by R. L. King
Stone watched him sweep out of the room, focusing his magical sight in an attempt to get a reading from him as he left, but it was as if the man didn’t exist. He noted that nobody else had seemed to notice him despite his unusual clothing. As soon as he disappeared through the doorway leading out to the front part of the pub, Stone got up and hurried after him.
He was gone, just as Stone expected.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“All right, Stone?” Gus, the cheerful old barman who’d been pouring them pints all night, looked up from where he’d been clearing glasses from a table. The front room was nearly deserted now, most of the pub-goers having already left for home. Without the swell of voices to take the edge off them, the bouncy pop music and the football highlights rose from background noise to battle with each other in a jangling cacophony.
“Fine,” Stone said. He scanned the room in case Archie was lurking in a shadow somewhere. “Gus—did you see someone leave just now? He’d have come out of the back room.”
Gus’s brow furrowed. “Don’t think so,” he said. “Just now?”
“Tall, thin chap in a long black coat.”
“Sounds like you, Doc,” he said, tilting his head and making a show of taking in Stone’s jeans, black T-shirt, and the long black overcoat he carried over his arm.
“So nobody went out the front door in the last couple minutes?” Stone asked, ignoring that.
“Nope. Last I saw leave were old Rog and his latest tart, about fifteen minutes ago.” He shrugged. “Yer bloke mighta slipped out when I wasn’t lookin’, but it’s been right slow out here—I’d’ve noticed somebody like that.”
“All right. Thanks. Good to see you, Gus.”
“You should come by more often. Ain’t the same without you lot tearin’ it up in the back till all hours.”
“I’ll see about that.”
“Want me to call you a cab?”
Stone shook his head. “No, thanks—need to clear my head a bit. Think I’ll walk to the Tube station. See you later, Gus.” He shrugged into his coat and pushed open the door.
Outside, the narrow street was quiet. As the door closed behind him and cut off the last of the sound from inside the pub, Stone paused a moment to glance left and right. He didn’t truly expect to see Archie slinking away in the shadows, but that didn’t stop him from checking. All along both sides the other businesses were closed and dark; only the pub’s brightly lit sign, a few flickering streetlights, and the far-off headlights of an occasional meandering car on a cross street pierced the blackness. Odd. I don’t remember it being this quiet. Later than I thought, I guess.
He jammed his hands into his pockets and started off in the direction of the Tube station. Good thing he’d decided not to take a cab, since none were in evidence. Ah, well—he really could do with a little head-clearing, and the three-block walk to the Manor House Station would be good for him. He’d take the train back to Holmbury and be back in Palo Alto with enough time to have another look at the sheaf of notes in his briefcase.
Almost unconsciously he picked up his pace, glancing around as he walked, looking for any sign of other people. Aside from the distant headlights moving back and forth, he saw none. No late-night groups of tipsy friends weaving home from a night of tossing back pints and watching the matches; no couples meandering along on their way back from a date, not even any homeless people sifting through bins looking for anything they could use.
“Hey!” called a voice.
Stone jerked, startled. The voice came from above him, off to his left. He looked up to see a shadowy figure of an old woman leaning out the open window above a shuttered cigarette shop. He stopped. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he got a brief glimpse of deep wrinkles, unkempt gray hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, and a tiny, glittering dark eye. “Yes?”
“Ye’re going the wrong way, ye know.” Her creaky voice sounded as if she didn’t use it often.
Great. The nutters are out. “Thanks,” he said, and started off again.
“I’m tellin’ ye—that’s the wrong way. Ye should turn back now.”
He stopped. “How can I be going the wrong way when you don’t even know where I’m headed?”
“Doesn’ matter,” she said. She leaned out a little more. The right side of her face, which had been obscured before, bore a deep, angry scar that ran from her forehead down to her jaw. The scar cut through where her other eye had been, leaving a shadowy crater. “What’s yer hurry? Why don’t ye come in and have some tea with me?” She smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth, then broke into a fit of coughing, bringing a cloth to her lips.
“That’s—quite all right. Thank you.” He kept going.
“Well, fuck ye, then!” Her voice changed instantly from wheedling to shrill. Something soft and wet smacked him in the back of the head and he whirled.
The old woman was glaring at him now with her single dark eye, her lips twisted into a sneer. “Fuck ye, yeh high an’ mighty bastard! I tried to warn ye! I did!”
Stone glanced down at what she’d hit him with, and his stomach lurched: the rag she’d been coughing into lay there, sodden with blood and gods knew what else. He backed away, putting a hand to the back of his head where the thing had hit him. It came away damp. He swallowed hard and hurried off, out of range in case she had any other grotesque missiles to chuck his way.
“Fuck ye!” she yelled even louder, followed by the sound of shutters slamming closed.
