by Jen Printy
I rotate my head, stretching my neck to survey the dark reaches of the confined chamber, searching for the source of the light. The movement sends another jolt of white-hot agony through me, making me scream. Unable to see my body past the fragments of train and tunnel, I snake my hands through the tight space in front of my chest. I prod my fingertips down the cotton fabric toward my stomach, where the bulk of the pain originates. A warm stickiness has seeped through the thin layer of T-shirt. My fingers hit a piece of warped rebar jutting out of my abdomen.
Dammit, and dammit again!
I run a hand along the rough metal, but with no room to maneuver, I won’t be able to pull it free even if I try. Setting my teeth to prepare myself for whatever pain is to come, I pat down my pockets in search of my jackknife. Even though I’m counting on Artagan’s return, I’m not willing to gamble on it, not when there’s an option of freeing myself. If a rescue crew finds my wounds healed around the rod still protruding from my belly, they will dub me a freak, or more dangerous, a miracle. Gladys’s fateful words roll through my head. My name was in all the papers.
Nowadays, with the Internet, a story of such a miraculous survival—accompanied by pictures—would go viral, and then there’d be nowhere to hide. I shudder. Lucky for me, the rod’s placement suggests there are no ribs involved, only flesh and muscle. My flimsy little knife would be a useless savior against bone.
By the time I dig the knife out of my pocket, I’m damp with perspiration, and my heart is pounding like a hammer in my chest. I place the collar of my jacket in my mouth and count to three. Then, sinking my teeth into the soft leather, I jab the tip of the blade into my flesh. At some point during the process, I must pass out because a murmur of voices rouses me back to consciousness. I shrink away from the noise. I hold my breath and listen, but all I hear is the sound of my accelerating breath echoing back at me.
“Found him,” a deep, unfamiliar voice booms from somewhere overhead. Panic ricochets within me.
Artagan, where the hell are you?
Energized by fear, I paw at the surrounding shadows, now wishing to find an escape into the swirling void—the lesser of two evils—but as expected, my hands find solid stone and steel. Another noise. I freeze. There’s a metallic moan of shifting wreckage above my head. The hair on my arms and legs stands on end, and I cringe. If only I could camouflage myself and disappear into the colors of grime like a chameleon.
Camouflage, huh? I think.
Not the best plan, but with the rescuers on my threshold, it will have to do.
Hands caked in blood and filth, I squeeze them past the debris up to my face. I swipe the crimson mud along my forehead in an attempt to hide the sickle-shaped birthmark above my left eye—my only distinguishing mark. Then, after dipping my fingers in the wound once more, I rub the blood across my face. Gravel rains down. I close my eyes. Stony grains tickle my cheeks and collect in the grooves around my nose and the hollows of my eyes. My only hope now is, in the confusion of a rescue effort, I’ll find a moment to slip away.
A rush of air hits my face, but I keep my eyes closed tight. Two massive hands grab me by the shoulders, jerking me off the steel rod in one fell swoop. I scream, my eyes popping open, and I stare into the amused face of Otmar.
He towers over me, resembling the gods of Nordic myth, ones he probably inspired into being, brawny and severe. His hair, tied back with a leather cord, shows off the black flames of the fire tattoo twisting up his neck and disappearing beneath a well-trimmed beard. His amethyst-flecked eyes sparkle as his smile widens. “You were supposed to get off the train, dumbass.”
He releases me. With my muscles quivering under the strain of standing, it’s a fight to stay upright. I prop myself against a crumbled chunk of a cement piling. As I lean there, I look out across the mass of wreckage to avoid the smirks of my entertained onlooker and the throbbing in my gut.
A sixty-ton train going fifty miles per hour and plowing straight into a concrete wall has redesigned the closed subway station into a scene resembling a war zone. Clouds of smoke pour from piles of distorted steel and concrete boulders. The impact eviscerated the car we were in, tearing the metal away as if it were no more than tinfoil, contorting the frame into a deformed skeleton. The other train cars are stacked behind it like forgotten toy blocks. Bodies litter the rubble. No less horrific than this sight is the utter silence. It reminds me of France during the First World War right after an air raid.
