St. Cyprian hesitated, considering his options, and then flung himself from the top of the train as the plane looped back for a second pass. He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact. If he could roll down the slope of the track without breaking anything, and make it to the woods…
“Got you!”
His eyes jolted open as strong hands caught him. He looked down at the ground and then twisted about to see Harker. “Where the bloody hell were you?” he demanded, as she hauled him through the window and into the baggage compartment. He could hear the whine of the plane’s engine as it began its second pass, and heard the thud of bullets striking the roof. Hopefully, the vampires would keep them busy until he could figure out what to do. Oh Morris my lad, you and I are going to have quite the chat when I get back…
“Trying to find out why the train stopped,” she said. “There’s a tree across the tracks, before you ask.” She grimaced, and he noticed that the sleeve of her coat was torn, and there were scratches on her cheek. “Two of them sandbagged me, as I was coming back. Sarah and another one…but I slipped past them when the shooting started.”
“That’ll be whoever put the tree there, I presume,” he said, straightening his coat. “I’d say it was our old friends in the Order of the Dragon, given the aerial display just now. Who else would paint a kite like that black and emblazon a red dragon on the tail?” He shook his head. “Or the Janissaries, perhaps.”
“They have a plane?” she asked, eyes wide. Then, “What Janissaries?”
“Those Janissaries—do you hear that?” he said, as gunfire ripped through the night. “Someone out there is having a fine old time. It might as well be 1917.” He shook his head. “Vampires to the right of them, dragons to the left of them, devils in front of them, screech’d and howl’d, boldly they ran and well, to misquote Tennyson.” He started for the front of the compartment. “With the train stopped, we’re sitting ducks. We need to get the bones and go, before our diverse opponents whittle themselves down to reasonable numbers.”
“Go? Go where? We’re stuck in the wilds of Romania—it’s nothing but trees and wolves out there,” Harker said, hurrying after him.
“Yes, but, we have a motor car,” he said, pointing to the Templar Roadster. He went to the automobile and recovered the valise, with its hideous burden. “We’ll take the auto, and drive until the tank is dry or we find a petrol station. Either way, it puts some distance between us and—”
The sound of a gun being cocked was loud in the coach. Selim stepped out from behind a stack of suitcases, his revolver in his hand. There was blood on his face, and his hair was mussed, but he appeared otherwise unhurt. “My brothers are dying, Mr. St. Cyprian. Dying because of you; because of that thing you hold,” he said, softly. “They do so gladly, for it must be done.”
“Gladly or not, there’s little call for it. I can understand the lack of trust,” St. Cyprian said, hefting the empty valise. “But you have tried to kill me twice now, when all I’ve been trying to do is bring this blasted case and its contents to you.”
Selim shook his head. “You cannot be trusted with this task. She cannot be trusted,” he said, indicating Harker with a jerk of his head. “1526,” he continued, as he raised the revolver. “The year Suleiman the Magnificent invaded Hungary. That was the year we were born, in a place called Stregoicavar, in a cave where a foul toad-thing wallowed in cosmic filth. Where the children of ruin worshipped a night black stone, and called down monsters from the starless dark. We put the toad-thing and its worshippers to the sword, and wove incantations older than the Prophet’s wisdom to hold them in their charnel beds when we were finished.” He aimed the pistol at St. Cyprian. “You will give me that case, Mr. St. Cyprian. And then you will go back to your sleeper, enjoy the rest of your trip, and leave the chaining of the dragon to us.”
“No,” Harker hissed. “He’s too dangerous for you—for anyone!—to hold for long.” She took a step towards Selim, and the revolver twitched.
“I will shoot you, madam. I know what you are, and I have prepared accordingly. These bullets have been blessed, according to rites which were old when Antioch fell, and they will stop you.”
“Or maybe, I will stop you,” Liatoukine said. The Cossack had appeared suddenly, bleeding out of the shadows in silence. His sabre flashed, even as Selim turned. The revolver snarled, and Liatoukine staggered with a howl. Steam rose from the holes in his coat as he fell back against the wall, clawing at his flesh with desperate fingers. Selim, for his part, had not escaped unscathed. The Turk stumbled away, dripping blood from his arm. He swung about, pistol raised, eyes wild with growing panic.
