by Sarah Zettel
But fire is stronger than magic, and it was spreading. It was licking across the curtains. One of the trumpet players tripped over his chair, and a bunch of chairs and papers and drinks spilled across the bandstand. The liquid hit the burning curtains, and blue alcohol flames leapt up from the floor. The pavilion was burning, and the crowd was shoving its way out the doors, past the point where any glamour, any wishing magic could call them back.
“Time to go, Jack.” I grabbed his hand. He blinked too, and looked at me, really looked at me. He was still sick and gray and weak, but he was back. He stumbled to his feet behind me.
The doorway was clogged with struggling people. There was no getting out that way. But there were windows. I jerked open the curtains and saw the bright lights of the midway. Jack and I knew what to do with windows.
Jack yanked off his tuxedo jacket and I pressed my hand right up against his, lacing our fingers. He got the idea and wrapped the jacket around both our arms, tying us together.
“On three!” I reached for my magic. Jack reached for the last of his strength. “One, two, three!”
“STOP!” The force of wish and will tumbled over us, but it was too late. Together, we punched out that sparkling glass. The world key turned, and turned again. I grabbed Jack’s shoulders, pulled us forward, and we fell.
And we kept on falling.
25
The Little Black Train’s a-Comin’
We fell through a blaze of color. We tumbled and pinged and slammed back and forth. Jack screamed. I screamed. I wanted to pull out my powers and stop the storm. But if I did, we’d stop flying. We’d be stuck in whatever world this was. Their world.
I let us fall.
We hit the boardwalk hard. I screamed some more, and Jack cussed and groaned. I couldn’t see straight. The crazy colors we fell through had blinded me. But then I smelled the smoke and cotton candy. I heard the other screams, and something in my brain beyond all the magic jerked itself upright and took me with it. The world cleared, and we were in the amusement park again.
The white pavilion was burning down. People streamed out of the building, adding their screams to the roar of the fire. There were sirens and bells clanging, and everybody who wasn’t running away from the fire was running toward it to watch the show and cheer it on. A fire engine thundered up the boardwalk, and men in heavy coats and red helmets swarmed out and started shouting orders.
“We made it,” gasped Jack. He was doubled over, his hand pressed against his belly. “We made it.”
But I looked up and saw the green-skinned carnival barker who’d given me my ring. The goblin from the test-of-strength tower sat on the counter at his right hand, and they both had their beady fairy eyes trained on me.
“Not yet, we haven’t,” I said, more to myself than to Jack. We were back in the tunnel, the passage between. I grabbed Jack’s arm. “Come on, we got to get to the outside gate.”
But Jack staggered forward two steps and sank to his knees.
“I can’t …,” he gasped. “I can’t.…”
He had to. I looked around us and spied an abandoned cart advertising soda pop, five cents a bottle. I reached into its cooler, grabbed a bottle of root beer, and used the opener. I felt no magic or glamour around it, and I ran back to Jack.
He turned the bottle up and drank that root beer like he meant to down it in a single gulp. The screams had lessened, but the smoke was filling the air around us and firelight flickered on the boards. White sparks flew overhead, and the artificial lights all winked. There was just the fire now.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I murmured, hoping Jack wouldn’t hear me over all the other noise.
But that was a mistake. Because that was me making a wish.
Thhhheeeerrrre shhhheeee issss.… It was the voice again, the soft, beautiful, deep voice that had followed me from that first awful day when I’d wished so hard to get out of Slow Run.
No. Oh, no, no, no, not here! “Get up, Jack! They’re coming!”
Jack surged to his feet. He followed me as I ran through the heat and the flickering firelight. The stupid Mary Janes pinched my toes, and the slick leather soles skidded against the boards, making me stumble.
“Calliope!” a woman’s voice called. “Calliope, where are you going, child? Come home!”
Hearing the sound of my name was like slamming up against a brick wall. I couldn’t go forward. It hurt. My feet turned, skidding and sloppy under me.
“Come home!” called Grandmother. “Calliope deMinuit! Come home!”