The crunch of gravel jerks my attention away. Otmar glances over his shoulder. I cannot see anything past the Nordic’s massive form, but lacking the will to move, I stay where I am.
A chuckle rumbles under Otmar’s breath. “You’re in for it now,” he says then moves aside.
Artagan speeds toward us. From his flushed, mottled skin and the engorged vein pulsing in his forehead, calling him angry would be an understatement. I straighten, pushing away from my support, but keep one hand on the rough cement for balance. Eyes fixed on mine, Artagan stares, unblinking.
“Sorry. I missed my stop.” My voice is raspy. I choose not to make eye contact. Artagan will already assume I’m lying. I might as well not give him further evidence.
“Sorry? Mmph.”
I glance over Artagan’s shoulder to find what fury lies in wait in Leah’s emerald-green irises. But Leah’s not there. She’s not anywhere.
My gaze jerks back to Artagan. “Where’s Leah?”
Artagan glares at me from under a weighted brow. “She’s home. I couldn’t allow her to see all this, now could I? Not yet, anyway.” Every one of Artagan’s words brims with agitation, reverberating off the remnants of the tunnel walls.
Otmar steps forward, draping an arm across Artagan’s shoulder. “You see, there’s a delicate balance for these things,” he says mockingly. “Especially when dealing with a former Ignorant. If not prepared properly, they might snap and wipe out a whole village the first chance they get.” He nods toward Artagan, pointing with his chin. “Although in my opinion, he’s too soft on the girl. Probably due to guilt.”
Artagan removes the Viking’s muscular arm with a shrug but says nothing. Instead, he chooses to examine me, eyes squinting in speculation, his expression never losing the enraged scowl. After grumbling a few curses, he holds his hand out to Otmar. “Your shirt.”
Otmar’s bushy eyebrows knit together in a deep frown. He glances at his faded Return of the Jedi T-shirt. The collar frayed, the graphic of Luke standing at the ready, lightsaber in hand, peeling around the edges are both telltale signs the shirt’s a favorite. Then, bringing his arm across his chest, he says, “No.”
“He can’t very well heal correctly with his entrails hanging out, now can he? I need to strap him up to hold him together,” Artagan says, smoothing back a spill of straight hair that has fallen into his face.
“Agreed. But use your own shirt.”
Artagan gives Otmar a hard stare. “It’s Versace.”
There’s a slight flicker across Otmar’s lips much too weak to be a smile. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s made by Odin himself. I’m not giving you my shirt. Take one of theirs.” He gestures to the scattering of bodies. “It’s not like any of them need ’em.”
My throat tightens at the thought of desecrating the ill-fated passengers further. Otmar’s right—they don’t need them, nor will any of them object to the despoiling. However, haven’t they been through enough?
From the pang of reluctance in his eyes, some part of Artagan feels the same. After letting out a sigh of resignation, he removes his blazer in a quick, fluid movement and lays it folded on the rubble next to me, all the while giving me the evil eye. Artagan undoes the pearl-blue buttons then slips off his shirt. A long, delicate chain hangs around his neck, adorned with a small ring—far too small to be his own—that gleams gold in the flickering fluorescent light.
“Tear it into strips for me, wo
uld you?” he asks, tossing the shirt to Otmar, and his glare returns to me. “Damn good shirt.” His tone is low and controlled. “You’re replacing it.”
I nod once.
Artagan shrugs the jacket back on, fastening the top button before he begins the arduous task of putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.
I choose not to watch while Artagan reassembles me and then ties strips of blue cotton tight around my midsection to secure my innards in place. He’s a little rougher than necessary, I wager. The simplest movement releases rounds of fire searing new paths on their way through my gut. My knees buckle, and my body sways, forcing Otmar to step to my side and hold me vertical, his tree trunk of an arm tucked under my armpit for support. Artagan delivers a scathing lecture while he works, most of which I miss because of the sizable pain in my stomach and Otmar’s chuckles in my ear. I try to escape the pain and humiliation by focusing my attention elsewhere, letting my eyes drift along my surroundings.
