by A. L. Knorr
---
We were out of the building in under five minutes.
The rear exit opened to a little plaza, which was thankfully empty. With Jackie leading the way out, whoever might have been loitering there was liable to be bulldozed. The late morning sun was still climbing, and the air was crisp. A strong breeze cut contemptuously through my thin coat. Jackie didn’t seem to mind, while Sark seemed too preoccupied with watching for threats to notice. Uncle Iry, though, his body acclimated to the temperature of Sudan, hunched inward, his wide bony shoulders folded nearly in half.
Heads down, moving as quickly as possible without actually running, I hoped we looked like travellers trying to make up for lost time. At least that would explain the bags we were hauling.
We headed for Covent Garden Station, but not directly. The quickest route would be to walk directly from our flat, but the Real McCoy plan said we needed to make sure we weren’t being followed. So we’d hoof it to St. Paul’s Station, ride Central up to Holborn, then switch to Piccadilly and take that to Covent Garden. From Covent Garden, we had less … conventional transportation.
We tried to stay out of the open as much as possible, taking side streets and narrow lanes. Jackie and I had plotted this out and walked it together until imprinted in our memories. My head moved continuously on a swivel, scanning for enemies.
At my side, stoically lugging his suitcase, Uncle Iry put one foot in front of the other, but I could sense unease rolling off him in waves. My conscience needled me with pangs of guilt, but the need to keep moving to survive took priority. He might have come to a place that didn’t seem much better than the oil fields of Sudan, but at least we were together. A low, simmering anger burned off the worst of the guilt as I thought of the utter devastation I would level against anyone who even got close to threatening him.
We were halfway down the alley that would take us to the street with St Paul’s when a hoarse voice barked behind us.
“Stop! Police!” Two uniformed officers trotted down the alley after us.
“Run, talk, or fight?” I asked Jackie quietly.
The decision was taken out of our hands when two more officers appeared at the other end of the alley and advanced. Instinctively we pressed a little closer together.
“Talk, then fight.”
Sark’s head was down, his expression unreadable beneath his mop of damp hair. Uncle Iry was doing his best to stay calm, but I could see his nostrils flaring as he struggled to control his breathing. Another pang of guilt jabbed at me, but I shoved it away angrily. I needed to think, not feel bad.
“‘Morning officers,” I called. “We’re very sorry, but we need to get to the station before we miss—”
“Not going to happen,” the hoarse-throated man announced as he drew closer. He was tautly muscled and red-faced, with glaring, watery eyes and a cruel twist to his thin lips.
“Are we being detained?” I feigned shock even as my metallic sense swept the alley and the officers. I sensed plenty of metallic piping on the buildings around us and high voltage electric cabling in the walls. What I didn’t sense was metal on the officers. I didn’t expect an average police officer to be armed with a weapon or concentrated source of metal such as a gun or a Taser, but I didn’t sense zippers or buttons on their clothes or clasps on the custodian helmets. Alarm bells rang in my mind.
Unless the Metro Police had changed their uniform policy, things were not adding up.
“I know Constable Chambers,” I began, trying to sound confident. “If you’d just call him—”
The two who’d approached from behind us were less than four strides away, and the ones from the other end of the alley were even closer.
“You can talk to him yourself once we’re down at the station,” the spokesman of the group interrupted gruffly. “But I don’t imagine he’ll appreciate you throwing his name around like that, miss.”
Jackie and I dropped our bags and nodded.
“I’d think PC Chambers would be more upset that we forgot she was a woman.” Jackie shrugged, then her baton flicked out, and she launched herself at the nearest of the fake officers.
Their leader snarled, but it was cut short as I raked my hands through the air and sent two pipes sweeping down to smash him and his companion against the walls of the alley. Both men struck the brick with teeth-rattling impacts and slumped to the ground.
I spun and saw Jackie fending off two attackers, both armed with billy clubs––not metal, unfortunately. Several lashings of her baton and some clever footwork had the two men getting in each other’s way. One lost his footing after colliding with his mate, while the other made a wild swing at Jackie. The attack was strong but slow, and Jackie bobbed back to let it whistle by before launching a blow at the man’s exposed back. He fell to a knee, but the return swing across his jaw sent him spinning to the ground.
Jackie had no time to savour the victory as the other man climbed to his feet. In a snarling rush, he shoulder checked her against the wall. Jackie was no petite dewdrop, but he outsized her by at least two stone, and she hit the wall hard enough that I screamed. Jackie bounced off the wall and fell to her hands and knees, stunned. I reached for more pipes to punish her attacker when a sharp crack echoed through the alley. The man seized up, his whole body twisting in on itself, before collapsing to the ground to shudder and twitch.
A thick braid of copper wire, still snapping and buzzing with deadly electrical current, jutted from a small breach in the brick wall. It held there rigid and hissing for a second before slithering back into the wall, leaving our path clear. Sark removed his hand from the brick wall a few strides from where Jackie was now climbing to her feet.
Jackie looked at the man trembling on the ground, then looked at me. I shook my head and she turned and looked at Sark. He was back to hiding his face behind his lank, choppy hair.