“Callie, no!” Jack grabbed for my hand.
But Jack wasn’t strong enough. I was slogging forward, as helpless against the pull of my own name as he had been against the pull of the dance music.
The touch of Jack’s hand slipped away. He was gone, run off. Again. He’d left me alone to stumble through the stinking smoke and hot ash toward the fire. The little imps in evening dress circled around my knees, cheering. I looked up and saw my grandparents silhouetted against the flames, their arms out in welcome. A deep hole filled with the swirling colors of madness opened behind them.
WHAM!
I was sprawled on my belly. Jack rolled off me before I knew what had hit me, and he stuffed something in my hands. I stared.
It was a frying pan. A big black cast-iron frying pan. Over his shoulder I saw the lunch counter with its stove top, and the human fry cook hollering and leaping over the counter.
“Calliope deMinuit!” called Grandmother again.
But this time, the drag was gone. Jack looked down at me and grinned.
“Let’s go!” he said.
I was on my feet and we ran, fast and crazy, away from the fry cook and my grandparents and everything. We were going toward the gate. I didn’t need my magic to tell me. Jack always knew the right way to go.
The shot exploded past my ear without warning.
I screamed, Jack screamed, and we both faltered and skidded sideways around the Tilt-A-Whirl.
Bull Morgan walked out of the smoke. And he wasn’t alone. A slim male silhouette walked beside him.
Where issss shhhheeee? The voice rode the wind and swirled together with the smoke.
“There!” said Bull Morgan, who despite everything was a human being and couldn’t be fooled by iron or steel. He pointed at us with his revolver.
“Thou good and faithful servant!” laughed the man at his side. No. Not a man. I knew the voice now. I’d heard it calling to Bull Morgan, raising him up and driving him back down into the dust. But I’d also heard it singing “St. James Infirmary Blues” in a deserted honky-tonk, and trying to talk me into believing lies about who my father was.
It hadn’t been the Seelie who had sent Morgan after us. It had been my uncle, my father’s younger brother, the one who would have been the heir to the Midnight Throne if it wasn’t for me being born. The one who told me straight-out that I was the heir, as long as I drew breath.
“You’re slow, Callie deMinuit.” Uncle Lorcan smiled his big white smile down at me. “But then, so was your papa.” He turned calmly to Bull Morgan. “Shoot them. We’ll toss them into the fire afterward.”
“You planned this. You wanted me to start the fire so you could kill me and make it look like an accident.”
He bowed. “Their Majesties would be most upset if I spilled family blood, even bastard blood. But a tragic accident, precipitated by your unwise passion for this little mortal boy … ah, well. Shoot them,” he said again to Morgan.
“You left Shimmy to die,” I croaked. “You never told her she was helping to get me killed.”
“Poor Shimmy.” He shook his head, but his smile never once wavered. “She was so anxious to curry the favor of the court. As if any half-and-half who wasn’t the prophecy girl could ever find welcome here. Yes, I used her, and she was glad to be used.”
“She never let me down.”
“Never, pathetic creature.”
“She’s behind you!”
&n
bsp; He jerked around. I whacked him hard with my frying pan in the small of the back. Jack tackled Bull Morgan, and they rolled over and over on the boardwalk. The ground shook underneath us. The boardwalk was made of wood, and it was still burning. There was a shot. The frying pan in my hands shuddered, and something smacked against my head so hard I staggered. Something went squelch. Now I couldn’t see straight. Salt stung my eyes, and all the strength left my hands, so I had to drop the frying pan.
“Callie!” Jack grabbed my hand and dragged me after him. “You gotta wish us outta here, Callie!”
But I couldn’t see. There was something dark getting into my eyes. My ears rang louder than the fire alarms. My head was burning, and I wondered if I’d caught fire.
“Stop!” bawled Morgan. “Stop in the name of the law!”
“ ‘The Midnight Special,’ Callie!” cried Jack. “Sing it!”
