He stood up, took a leak while he was here, then washed his hands in the buckled sink. When he opened the door there was an old man waiting, tutting impatiently, and Marlow muttered an apology as he edged past him. He carried on walking the way he’d been going, wondering if he was going to hit the tail end of the train, if somehow his friends had just vanished. The thought of it, of being alone as he tore his way toward the dark heart of Europe, was enough to make him want to collapse into a seat and curl up tight.
He passed a young couple watching a TV show on an iPad, then a table with a family of three kids, all fast asleep. The next door slid open to let him through and he crossed between the cars. A woman was walking toward him and he stepped into an empty seat to let her pass, staring at the window. All it revealed was the reflection of the train interior, and his own miserable expression, but the bone-yellow face of the moon hung overhead, watching. He thought he could make out mountains there, too, lined up against the horizon. Their jagged mass made him think of the hulking wrecks of ruined ships.
“Danke,” the woman said.
“No problem,” Marlow said. “I think.”
He stepped through the next door. Up ahead was a group of young men, maybe half a dozen of them sprawled over twice as many seats. They were drunk, and they were loud, and they were all wearing Bayern Munich soccer shirts. One of the guys, lying across a bank of seats, stuck his foot out to block the aisle. He fixed Marlow with dark, red-flecked eyes.
“Was ist das Passwort, Arschgesicht?”
Marlow kept his head down, sighing. He was too tired for this. He pushed against the guy’s leg but his tormentor held firm. Another of the men hopped down from the table he’d been sitting on, swigging from a bottle. The whole car stank of alcohol.
“Passwort,” the first man said.
“Look,” said Marlow. “It’s late, I’m tired. I—”
“Er ist ein Amerikan Dummkopf!” shouted another of the men, obviously delighted. They were all getting up now, crowding the aisle. Marlow flexed his fists, knowing that one blow could knock them clear through the wall of the train. So why was his heart machine-gunning in his chest?
The train rocked hard and Marlow lost his balance, lunging to the side and almost falling into the foot well. The men howled with laughter and one of them threw a bottle at him. It bounced off his hip and rolled on the floor, the last dregs of vodka glugging into the carpet.
“Hey, just leave it, yeah?” Marlow said. He looked back, wondering if he should just walk away. Run away. It was what he did best, after all. He’d spent his whole life running. If he took flight now he’d move faster than sound, he’d be at the other end of the car in less than the blink of an eye. He’d done enough fighting this week to last a lifetime, a hundred lifetimes, and with creatures infinitely worse than this group of drunken douche bags.
“Hosenscheisser,” said one of the guys.
Marlow turned to them. The first guy was on his feet now and close, close enough that Marlow could smell his breath. The reek of it made his eyes water but there was something else there, something worse than the sting of alcohol. It smelled like bad eggs, like something rotting. His stomach rolled into a cramp and he pressed a hand to it, grimacing.
“You really don’t want to do this,” Marlow said. “You have no idea.”
He wondered if they would understand him, then the first guy smiled, smoothing back long, greasy hair.
“Poor little American boy, lost in the woods,” he said in a heavy accent. His hands snapped out and caught Marlow in the chest, driving him back. One of the other guys was scrabbling over the back of the chairs, leaping to the floor behind Marlow, penning him in.
“Mach es,” the guy said.
“Ja!” said another guy. “Er hat es verdient, die Arschgeige.”
“Ass violin?” came a voice from behind the group, one that was beautifully familiar. “Did you seriously just call him an ass violin?”
The men twisted around, and in the gap between them Marlow caught sight of Pan. She was leaning against a seat, so exhausted she could have been a hundred years old. But the relief of seeing her still made him feel like a kid whose mom has shown up just as he’s about to get his head dunked in the can.
She said something else but it was drowned out by a serenade of wolf whistles from the other members of the group. They were shuffling toward her like the walking dead. Pan rolled her eyes and looked at Marlow.
“You really know how to make friends,” she said.
“Hey,” he replied, shrugging. “What can I say? I’m a popular guy.”
“Die Klappe halten!” said the first guy, jabbing a finger at Marlow. “You shut it right up if you know what is good for you.”
There it was again, that stench of moldering food, of burning. It was enough to make him gag, and Pan must have smelled it, too, because she put a hand to her mouth.
“Jesus,” he heard her say. “What the hell is that?”
The first guy lunged at Pan, grabbing her free hand.
Bad idea.
“Hey, baby—” was all he had time to say before Pan let loose a short blast of electrostatic energy from her fingers. An explosion of light and a pistol shot rocked the train, and the guy thumped into the roof like he’d stuck a fork into a power outlet. He landed on the back of a seat, then flopped onto the floor, his whole body spasming. He farted loudly, the smell filling the car and making Marlow’s eyes water.
“Now that’s what I call an ass violin,” Pan said. “Anyone else?”