St. Cyprian lunged, tackling Harker aside as the revolver barked, chewing flinders from a standing crate. The pistol snarled again and again, then there was a wet sound, and it fell silent. St. Cyprian peered over the crate. Liatoukine jerked his sabre from Selim’s skull with a liquid pop! and turned, blood-stained fangs bared. Steam still rose from the bullet holes in his coat front, and he moved awkwardly, as if in pain.
“Hand it over, Englishman,” he said, extending his sword.
“Looking a bit peaked there, my friend,” St. Cyprian said, reaching down to grab a chunk of wood. He glanced down at Harker and blinked. She was gone. He hadn’t even heard her move.
“What—this? This is nothing. I have been struck by worse, and by better shots in my time,” the Cossack chortled. Blood seeped down his chin into his beard. “It takes more than a few bullets to kill an honest Cossack.”
“Especially if he’s a vampire, eh?”
“Even so,” Liatoukine gurgled. He took a step towards St. Cyprian. “Even bleeding like a stuck pig, I am faster than you. Stronger, too. Do not make this hard on yourself.” He smiled suddenly. “Or do.”
The vampire was a blur of motion as he abruptly lunged, the tip of his blade darting for St. Cyprian’s heart. St. Cyprian jerked back, but too slowly. Then Liatoukine was toppling forward with a shrill cry. The tip of his sabre slid through the hem of St. Cyprian’s coat, pinning it to a nearby crate. The Cossack was on the ground, writhing like a snake as he clawed uselessly at Harker, who had wrapped her scarf about his neck like a garrotte. It took St. Cyprian a moment to realize that she wasn’t attempting to strangle the vampire; rather, she was slowly, but surely, twisting his head off.
Pale flesh tore, and black blood spurted, and then Harker was falling back onto her rear, Liatoukine’s snarling head in her clutches. The Cossack’s jaws worked soundlessly, and his broken neck bone waggled like a serpent’s tail. Despite his decapitation, his eyes still burned hatefully. Harker cursed and hurled the head away, into the dark of the baggage car. She looked at St. Cyprian. “We have to go,” she said.
“I’m open to suggestions,” he said.
“There is a…a place. A safe place, I think.” She hesitated. “I hope.”
“Nearby?”
“Not close enough to reach on foot,” she said, wiping her hands clean of blood with her scarf. She glared down at it. “This was a gift from my mother.” She dropped it and looked around. “The valise…”
“Here it is. And I think I see a way we can get to your safe place,” St. Cyprian said, hefting the valise. While she’d been busy decapitating Liatoukine, he’d recovered the sigil-scrawled bag from the motorcar’s undercarriage, and tossed it under the seat, but there was no reason to tell her that. His hand throbbed as he lifted the case, but he hid his wince. Even so, Harker noticed.
“Your hand…” she began.
“It’s nothing,” he said. He patted the side of the car. “Now, come on. Let’s be off.” He had to admit, Sforza had taste. Harker looked at the Roadster.
“A car?” She spun, as something heavy struck the door of the baggage car. The wood began to splinter as whoever it was put to the boot to it again. Eyes like lamps glimmered through the crack, and pale fingers eeled through to clutch and pull.
“You can’t get away, half-breed!” Sarah Kenyon howled, her voice
echoing through the baggage car. Another thud, and the bolts popped out of the uppermost hinges.
“I was quite the racer in my misspent youth,” St. Cyprian said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Hop in. I’d rather not be here, when your friends get in here.”
“But how are we going to get it out of the baggage car?” Harker asked, as she climbed in. St. Cyprian smiled as he cranked the motor car to life.
“Oh, I think we’ll find a way.”
17.
“Well dear,” Elizabeth said, “It seems it’s just me and thee. Shall I deal, or will you do the honors?” She smiled and fluffed the cards with a practiced motion.
Gallowglass made to stand. “Neither. That was gunfire.” St. Cyprian was gone; Harker was gone; and somebody was shooting. Too, there was the rattling buzz of a plane’s engines, though who’d be crazy enough to fly at night, she couldn’t say.