Whether from blood loss or the constant pain, an intense weariness washes over me. I feel removed as though I am watching the scene from a great distance. Under the weight of the lethargic fog, I’m able to stop thinking about the gruesome sights and see only shapes and colors until my eyes encounter an oversize patchwork bag sticking out of the rubble. My breathing hitches. When Artagan draws away to examine his handiwork, I bolt.
I find Gladys over a dip of wreckage. Her dress is wet, blood soaking through the navy-blue fabric and coloring the once-white polka dots red. One of her legs is twisted, bent in a way not quite natural. Skin and muscle are stripped back so I can see the white of bone. Her eyes are open, frozen in perpetual fear, and her thin, weathered hand still clutches the crucifix. I press two fingers to the hollow of her throat, searching for a pulse, but from the looks of her, Gladys is dead.
“You knew her?” Otmar asks from behind me.
“No, but I stayed on the train because of her.” I add hastily, “She was frightened. Just before Charles Station, she caught hold of me and wouldn’t let go. I suppose I could have made a frightened elderly lady release me, but under the circumstances, that seemed a bit heartless. Besides, my mother taught me never to leave a lady in distress.” I pull my gaze away and look up.
Artagan’s expression hovers between anger and puzzlement. The fine vertical lines between his brows deepen. When he speaks, it’s clear anger has won out. “All this was because of a woman? This woman?” He points at Gladys’s body. The speculation in his voice is thick.
I nod, lips pressed together.
“Give the kid a break. It’s not as if we’ve never done something stupid for a woman,” Otmar says.
Artagan purses his lips, inhales through his nose, and then kneels by Gladys’s side next to me. His mouth softens, relaxing into a thin, grim line before he bows his head. After a moment of frozen reverence, he removes the pewter flask from his pocket and dabs alcohol on his thumb. He says a few more words in Latin then makes the sign of the cross first on her forehead, followed by the palms of her hands.
Artagan stands, brushing off the knees of his trousers. “The anointing may not be church sanctified—they’d never give this sacrament to one already dead. I’m sure they’d also frown on the use of spirits, but it’s my ritual.”
A moment later, the sirens come. With Artagan on my left and Otmar on my right, each lifts me by an arm and ushers me toward a nearby shadow. I close my eyes to escape the blur of motion I know will soon spiral about me. I’m not sure I can hold back the vomit a second time, and I’m sure retching on my liberators might be too much for their teetering patience.
Once the sensation of whirling stops, I open my eyes to find the inviting orange light of Artagan’s office. Along with the safety of anonymity and the relief of being out of the shadows, the tingling warmth of healing greets me. I relax, never as happy by its miraculous arrival as I am now.
Otmar yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I better get moving. That wasn’t my last job tonight. What is it about full moons?”
“I’ll be smudging off the rest of the house after you leave,” Artagan reminds him.
Otmar mutters something in a language I don’t recognize then leaves through the shadows.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“Loosely translated, he thinks I’m a moron,” he says in a dismissive tone. He walks to the liquor cabinet and pours two drinks. After handing me one, he sinks into the cushions of one of the high-backed armchairs. Watching me over the glass, he says, “Now, would you like to tell me what the flaming hell that was all about?” His expression has changed, no longer angry, but his eyes hold a definite edge of warning.
I take a sizable swallow and let the smooth burn of Scotch chase away any misgivings before I start.
“That woman,” I say, rolling the glass between my palms, “knew who we were, why we were on the train. At first, I thought she might be a threat. That’s the reason I stayed with her. Maybe I should have dismissed her outlandish ramblings as those of a madwoman.”
“But…” He gives a short, dry laugh. “There has to be a but.”
“But Gladys knew things. She called me Endless.”
Artagan’s eyes narrow. “Gladys? There was no Gladys scheduled to be on the 107 tonight.” A slight frown draws his eyebrows close together. “What else did she say?”