I wanted to get away. I wanted to get Jack away. I felt my name being called, and I had no iron to get in the way of that summons. I opened my mouth, but I could only whisper:
“Let the Midnight Special shine a light on me …”
My head was spinning. I couldn’t hold my thoughts together. All the other train songs rattled around in my frightened skull: “Rock Island Line,” “This Train,” “Little Black Train.” All the words all mixed up in the wishes and commands and fire.
“If you wanna ride it, gotta ride it like you find it … this train she’s bound for glory … don’t carry no gamblers … let the Midnight Special shine a light, shine a light, shine an ever-lovin’ light … this train she’s bound for glory … gotta ride it, gotta ride it like you find it … this train …”
And I didn’t care. I didn’t care which train, which gate or door we could find. I had to get out of there. I had to get Jack out of there. I had to. There was no one else, not with the smoke and the fire and my treacherous family all behind us.
This train, this train, this train …
“I got yer mammy!” said Morgan.
I skidded to a stop and turned my head. Too slow, too late. Morgan didn’t have hold of Shimmy, but my hesitation was just enough, and his big, soft, cold hands clamped around my waist, lifting me high. Jack hollered and swore, and Morgan kicked him aside. He started to squeeze hard, squeeze all the air out of me.
“Die! Die, you stupid pickaninny brat! Gonna kill you dead like you killed me!”
“No!” cried Jack. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t see.
Mama! My heart wailed to the black sky. Help me! Mama!
This train, whispered the wind that blew down from that sky. This train …
A new note cut across the roar of fire and fear. Louder than any alarm bell, longer than any note from any horn. New light fell across us, blinding white and strong enough to cut through any smoke. Morgan hollered, and his killing grip around my middle let loose. I dropped to the boards, and Jack was on his knees next to me, pulling me up and wrapping his arms around me.
A clanging and a chugging filled the world, followed by the squeal of brakes and the hiss of steam. I tried to look up, but the new light was so strong, I could only squint.
There on the edge of the boardwalk stood a railroad engine. It was shining black iron, bigger than anything else in the whole world. Clouds of steam wreathed around it, and the brass ringing of its bell drowned out all the other noises.
I stared. Jack stared. Morgan hollered and fell back. The gun in his hand went off, and the bullet pinged off the side of that big black engine and did no harm whatsoever.
The engine pulled a string of passenger cars, just as black, with the shades pulled down so no light came from the windows. The door on the first car swung open smoothly, and a man in a white porter’s jacket and a shiny billed cap walked down the stairs. He was treetop-tall and had skin as black as the Midnight Throne. He saw me and Jack huddled on the ground gawping up at him, and folded his arms. But it wasn’t us he was frowning at.
“I been waitin’ on you, Samuel Morgan.” His big black hand clamped around Morgan’s shoulder and lifted him up off the ground. “You just about done throwed off my whole schedule.”
26
Kind Friends, This May Be the End
Dangling from the porter’s grip, Morgan raised his gun and pointed it at the man’s broad face. The porter just looked disgusted and wrenched the revolver out of the railroad bull’s gray fingers, tossing it away into the steam clouds.
“Last call!” cried a voice from deep inside the train. “All aboard!”
The giant of a porter looked down at me and Jack. “You two coming?”
Weakness washed over me, mixing with the pain in my head and the feel of the flames at my back. But Jack pulled me to my feet and shoved me in front of him up the steps of that black Pullman car, climbing in behind.
You know how people talk about the weight of the world slipping off their shoulders? That was what I felt as soon as I reached the top of those stairs. All at once, I wasn’t tired anymore. I felt fine. Nothing hurt, and I could see perfectly well. I could stand. I could walk. I wasn’t even hungry.
The porter came up the steps behind us, carrying Bull Morgan at arm’s length as easy as he’d carry a rotten apple by its stem.
“Okay, Mr. Jones!” he called toward the engine. “We got ’em.”
There was a narrow pass-through behind me. I could see the sooty confines of the engine, and the engineer in his dusty overalls. The firebox was open, and the burly fireman shoveled in a load of coal from the big pile next to him. The engineer mounted the cab. The whistle sounded, and the train pulled smoothly forward.
