by Frank Tuttle
“True,” she said. “But consider yonder shade. She commanded great and terrible powers, finder. She bent reality to her whim. Spoke the words of life and death. And yet she was slain, in her tub, with a perfectly ordinary paring knife. There is a lesson there. Commanding vast power is ultimately futile, if you lack the wisdom and cunning to use power properly.”
“My wisdom and cunning would be properly used if I could borrow one of your magical sledge hammers,” I said. “I’d be glad to sign a receipt and bring it back, of course.”
Stitches waved away my request. Then she leaned over the table, her gaze upon the tiny determined train. “Our time is at an end,” she said. “Your body is under attack. You must return and defend it.”
“How?” I asked, rising. “Shooting sorcerers doesn’t always work, and I don’t even know who to shoot.”
“Think,” she said, also standing. The table returned, still laden with beers and delicacies. “If you must confront the immaterial, in what state would you choose to confront it?”
“I’ll just pester them with riddles,” I said. I looked up, and the blue sky went black, and the world beckoned.
I reached into my vest pocket, retrieved the daisy I’d picked earlier, presented it to Stitches as we both increased in stature. “A little something from home,” I said. She took it, and smiled at the ragged blossom. “Now, if you’d like to reciprocate by giving me a magic sword—”
“Fly away, little bird, fly away,” she said. “Fly away, fly away, fly away, home.” She made a gesture, and I was a ragged crow, plunging back to earth, both claws empty.
Chapter Twelve
I landed beside my slumbering corpus.
Evis was there, and Gertriss, and Jiggles, and Darla. Only Darla was awake, probably because she was slapping my noble face over and over as hard as she could.
I shed my crow form, croaked, “What the hell?” before the transformation was quite complete. No one heard. Darla slapped my handsome face and screamed in my patrician ears, but my body didn’t stir.
Hints of furtive movement all around showed at the edges of my vision. I blinked my dream-eyes, and I could see the other world.
The car was full of bright white Angels.
At least two were bent over every sleeping figure. The Angels took turns whispering in each slumbering ear. The Angels spoke a phrase, and then each would rise, produce a torn page of parchment, and drive a silver needle through it and into the body of the sleeper.
Each page bore a verse of Scripture. I couldn’t read the words, but the tall script of the Church was burned into my memory.
With each pinned page, the sleeper fell deeper into slumber.
Jiggles was festooned with so many verses that I understood, though I knew not how, that his heart would soon falter and then stop for good.
Half a dozen Angels surrounded Darla, chanting verses at her in unison, each trying to pin her with a verse. Two pages were already stuck to her back.
Rage filled me. I charged the Angels surrounding Darla, ready to strike them down with my bare fists, when something Stitches said echoed in my mind.
Cunning and wisdom, she’d said.
So I clenched my dream fists and I looked closer at the shining Angels.
I’m no Church man. I’ve watched people pray to the Angels, watched them pay the Angels, and damned if I ever saw it make any difference. Things happen because they happen. Sometimes sick people get better and sometimes they don’t. Priests get fatter and the poor get poorer and if that’s the best Angels can do, then to hell with them.
So I wasn’t at all surprised when the closer I looked at the whispering Angels, the more I saw something else.
The way they moved was wooden. Their joints weren’t right. Their faces were stiff and expressionless. Their mouths, when they spoke, only moved in a rigid up and down fashion, like a rich kid’s clockwork talking doll.
I blinked again, and this time, I saw.
The Angels were hollow. Hollow and only half-formed, so that the sleepers would see their angelic side, while I now saw the backs.
Inside each erstwhile Angel was a red-skinned imp, working the much taller figure via a series of levers and pulleys.
The imps were right out of a Church frieze of Hell, down to the curved red horns atop each bald red head, the cloven hooves, and the barbed tails that wagged and twisted as they worked.
I’d seen such things before, in the ruins of the Corpsemaster’s mansion. Stitches claimed sorcerers form them whole from some vaguely sentient magical solid.
