my guest,” said Truck, holding the extinguisher out.

  Marlow took it. It was a poor weapon, especially against something like Mammon. But what else could he do? Taking a breath, he pushed through the door.

  HANG ON

  I came here to help you, Mammon said again.

  “What?” Pan said, struggling to process the words. “Help who?”

  And she would have said more except she felt the gust of wind as something passed her, something fast. Marlow fizzed into view next to Mammon, screaming, a fire extinguisher clenched in his fists.

  “Wait!” she yelled, but before the word was out of her mouth Marlow drove himself into Mammon. They rolled up the car’s aisle together, slamming into the front of the building that had grown there. Marlow ended up on top, fumbling with the weapon, somehow managing to thump it down onto Mammon’s head. It sounded like a watermelon being crushed.

  Another gust of wind, then Night was there, too, with a savage kick. The light that poured from Mammon’s eyes snapped off, plunging the car into darkness. Then it blazed back on again in an explosion of fire, so powerful that Marlow and Night were thrown back, their sprawling bodies rolling up the car.