Stone stopped, heart pounding with anger and disgust. He’d run into some crazy people in his many years of prowling the London streets, especially late at night, but this was the first time anyone had ever flung a blood-soaked rag at his head. He glanced around to make sure nobody else was watching him from upper levels, then picked up his pace again until he was almost jogging. The near-deserted street unnerved him more than he expected—suddenly he wanted to be where lights and other people (normal people) were, and to find a bathroom where he could get that horrible old woman’s muck out of his hair.
At least the last vestiges of his night’s buzz had melted away.
He didn’t see anyone else until he reached the cross street that would take him to the station. Still no cars; oddly, the far-off headlights seemed as far away as ever. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or of his jangled mental state after his chat with Archie and his encounter with old Bloody Mary back there. No matter—he could see the Tube station’s familiar red-and-blue logo up ahead. Just another block and he’d be on a train back home. He gripped his briefcase tighter and kept walking.
Up ahead, two young men slouched in an alleyway. One leaned casually against the wall, one leg bent so he could rest his foot against the bricks. The other was in front of him, hands jammed into the pockets of a shapeless jacket and the glowing stub of a cigarette poking from between his lips. “Got a smoke, mate?” the first one asked as Stone grew closer. They both eyed him up and down as if he were something good to eat.
“Sorry.” He continued past, ready to act if they came after him.
Don’t be an idiot. Why would they come after you? They just asked you for a cigarette. Pull yourself together!
They didn’t move as he passed, except to turn their heads to watch him go. Their expressions were oddly detached and impassive now, as if they were observing some mildly interesting scientific experiment.
They were there again at the next alley.
Same guys, same slouched positions, same glowing stub of a butt and shapeless jacket. “Got a smoke, mate?” the first guy asked again, in the exact same tone he’d used before.
The other one smiled. He had the same teeth as Bloody Mary, crooked and stained.
Something crawled at the back of Stone’s neck, and his disgust this time was not at the two men, but at himself.
Archie!
Archie was still messing with him
. It had to be!
He shifted to magical sight and focused on the two men, expecting to see the same lack of aura that he’d seen on the things back at the construction site.
But no—both men’s auras, one gold, one green, shimmered around them just as he might have expected if they were normal, non-supernatural humans. The one with the cigarette tilted his head. “Somethin’ wrong, mate?”
“You got a smoke, or not?” the first one asked.
What the hell was going on? Stone stumbled forward, away from them, half-expecting them to reappear in front of him again. They weren’t Archie’s strange dust-constructs—those didn’t have auras. He spun back around to look at them again. Both of them were still there, but on closer inspection, they didn’t look anything like the two he’d seen before. Both of those had been white, while one of these was East Asian and the other was black. Neither had cigarettes, and both wore hooded sweatshirts, not jackets. They watched him with sideways glances, their expressions suggesting he might be the nutter here.
Stone ignored them and kept going. Perhaps he’d had more to drink than he thought—he’d lost track of how many pints Gus had brought him while he caught up on old times with Eddie and Ward. He was well practiced at holding his liquor, but he hadn’t taken the last few days’ stress into consideration.
I have got to get home. I’ll sleep it off for a few hours before I get back to it.
He descended the stairs into the station, passing a few hunched figures on their way up and out. The familiar sounds and smells—muffled announcements, the far-off rumble of trains, dampness, the tart odors of various kinds of food—calmed him, and he slowed his headlong pace. Off to his left, he passed by a young busker playing guitar with a case open in front of him and a tiny dog lying huddled at his feet. He recognized the song but not by name: some energetic pop tune that seemed to be everywhere nowadays, but the busker played it slowly and in an odd key, making it sound macabre.
Stone tossed a handful of coins into the case. When the man met his eyes and nodded thanks, he had the same glittering eyes and stained teeth as the old woman.
What the hell is going on? Stone hurried forward again and didn’t look back. He scanned the sparse crowd with magical sight, noting the riot of colorful nimbuses, some bright, some dimmer, shining around each person. Nothing out of the ordinary. He spun. The young busker was still there, but now she was a woman with blonde hair. No dog lay next to her, and she played the flute, not the guitar. Her aura was bright pink.
Stone’s head pounded now. He waved his card at the machine, pushed through the turnstile, and made a sharp right, out of the small but growing crowd. Pressing his hand against the tiled wall, he braced himself, closed his eyes, and took a series of deep breaths. There’s nothing going on. Everything’s fine. You’ve had too much to drink. Just get yourself home.
He stuck the briefcase under his arm and rubbed at the back of his neck with his other hand, trying to ease the knot that had settled there, wincing as his fingers touched the stiff patch, dried now, where the old woman had hit him with the bloody rag. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand the thought of it any longer. He had to do something about it. Spotting a men’s room nearby, he strode toward it. If he missed the next train, so be it—another one would be along soon.
Inside, he headed to a vacant sink and bent over it, scooping water in his hand and rubbing at the back of his hair as an old man eyed him with suspicion from two sinks over. He rinsed his hand and pinkish water gurgled down the drain. All around him, other men went about their business, ignoring him as they hurried on their way.