The bar car was filled with them. The ones not running the paper Angels bounded about, leaping and shrieking and gibbering, demanding their turns inside the white forms. A few collided with me, bounding away, apparently unable to see me just yet.
More began to gather around Darla. She’d given up trying to slap me awake. She was searching my pockets now, looking for the Troll smudge stick.
“Smart,” I said. She found the stick and then hurried to Evis, quickly snatching his ever-present book of matches. The Angels surrounding Evis were having a rough time of it. They pinned verses to him, but the pages kept falling away.
The imps kept at it anyway. I did see him stir a time or two, almost conscious, only to be whispered back under by half a dozen pale imposters.
Darla got the stick lit. She blew on it, urging the flame to life, and then she inhaled a column of the smoke and choked back a cough and she bent over me and kissed me, filling my lungs with the noxious vapors.
My physical body jerked and started. I felt a brief pull toward it, but I resisted it easily and remained immaterial. Darla fell into a coughing fit, and as the Angels seized the opportunity to mob her, I decided I’d had enough.
I shone. I clothed myself in the white-hot blaze of pure unadulterated rage and I hung a halo bright as the sun over my head and I put a mighty sword of incandescent fire in my holy right hand.
“Who art thee, that dares usurp my image!” I cried, loud enough for imp and Angel alike to hear. “Who art thee, that would blaspheme the face of Heaven itself?”
All those years of Church services. All those paintings of the Angel Malan.
They finally came in handy, because my face became Malan’s, merciless and furious, the light against which neither sin nor sinner could stand.
Imps scattered. Those not clad in white screeched and bounded. In just a few seconds, they’d managed to squeeze themselves under doors or through closed windows and they were gone, fled, running across the prairie as fast as their cloven little hooves could bear them.
Only the false Angels remained, rooted in place by sorcery. As one, they turned to face me.
“We art called Legion,” they said. “For we have no names, only the one name.”
“Who dost thou serve?” I boomed. I raised my sword, and the light from it flashed throughout the car, and it pleased me to see the paper Angels raise their stiff arms against the light.
“What is thy name?” demanded one, which dared a step forward. “For I tell you true. I have dwelt in Hell forever, and I have seen no Angels, nor their kin. I say thou art false. I say thou art as much shadow as thou art light.”
I barely heard the bold one, because I was watching Darla.
She’d managed to stop coughing. She jammed the smoking smudge-stick upright in a shot glass. She stood beside my motionless body, her hand on my shoulder, and she took a deep breath.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was looking right at me.
Not just looking, but seeing.
“I ask you a second time,” said the bold Angel, striding toward me. “What is thy name?”
“Use the stick on Evis,” I said. Darla nodded, snatched up the Troll smudger, and raced for Evis.
The doubtful Angel was striding toward me. Half a dozen of his fellows fell in behind him, their silver needles elongating and becoming long gleaming hooks.
“Thrice I have asked,” said
the Angel. “Answer.”
“My name is Markhat,” I said, and I added a second brighter halo above my first. “The Angel Markhat, protector of brewers, fools, and finders. Now you know my name. Take it with you to Hell.”
They charged. I charged. He raised his gutting hook and I raised my dream-sword and I swung with all my might.
The paper Angel parted, burning from the cut edges up, gone in a showy flash. The imp within flopped and writhed, cut neatly in half. I kicked it away and waded in.
The next two came at me in a pair, one swinging low, one swinging high. My sword gnawed them both asunder, and I boomed with laughter, loud as thunder, as the rest came at me from all directions in a single desperate rush.
I slowed time. Their charge became a crawl. My dream-sword and its immaterial fire darted and dove and cut. Scraps of paper angels and dripping chunks of imp-stuff tumbled to the floor.
I saw Darla rouse Evis. Watched as she looked down in confusion, but began to tear the verses pinned to the others away. Watched them stir, even Jiggles, whose right hand reached for his flask well before he awoke.