“We should go,” he grunted, pointing towards St Paul’s.
9
Midday traffic shuffled around us as we got off the train in Covent Garden Station. Striving to stay close together and trying not to look like fugitives, we clambered onto the platform with our bags. A quizzical look here and there set my teeth on edge, but no transit staff tried to stop us. I took that as a win and led the way to the abandoned end of the platform.
“We are taking another train?” Uncle Iry asked looking around.
“A special train,” I said, waiting for the signal that indicated my presence had called our transportation.
The sharp, gusty wail of a steam engine’s whistle sounded, and the hustle and murmur of the station died away. We had side-stepped the normal world of London into that space where phantasmal beings dwelt. I wasn’t sure how the magic of summoning the station’s train worked exactly, but I was glad to see every member of our company still there. I hadn’t wanted to contend with the prospect of Uncle Iry or Sark not being included.
“What’s happening?” Sark said, his eyes darting around, searching for the crowds who’d filled the station only moments ago.
“We are going to the British Museum Station.” I nodded down the track towards the sound of a chugging engine. Another hearty whistle sounded and an opaque, yet strangely two-dimensional mist spilled from the tunnel.
“But that place was shut down long ago. It’s just a ruin.” A tremor crept into Sark’s voice as he watched the flat sheets of ghost-steam peel away to reveal the antique steam engine churning its way towards us.
“If you’d like, you can stay here,” Jackie offered coolly, shouldering her duffel. “In fact, if you are on the fence, just stay here as a favour to me.”
Sark ignored her, watching the train roll up to the platform with huge eyes.
The steam engine slid to a squealing stop and settled with a long hiss. Sark’s amazed stare became almost eager as the doors––quaint portals of wood panelling and plate glass––folded open to welcome us.
Jackie climbed on first, followed by Sark, who drank in every detail.
“They haven’t gone anywhere, a’am, we have,” I said, doing my best to explain. “We are going to a kind of ghost station, a place outside of the normal world. It will be safe, a hiding place where we can see a friend of mine who will help. We just need to take the ghost train.”
Uncle Iry baulked and looked at the train, and for the first time, I saw real fear in his face.
“When I was young my jida, your jida eazima, great-grandmother, used to tell stories of a cart pulled by a bouda, a witch, who would scoop up children and take them to the places of the dead.”
He swallowed and wiped a hand over his face. I stepped close to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Some,” he continued, “it would devour and give their bones to the ghuls.” Shame and guilt etched into the lines of his face. “When I look at this ghost train, Ibby, all I can think of is those stories.”
I nodded, understanding although I’d never been subjected to my great grandmother’s storytelling. Uncle Iry had needed to absorb so much in the short time he had been in the UK. It was only natural that he’d start to fray at the edges, God knows I’d been there more than once last year.
But we were so close now, so close to safety.
I took his hand, gently squeezing.
“Please trust me, a’am,” I said softly, looking earnestly into his face. “Just a little farther now, and we will be safe.”
Uncle Iry looked once more at the train, then back to me. With a sigh, he returned the affectionate pressure of my grip and nodded.
We stepped into the car and settled on seats next to Jackie and Sark. With another toot of the steam whistle, the doors closed, and we trundled into the darkness.
---
“Ibby Bashir,” Professor James Lowe shouted from the top of the spiral stairs that led up to the commons. “Quite the company you’ve brought today. If I’d known we were giving a tour, I might have cleaned up a bit.”
He was being absurd. As a condensation of psychic energy and ectoplasm bound by very old, very powerful, memories, the ghost-station didn’t require cleaning or maintenance. It remained a perfect replica of the British Museum Station of 1900.
“Things have gotten interesting in the world of the living, Professor,” I called up to him, our feet ringing on the ironwork stairs. “We’ve got a lot of news, and not a bit of it good, I’m afraid.”
“When is it ever?” Lowe replied. “But you might as well make yourselves at home. Judging from your bags, you seem to have something like that in mind.”
I frowned as I reached the top of the stairs. That was a bit gloomy for Lowe, who was typically optimistic. Remarkably so, given that he had been dead for almost a century. Over the past year, he had shared his knowledge about the Inconquo and guided me in using my new-found powers. He’d also been trying to learn more about our trapped demon––Kezsarak.
“Two new faces,” Lowe said, “but one of them I’m quite sure I already know.”
Lowe stepped towards Uncle Iry and held out a pale, long-fingered hand. “Welcome, Master Irshad Bashir,” Lowe said, smiling warmly. “I am Professor James Lowe. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Uncle Iry took the proffered hand and managed to hide a wince as he smiled back. Shaking a hand with a ghost is a chilly business.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Iry had a wide-eyed look around. “Your ... er, home, is very impressive.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take an ounce of credit for the ol’ mausoleum.” Lowe sighed, looking around with what could generously be called a weary eye.
“But it is good to see fresh faces,” Lowe said, some pluck back in his demeanour. “Not that your lovely niece hasn’t brightened the place when she manages to find the time. So busy this one, with this and with that. The heroine has no time but for saving the world.”
He shot me a mockingly severe glance. Uncle Iry and Lowe shared a chuckle.