It didn’t take long for the water to run clear again. He stood there a moment, briefcase under his arm and clutching at the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection in the cracked, pitted mirror. Aside from some deep black circles under his eyes, he looked about like he’d expected, which was a relief. The water ran down his neck, sending shivers down his back, but there was no helping it—the paper towel dispenser hung open and empty on the wall, its front covered in graffiti. He ran his hand back through his hair and started toward the door.
The door wasn’t there.
The place where he’d entered the restroom was now a blank, tiled wall, cracked and defaced with more colorful graffiti. For a second he thought he saw more of the sigils from the murder scenes, but then he blinked a couple times and the scrawls resolved themselves into the usual scribbled tags.
“All right, mate?”
He spun. The old man who’d been watching him before was now regarding him with concern.
“Sorry, sorry,” the man said, raising both hands in a clear stay away from me, I’m not a threat gesture. “You just looked a bit—adrift.”
“Bit too much to drink,” Stone mumbled. He almost asked the man where the exit had gone, but then he spotted it—on the other side of the restroom. How the hell had it gotten over there?
Or—had it been there all along, and he’d just been so preoccupied he’d gotten himself turned around? He checked out the old man, who glowed with a flickering blue-green aura. I need to get home. Now. “Sorry,” he said, and pushed past the man toward the exit.
As he reached it, the familiar WAY OUT sign above it flickered and morphed until it read NO WAY OUT.
Archie, damn you, if this is your doing—
He shoved open the door and dashed out, trying to focus his thoughts. If Archie was messing with his head, he had to throw it off. He had to concentrate.
A sudden horn blared, so loud it physically stunned him for a second, and a bright light dazzled his eyes, nearly blinding him. His whole world erupted into sound and light and confusion. The horn blared again, closer.
He glanced down and spotted rails beneath his feet. He had a bare second to think Why the hell did the restroom let out onto the tracks? before the train hit him.
Time slowed, stretched, warped. Most people don’t ever get to experience the reality of the expression “hit him like a train,” but at that moment Stone’s thought processes ground to a crawl, making sure he felt every split-second of the process.
He’d been standing a little sideways, so the speeding wall of metal struck him first in the shoulder and upper arm. Pain lit up, rising until it wasn’t even pain anymore. His brain didn’t have words to describe the actual sensation.
His arm broke first, then his shoulder. Blood flew from somewhere, making an artsy Peckinpah-style spray that mixed with the graffiti on the side if the wall. Idly, as if he were watching an old-style film reel spinning out, he traced the arc of his briefcase as it flew from his flailing hand through the air, though he didn’t see it land because by then he was falling.
The only way he knew he was screaming was that he felt his jaw stretch as the shriek tore from his throat. The actual sound was lost amid the screeching brakes and the horn’s solid-wall blare.
By then, the train’s inexorable forward motion (don’t care how slow it was going—can’t stop something that heavy that fast) was crushing his legs beneath it. More blood flew up and pattered back down upon him. His wildly careening thoughts fixed for a second on old Bloody Mary and her disgusting missile. He’d been in such a hurry to wash off that small bit of blood, and now this.
It would never come out. He’d have to get a new coat.
Would they find Raider? The poor creature would starve since nobody could get past his wards to find him.
There was no pain now. Everything was numb. His mind drifted.
His lower body must be near-liquefied, but it didn’t matter anymore because he could no longer feel it.
The train rumbled forward. Slower, as if it knew its prey had no chance of escape.
He’d never track down Archie now. This was how it ended.
…
Wait.
Wait.
Archie.
God-damned, bloody ARCHIE.
Stone clamped his eyes shut. “No! Archie, you fucking bastard! This is not happening! Give it up! It was a nice try, but you can bugger right the hell off now!” He didn’t know if he yelled it or only thought it. All he knew was that he believed it.
No, that wasn’t correct. He didn’t believe it. Belief wasn’t enough.
He knew it.
He opened his eyes without hesitation.
The station was gone. The train, the blood—all gone. The blare of the horn and the shriek of the brakes, gone.
He sat slumped over the scarred wooden table in the back room of the Dancing Dragon, one hand clutching his briefcase, the other clamped in a white-knuckled death grip around his empty pint glass.
“All right, Stone?”
Gus stood in the doorway, a rag in one hand and an odd, tentative look on his weathered face, looking as if he were deciding whether to disturb Stone’s slumber. “About t’close up. Can I call ye a cab?”
Stone let go of the glass and pushed himself up. He was sure his expression was more than a little crazed, but he didn’t give a damn. He nodded. “Thanks, Gus. I’ll take you up on that.”
Take that, Archie, you mind-buggering twat.
As he followed a confused Gus out to the front and waited for the cab to arrive, his head pounded, his stomach roiled along with the vivid half-memories of Archie’s illusion, and he had to brace himself against the bar to keep from staggering.
None of that mattered, though. Not at all.
Because damn it, he felt good.
“Gus?”
The barman finished talking to the cab company and hung up the phone. “Yeah? Cab’ll be here directly.”