I raged. Angels fell. Devils died.
When the bar car was empty, I passed through the locked door, walked through walls as though they were mist. Pairs of Angels occupied each car, until I dispatched the first few, and then the rest charged me again.
I cut them down. Four, six, ten. All fell, devoured by a blade that didn’t exist, wielded by an Angel who never was.
When the last paper Angel fell, I cast my gaze through the train, saw no more imps, no more shining lies. I shifted my focus, to look down upon the Star, and laughed when I saw the lengthening wakes in the prairie grass of hundreds of imps as they fled the train.
I tossed both my halos after them. I put flame to every remaining pinned verse, burned them away. I blew out my flaming sword with a single puff of breath, and then I was back in my body, rubbing my sore jaw where Darla had tried to slap me awake.
Groans and mutters greeted me. Evis and Gertriss stirred, blinking. Jiggles rose, his flask already to his lips.
I stood. Darla was there. She didn’t say a word, but she did pull both her pistols.
“We’ve got things to talk about, love,” I said. My throat was dry and the words came out raspy. “But first. Rowdy. Evis. Gertriss. Take the first car. Darla and I will take the second. Everyone, back here, right now.”
Jiggles coughed and snorted but spoke first. “There ain’t a bonus big enough for this,” he opined. “What just happened?”
“Somebody tried to kill us all,” I said. I pulled my own pistol. “That’s going to be the last time.”
Evis looked away from Gertriss, who was having trouble standing. “Who did this?” he demanded.
“Somebody with more greed than sense,” I said. I lifted a hand before he could ask again. “No time. Get them here, right now.”
Evis, ever the good soldier, swallowed his fury, steadied Gertriss with his arm, and headed for the front of the car.
Rowdy followed. Darla slipped her arms quickly around me, didn’t say a word, just hugged me.
“When do I get one of those fancy guns?” asked Rowdy.
“You don’t,” I replied. Darla pulled away.
She’d seen. She’d heard. She’d been there in the dream world with me, somehow.
“Honey,” she said.
“I’m not even surprised, really,” I replied. Jiggles produced a stout oak club, slapped it into his palm.
“Let’s go.”
We went.
We passed by Evis and Gertriss, who were already herding the dames back toward the bar car. They looked sleepy and confused but otherwise none the worse for wear.
We banged on doors. Two of our charges managed to open them and stumble out. I kicked in the door belonging to Dr. Gall, found him halfway out his window. We hauled him back inside by his belt and once he was satisfied we weren’t bent on murder, he was affable enough.
The cabin we’d put Miss Hasty in was empty. Two doors down was the berth belonging to Forn Foley, the surveyor, and when I saw his door ajar my stomach rolled.
A glance at Darla’s clenched jaw and her white-knuckled grip on her favorite revolver told me she shared my premonition.
I pushed the door open with the toe of my boot and risked a quick glance inside.
Blood. Blood everywhere. On the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
Standing in the middle of it all, her clean white blouse soaked in bright fresh blood, was Norabeth Hasty, still stabbing away at the corpse of Forn Foley.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said.
Darla looked at me like I’d just spat out a whole frog. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, not a corpse,” she said.
“I’ve had an epiphany. Keep that aimed at her, just in case.”
While Darla kept a revolver aimed at Miss Hasty’s head, I sidled around her, caught her slender wrist, and took the knife away. She kept trying to stab the unfortunate Mr. Foley. Her big blue eyes were open, but vacant and empty.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Darla.
“Shock. Or something worse.” I snapped my fingers in her face, turned her toward the door. Finally she let her arm fall to her side.
“Mine,” she said. She was facing Darla but wasn’t focusing on her. “He took what is mine.”
“Did he now?” I asked. “What’s your name?”
“Took it,” she replied. “Took it.”
Darla frowned. She lowered her weapon. “She’s not with us right now, is she?”