“I’d sit down if I were you, my dear,” Elizabeth said, frowning slightly. Gallowglass tensed. The woman didn’t look like much, but there was an edge there, under the silk. And she was a vampire, to boot. “Why spoil this delightful moment, with unnecessary gallivanting?” she said.
Gallowglass made to answer, when she caught sight of black-clad figures moving past the train outside. Somewhere, out in the trees, a machine-gun opened up and the windows of the dining car exploded inward. Gallowglass flung herself to the floor, hands over her head. People screamed, and a man fell. She caught sight of Aife Andraste, being dragged to the floor by her swell. Bet you thought that this was all well and done, Gallowglass thought. She met Andraste’s eyes and touched a finger to her cap brim. Stay out of it, chickie. Stay down, stay happy…leave it to us.
As bits of shattered glass rained down, Elizabeth continued to shuffle the deck. “I did say, dear. What about cribbage? Poker maybe?” Around the table, men and women were screaming and seeking cover, or trying to flee the coach.
Gallowglass rose slowly, one hand edging towards the pistol holstered beneath her coat. Elizabeth didn’t look up from her cards. “If you draw that pistol, I’ll have to take it from you, and you won’t like that at all, I must say.”
Gunfire ripped through the trees. The train shuddered as the unseen plane swooped overhead, guns hammering away. Elizabeth peered up through the broken window, eyes narrowed. Gallowglass snatched up a fork and slammed it down on Elizabeth’s hand. The vampire threw back her head and screamed, more in surprise than pain, Gallowglass suspected. Before she could recover, Gallowglass kicked back from the table, caught the edge and upended it on top of the startled vampire.
Elizabeth shrieked and cursed. She smashed the table aside with a forearm and lunged up. She caught Gallowglass’ throat and shoved her up and back, slamming her against the frame of the window. Her jaw unhinged like that of a snake, and her eyes blazed. “I’ve had just about enough of you, dear,” she gurgled. Over her shoulder, Gallowglass could see Andraste being dragged out of the dining car by her companion. Silently, she wished the other woman luck, as she clawed her Webley-Fosbery free of its holster and emptied the cylinder into Elizabeth’s belly.
The vampire dropped her and staggered back. Gallowglass fell to the floor. “M-makes two of us,” she croaked, rubbing her throat. She hastily shucked the spent shells, dropping them all over the floor, and began to reload. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she thought.
Elizabeth stared at her bloody hands, and then at the holes in her stomach. Faint query marks of steam rose from the wounds. She looked at Gallowglass as the latter, snapped the barrel of her revolver back into place. “What—?” she began.
“Church bells,” Gallowglass said, in satisfaction. “Melted them down ourselves, innit?” She cocked the revolver. “Bing, bong, bang!” She pulled the trigger, and the Webley-Fosbery roared. Elizabeth leapt, but not quickly enough. The bullets punched her backwards, against the far wall. Screaming piteously, she slid down, smoke spilling from the wounds in her chest and neck. She pitched forward and lay still.
Gallowglass turned away, as she heard the roar of an engine and the splintering of wood. The whole train shook, and she stuck her head out the busted window, even as something erupted from the baggage car in an explosion of shattered wood.
She saw the sleek shape of the Templar Roadster slew past the track in a cloud of dust and grit. St. Cyprian signalled her from the driver’s seat, as Harker fired her pistol at something atop the train. Gallowglass laughed and made to clamber out the window, but a hand caught her shoulder and hauled her back. “Going somewhere, dear?” Elizabeth hissed. Fingers like iron hooks dug into Gallowglass’ shoulder and she cried out in pain as she was yanked up and away.
She hit the floor and rolled away from the vampire. Elizabeth followed her, hands reaching. The vampire was strong—too strong. Gallowglass kicked out, and was rewarded by a snarl. Elizabeth seized her by the back of her coat and wrenched her up. Gallowglass twisted and smashed the grip of her revolver against the vampire’s cheek. Elizabeth shrieked as the Seal of Solomon carved into the wood touched her. Greasy smoke billowed up, and the vampire staggered back, clutching at her face.
Gallowglass bolted for the window.