I huffed, balling a fist on an outthrust hip as I looked at my uncle and the ghost in their sudden camraderie. “One minute together and already taking the mickey.”
Lowe and Uncle Iry did their best to look abashed, but a moment later, they were both sniggering again. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “You two are hopeless.”
I was overjoyed that the two most important men in my life were getting along so well, but I was avoiding the inevitable. I didn’t want to face what came next, partly because I didn’t know how Lowe would react and partly because even though it wasn’t even past lunch, I was dead tired. I just wanted to find a cozy alcove to crash in and handle all the explaining and strategizing later.
Jackie must have sensed my flagging resolve. She cleared her throat and jerked her head towards Sark – his face hidden behind the locks dangling from his bowed head.
“Oh,” Lowe said as he regarded the bedraggled man, sounding the quintessential Englishman. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the ladies talk about you before, sir. Who might you be?”
Sark’s head rose, and something passed between the disgraced Winterthür agent and the ghost. The air seemed markedly cooler, and an undercurrent of tension crackled between them.
“You have heard them talk about me,” Sark said flatly, without pride or apology. “I’m Dillon Sark.”
Lowe’s pale eyes glinted dangerously, and he seemed to loom beyond his already impressive height. The temperature dropped noticeably.
“Is he a prisoner?” Lowe hissed as he searched Sark’s body for restraints. “Why have you brought him?”
Sensing mounting danger, I stepped between Lowe and Sark, my hands raised.
“Lowe,” I said slowly, noting how my breath fogged in the frosty air. “This is going to take some explaining, but we need to stay calm … you need to stay calm.”
The hot gleam in the ghost’s eyes had grown until his eyes melted to pools of murky silver, and he continued to arch upward. His features stretched like taffy until his handsome face was frighteningly distorted.
“Why is he here?” Lowe demanded, the words coming out in a deep, elemental rumble.
Sark, Jackie, and Uncle Iry looked ready to run screaming for the hills. If I hadn’t kept reminding myself who I was talking to, I might have run with them.
“James,” I pleaded, my neck arching back to keep his gaze. “Please, you need to listen.”
The ghost paused then stuttered like a streaming video as it buffered. I’d seen this once before and suddenly worried that he would vanish. Last time he’d done this he’d been incommunicado for some time, and right now, I needed him to listen and help me figure out what to do.
Fortunately, Lowe diminished, shrinking into a noticeably deflated version of himself: flatter, less three dimensional than he should have been. His eyes, back to their spectral blue-grey, did not waver from Sark, but when he spoke, he it was to me.
“Please explain,” he said softly, the barest hint of his former fury sharpening his tone.
“Can we go sit down?” I heard every minute of lost sleep in my raw voice. “This is going to take a while.”
---
“Daria wanted you to know that Ninurta had been released,” I said, completing my summary of the past eighteen hours, and grateful that Lowe had listened with relative calm the whole time.
“Ninurta?” he said softly, his eyes becoming distant as he pondered the name. “She wanted me to know about Ninurta, but why?”
“You are a ghost, and this Ninurta is some kind of mummy or zombie, maybe?” Uncle Iry offered. “It could have something to do with that.”
“No,” Dillon’s voice was quiet but firm. “I repeat: Ninurta is alive. Not undead, not reanimated, not capable of being brought back to life. The monitors are showing heartbeats and respiration. His body is atrophied, and his mind comatose, but he is very much alive.”
We lapsed into silence, wrestling with the implications of the declaration.
Sark swallowed then added, “He’s too powerful to just die.”
“Okay, so it’s not the ghost thing.” I chewed my lower lip. “There must be some other reason she wanted me to tell you. What if it has to do with something else you might know? You were a professor of the Ancient Near East.”
Lowe’s frown deepened as he rose and began to pace the floor in a tight circuit.
“Maybe, he, Ninurta, I mean, is some kind of ally,” Jackie said, looking between Lowe and me. “He is supposed to be the first Inconquo, right? Maybe, Daria wants to save him and have him help you fight the Group of Winterthür?”
The way Sark had been talking about him, Ninurta had grown into a boogeyman, but maybe Jackie was right. The idea had elements I found comforting. Not being the only soldier in this war against Winterthür would be a good thing. I wasn’t technically alone, but as tough as Jackie was, she and any other normal person could only be support staff. Lowe was different, being a ghost, but that came with a whole other set of limitations that kept him from being on the front-line. I didn’t trust Sark enough––no matter what he said––to consider him a potential ally. And as broken as he seemed, I wasn’t sure he could be much use.
Thinking of Sark, he was back to hanging his head, shaking it slowly from side to side. His nutty, side-walker doom-caller routine wasn’t helpful. I stifled a huff of frustration and looked to Lowe, surprised to see he was shaking his head as well.
“Professor?” I prompted, as the ghost’s pacing quickened.
“No, not an ally,” Lowe said. “Ninurta was variably recorded as a god and king, depending on the source, a holy warrior against demons and a founder of cities.”
All eyes turned to Lowe, even Sark’s.
“Doesn’t sound like such a bad guy to me.” Jackie was unwilling to surrender her theory just yet.