“Doesn’t seem that way. Miss Hasty,” I said. “What did the bad man take?”
“Mine,” she replied.
“Miss Hasty,” Darla said. “What color is my blouse?”
“He took it,” she replied.
“What is my name?” asked Darla.
“Mine,” replied the woman.
“No, I’d say Miss Hasty is somewhere far away,” I said. I looked back at the bloody compartment. The dead man wasn’t stirring.
But the scene told me plenty. The place had been tossed. Foley’s case was open, his clothes strewn about. The tiny chest by the bed had all its drawers removed, and all had been dumped on the floor. The mattress was even askew, having been lifted from the frame for a quick search underneath.
“Seems she didn’t find what she was looking for,” Darla said.
“She was too late.”
Miss Hasty began to rock and hiss. Darla pushed her gently against the wall, pinning her right arm behind her back.
“Think she’s dangerous?” she asked.
“The late Mr. Foley might reply in the affirmative,” I said. I pulled my knife, cut a strip of good cotton bedsheet, twisted it into a rope. “Tie her wrists.” I kept cutting. “Gag her with this.”
“Gag her?” Darla lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You’ll see,” I said. “Trust me. It’s for her own good, as well as ours. Come on, let’s find a wash basin—get her cleaned up as best we can.”
Darla tied the woman’s wrists while Miss Hasty wobbled and mumbled. “Dear,” said Darla. “You’re being enigmatic.”
“I am, and isn’t it charming?” I said. “And before you ask, yes, I know who’s behind all this. I know what they’re up to, and why. I know everything except how to stop them, but we’ll figure that out as we go along.”
She took the ball of fabric, folded it again, and shoved it in the mumbling woman’s mouth. “Care to share, dear?” she asked.
“Care to tell me when you learned to dream-walk?” I countered.
“Let’s go find a basin,” Darla said. “See? I can be enigmatic, too.”
We each took an elbow. Miss Hasty didn’t offer any resistance, even as we scrubbed her face and arms with wet rags. She let Darla take her blouse off, let herself be dressed in a man’s too-large shirt, let us search her for more knives.
She just mumbled and stared. We worked quickly, handed Miss Hasty off to Jiggles, saw
her led back toward the bar car.
Checking the rest of the berths only took a few moments. By the time we were done, we could both hear the shouts of protest and demands for answers sounding from behind us.
I paused at the door. “You’re going to want to keep a gun handy from now on,” I said to Darla.
“I plan on it. You said you knew. Who should I be aiming for?”
I put a finger to my lips and winked. “We’ve got her tied and gagged,” I replied, just a little louder than was probably necessary. “But with wand-wavers you never know. Now let’s go rally the troops.”
I took a deep breath and flung open the door.
Pandemonium ensued as everyone yelled at once. Fists were raised and shaken. Lawsuits were threatened. Bribes were offered.
Jiggles the clown, bless his booze-sotted heart, stuck a beer in my hand.
“First things first,” I yelled. “We’ve got another body. Mr. Killins and I are going to go and get it and put it in a box.”
“This hardly seems the time for funeral arrangements,” offered Milo Sands, the embalming fluid salesman.
“We don’t want the body getting up later and causing mischief,” said Dame Fabbers, her eyes alight with a glee that belied her words. “Can’t be too careful!”
“Exactly,” I said. “While we tend to the corpse, you lot are going to sit here and behave. Or get shot. Up to you. Mr. Killins?”
He was seated by Miss Hasty, who still rocked and tried to mumble through the gag. The look he turned on me was anything but friendly.
“I’m not leaving this young lady’s side,” he said.
Gertriss saved me a potentially lengthy argument by pressing the maw of her scattergun to the back of the man’s honest frontier neck.
He didn’t say another word. He just stood, spoke a few words to the incoherent Miss Hasty, and marched glaring to my side.
“Let’s go,” I said, and we went.
He behaved all through the first sleeper car. But as soon as the door to the second shut behind us, he took a swing at me.