Gallowglass leapt out and dropped lightly to the verge. “Cor, somebody’s going to be mad,” she said as she climbed in. The Roadster was dented and scratched where it had busted through the side of the baggage car.
“Yes, bloody shame that,” St. Cyprian said. “Was that Elizabeth I heard screeching?”
“She’s a sore loser, innit,” Gallowglass said, shakily. His assistant was bruised and pale, and he almost asked if she were okay. Instead, he looked up.
“Be a dear—two rounds rapid, into that chap dressed like a priest.” Gallowglass twisted around and fired up at the black shape swooping towards them from the top of the train. The vampire fell squalling, and St. Cyprian stomped on the gas, nearly running the wounded creature over. In the side mirror, he saw Sarah and another vampire hurtling after them, running flat out. Gallowglass fired at them, and the latter dove off of the verge as Sarah leapt onto the side of the train and scrabbled towards them, quick as a lizard.
“Go faster,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Doing my best,” St. Cyprian said. The Roadster left the track and veered into the trees, its headlamps illuminating the path ahead. “Where are we going?” he asked, glancing at Harker.
“There’s a—a monastery, near here, on the slopes of the Carpathians, within sight of Borgo Pass. It’s close to a little village where the train used to stop, before the War,” Harker said, shouting to be heard over the rumble of the Roadster’s engine. “We should stay close to the track…”
“We will, but we’ll stay under the trees for as long as we can. I don’t have an abiding love of strafing fire at the best of times,” he said, letting the motorcar’s wheel drift through his hands. “And that plane will be on us the second we leave cover.”
“At least there’s no bakeries this time,” Gallowglass said, acidly.
“What?” Harker asked.
“Nothing. Ignore her. Tally ho!” St. Cyprian spun the wheel, scattering earth across the trunk of a tree. Bullets plucked at the Roadster’s frame as men converged on them through the trees. “I say, is that a horse?” he asked, as a bullet cracked the motorcar’s windscreen. “Horses, rather.”
A quartet of horsemen galloped between the trees, spurring their steeds towards the Roadster. St. Cyprian thumped the accelerator and the motorcar skidded momentarily out from under the trees and up onto the verge. The horsemen pursued. “It’s times like these when I begin to wonder whether I’m cut out for this dodge,” he said, as he cut a hard turn at Harker’s shouted direction.
The Roadster bumped up onto the track and down the opposite verge. The motorcar plunged into the trees on the other side, the horsemen galloping after. “They’re falling back—keep heading north, towards the foothills,” Harker said, almost standing in her seat. She had her pistol in her hand, and fired off a shot every once
in a while at their pursuers.
“Are you certain this place is where you think it is?” St. Cyprian said.
“As certain as one can be, ten years after the fact,” Harker said. “Where do you think I was planning on taking those bones?”
“I assumed back to Britain,” he said, wrenching the wheel to avoid a fallen tree. “Isn’t that what your masters wanted?”
“What they want, and what I want are not always in accord,” she said. The Roadster passed through a gap in the trees, and he heard the dull whine of the plane. Bullets bit at the trees around them, filling the air with splinters and chunks of bark. He ducked his head and pressed the accelerator down as far as it would go. “When I realised you were determined to stay the course, I knew that there was only one safe place for those bones…”
“A place we coincidentally happened to be travelling near—bloody hell!” he yelped, as a brick wall suddenly appeared before them, rising out of the darkness like an angry beast. The Roadster whined in protest as he swerved around it.
“Was it a bakery?” Gallowglass asked.
“No, but it bloody well jumped like one—where are we?” he said, as they drove through a silent graveyard of ruined hovels. “What the devil is this place?” No single house was standing. Walls and lonely doorframes stood like tombstones, marking the spot where a village had once thrived.
“Gorcha,” Harker said. “That was its name. Before the War.” St. Cyprian was forced to slow the Roadster to a crawl as they navigated the village. “There weren’t many people here, even then. Just a few—older men, mostly, who remembered…” she trailed off. The darkness seemed to press in around them.
“Remember what?” Gallowglass asked.
“When Dracula used to feed on them,” Harker said, softly. She shook herself and turned, peering into the dark. “What’s that?
The Infernal Express Page 16