“These two are my prisoners!”
Bull Morgan straightened himself up. He wasn’t swollen, damp, and gray anymore. He was the living man as I’d first seen him in Constantinople. As if to prove it, he yanked his club out of its holster and waved it at the porter. “You got no right, you …”
But the porter just clamped two huge fingers around the club and pulled it out of the bull’s hand. He closed his fist around it. There was a loud, short crunch, and sawdust trickled down to the carpet.
“I am the porter in charge of this train, Samuel Morgan. You will sit yourself down and mind your p’s and q’s until you get where you’re going.”
He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder again and pushed him into the nearest seat. He snapped his fingers, and Bull Morgan’s head dropped back. His mouth opened, and for a second I thought he was dead, until I heard the long, rumbling snore.
Apparently satisfied, the porter turned to smile all the long way down to me and Jack, and touched the brim of his hat. “Pleased to have you on board, Jacob, Calliope.”
“We can’t ride this train,” Jack whispered. “We don’t have tickets.”
The porter chuckled. “Oh, everybody on my train’s prepaid, don’t you worry. You just be comfortable. We’ll be at the station shortly.” He pulled a gold turnip watch out of his pocket and checked it. “Yes, indeed. Right on time.” He tucked the watch away and touched the brim of his hat again. “You need anything, you just pull the cord and ask for Daddy Joe, porter in charge. Now, if you and Calliope will excuse me, there’s some folks in the back I’ve got to see to.” He walked briskly down the aisle. The train rattled and bumped over the tracks, but Daddy Joe didn’t so much as sway as he strode toward the rear of the car.
I turned to Jack, my mouth open, and I swallowed my words.
If I’d gotten better, Jack had gotten worse. He was sick and gray again as he stared around the dim car at all the passengers.
“Shema yisroel, adonoi eloheinu, adonoi echod,” he croaked. “Boruch shem k’vod malchuso l’olam vo’ed.”
“Jack!” I shook his shoulder. “Jack, what is it?”
“Don’t you see, Callie?”
I looked around. I saw a Pullman Palace Car stuffed full of people, all kinds and all ages of people. There were women with babies in their arms, and all sizes of kids, both with their parents and on
their own. There were old people tricked out in their Sunday best, sitting up straight and calm. Some were smiling like they were on the way to a vacation they’d been saving for forever; others looked sad; some looked even more scared than Bull Morgan had when he saw Daddy Joe the porter reach down for him.
“What do you see?” I asked Jack.
“They’re dead, Callie. That one … that one’s been shot, and that one’s got her head on her lap, like she needs a hatbox. That one’s got the scarlet fever, and that one …” He shuddered and closed his eyes. “What do you see?”
“They all look fine to me. They look … they look like they’re on a train trip. Nothing special, except …” Then I realized what was special, what I’d missed before. “Except black and white and brown, they’re all sitting together. Nobody’s split them up.”
Then I looked at them harder. “Can you see their eyes?” I asked Jack.
“Yeah.”
“I can’t. They’ve got no eyes.” They didn’t. Where their eyes should have been in all those calm, slightly curious faces were nothing but black holes.
“Which of us do you think is seeing true?” asked Jack.
“I think we both are.” I paused, and slowly touched the place on my head where I’d been hit by … something. My skin and skull didn’t feel smooth like they should. They felt ragged and loose. “Jack … Jack, what do you see looking at me?”
He swallowed, and he struggled. “You’re … you’re shot, Callie. Your head.”
Which was really all I needed to know about that. “Okay.”
“Does it hurt?” he asked softly.
“No. I don’t feel anything at all.” I didn’t even feel afraid. It was like I was cut off from all that. Jack, clearly, wasn’t having any such luck.
“Maybe we should sit down,” I suggested.
“Yeah.”
We found a couple of seats right at the front, where Jack could stare at the wall and not have to see the other passengers. I took the window seat. The shade was down, but I hooked one finger around the edge and pulled it back, just far enough to see.