I tell him everything.
“None of this makes much sense,” I say. “Edmund Thomas Chipp gave daily recitals at the Royal Panopticon. I know because my mother was a fan. The Panopticon was open two short years before it closed in 1856, reopening as the Alhambra Theatre. My mum talked of little else. Gladys said she sang there. At the age of twenty-nine, I think she said.”
“And you believed her?”
“I did.” I take another sip. “That makes Gladys fifteen years my senior. However, from her appearance, she looked to be in her eighties, while I’m stuck at twenty.” My voice ramps up as my brain struggles to see the feasibility in what I’m saying. “She also mentioned seeing the white gleam of the pyramids and helping Shakespeare write Julius Caesar.”
I laugh. The story sounds ludicrous aloud, but I continue anyway. “I know the Great Pyramids used to be covered in polished white limestone, but I only learned it from books. I never witnessed it myself.”
“Yes, that’s right, but they had to remove many of the casting stones in the fourteenth century after an earthquake.” He turns away so only the sharp lines of his profile are visible, tapping his pointer finger against his lips.
“Gladys’s eyes were gray, not black like a Soulless,” I continue. “So if not one of them and not an Endless, what was she? Another soul immortal with memories of her past? But that doesn’t explain how she knew the fate of that train or how she knew who we were.”
“Those are all excellent questions,” he says. He looks me up and down and grimaces. “But ones that will have to wait. You best clean up unless you want Leah to see you looking like this. Your wounds have healed, but you still look like hell.” He grins, all irritation forgotten. “One thing before you go. I want to offer you the use of my books. With Leah’s training and all, I haven’t had the time to make any progress on the reasons behind Leah’s soul memories. I was thinking at least for the time being you could take the lion’s share of the research. It will give you a way to feel useful when the other members are training Leah.”
I nod.
“And while you’re at it, you can research Gladys’s peculiarities. It couldn’t hurt to know more about her and her puzzling knowledge.”
“So I’m still allowed on gatherings while you’re in charge then?” I ask with a smidgeon of hope.
His face lapses into faint distraction. “Yes, as long as Leah hasn’t changed her mind after your little stunt. To say she was upset is an understatement. Now, off with you before she sees you and you get yourself in more trouble than you alre
ady are.”
Thanks be to God, I make it up to my bedroom without detection. I slowly remove my jacket. Although my body has healed, it’s still tired and weak after being so battered. I hold the jacket up by the collar to give it the once-over. The blood will stain, but on the black leather, it won’t show all that much. A slit of light draws my attention. With a curse, I push my fingers through a jagged gash. I hang the only true casualty of my rash decision over the curved arm of the settee and console myself with the fact that the hole is nothing duct tape won’t fix.
Next, I empty my pockets—wallet, knife, cell phone, and last but not least, my father’s pocket watch. I let my finger stroke the engraved lid before setting it on the nightstand next to the small pile of possessions. Then, stepping into the bathroom, I unwind the bandages and strip off my shirt and jeans, tossing the lot in a heap outside the door. They’re torn to rags and covered with blood and filth, nothing worth salvaging.
In the hot shower, I tilt my head back and let the streams of water run through my crusted hair and down the length of my body, sending the evidence of my actions whirling down the drain. I emerge clean but not renewed. A heaviness remains in my limbs, and exhaustion is settling over me, dulling my senses—both probably aftereffects from the loss of blood. After wrapping myself in a towel, I open the door of the steam-filled room to the coolness of the bedroom to find Leah sitting cross-legged on my bed. Surprised, I stop mid-stride. Her gaze is not on me, but on the mound of ruined clothes on the floor.
“I can explain,” I say, stepping out from the doorway into the full light of the room.
“I’m sure.” Her eyes meet mine, straight on. A fierceness blazes in their depths. “I’m sure you’re bursting with reasons why I shouldn’t have worried, and why you needed to do whatever you did. You heal.” She points to her temple. “I know that here, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling scared and anxious when I know you’re hurt.”