The guys were spilling back into their seats, gibbering like idiots. Pan just yawned, shaking the last of the charge from her fingers. Every light in the car was in a tizz, sparks raining down.
“Schwein!” yelled one of the men. He looked like he was about to charge at Pan, so Marlow placed a hand on his shoulder and flicked gently, like he was swiping his fingers over an iPad. The man slammed into the window hard enough to crack it, falling to the floor with a groan.
The four remaining guys were panicking, caught between him and Pan. The lights flickered off, the world outside etched in moonlight, perfectly visible. A second later they burned on again, trapping the car inside its own reflection. Marlow ducked into a seat, held out his hand.
“Go on,” he said. “Just leave it, yeah? Just go.”
The train rocked on, oblivious, and the window cracked further. A jagged scar splintered it from corner to corner, and the car filled with the deafening whistle of the wind. Marlow looked at it, studying the reflection of the men in the dark glass. Five of them, huddled in a group like frightened dogs.
Five of them?
That stench again, rolling through the car like the train had just plowed into a garbage dump. Marlow clutched at his mouth, pinching his nose. He looked at the men, holding up their hands in surrender. Four of them, standing right there in front of him. Then he turned to the window to see that fifth face, as faint as a phantom’s until the lights cut out.
Not a reflection. It was somebody on the other side of the glass.
Somebody clinging to the side of the train.
Somebody grinning right at him.
The world flipped in a sickening twist of vertigo and he screamed Pan’s name, pointing. The lights strobed, turning the world into chaos, a mirror maze gone mad. Pan followed his finger, and he saw the moment she understood, saw the expression on her face morph from tiredness to uncertainty to panic to full-blown terror—all in the space of a single heartbeat. She opened her mouth, but only a groan spilled out, low and awful. She didn’t need to speak, though. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
They’ve found us.
UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE CENTURY
It had happened.
The Circle had found them.
Pan barely had time to acknowledge the grinning face at the window before it moved, fast. She saw a hand draw back, something glinting against the distant mountains. The same hand jabbed forward like a snake, puncturing the broken window.
She didn’t understand what happened next, because what happened next was impossible.
The window stretched into the car, the glass bending like it was molten. Where the tip of the knife was it began to change shape, the point morphing into a snout, the glass beneath fracturing into a mouth, edged with gleaming teeth. It was as if a bear were pushing itself through the window. The translucent face uttered a bestial howl and Pan fell back against the seat, her legs no longer strong enough to hold her.
Whatever it was, it kept coming, a hand shattering free, swiping through the air and turning one chair to splinters and foam. It grabbed at another seat, trying to haul itself into the train. The glass formed shoulders, then a torso, ripping itself from the frame and filling the car with wind and thunder.
The drunken men were screaming, falling over themselves as they tried to escape. They weren’t quick enough: the creature—no, say its name, Pan, it’s a demon, how could it be anything else?—opened its jaws impossibly wide and lunged, clamping them shut around one guy’s head. It sounded like somebody crunching an ice cube, and through the glass she saw his skull crushed like porcelain, an explosion of brain and bone. His body fell to the floor, twitching, gushing like a fountain.
“Pan!” It was Marlow, pushing against the tide of men as he tried to get to her. The demon glanced at him, dismissed him with a snort, then twisted its head to her. It had no eyes, and yet she could feel it studying her, trying to work out who she was. But it couldn’t be here, it couldn’t have come for her. She checked her watch. She had time, she still had time.
She lifted her other hand, feeling the electrostatic charge build up in every fiber of her body. The demon screeched, the sound primeval, and it threw itself at her, as big as a tiger, its glass body making it almost invisible as it shredded through chairs and tables.
She braced herself, forced the charge up her arm. Before she had a chance to fire, though, the demon exploded, detonating like it was packed with C-4. Shrapnel tore through the car and she threw up a hand to protect her face, crying out as glass embedded itself in her skin. When she looked again the demon was gone but a teenage girl was vaulting in through the missing window. The wind turned her short, red hair into a tornado, one that half concealed her face. But Pan still knew her.
The girl who’d been in Budapest with Patrick Rebarre, the enemy Engineer. The Circle had kidnapped Charlie, Marlow’s friend, and dragged him to Europe, tried to use him as leverage to get Marlow to talk. And this girl had shot him in cold blood. It had been the beginning of the end—because Charlie had been working with the Circle all along.
The girl grinned.
“Thought you could hide from u—”
Pan opened her fist, the electrostatic charge like an unleashed dog. A fork of lightning crossed the car in a booming flash, hard enough to blow out another two windows. The girl was fast, though, twisting behind a chair. The charge blistered past her and caught the retreating men, lifting them up and tossing them down the car like they were rag dolls. Had Marlow been there, too?
No time to check. The redhead was back on her feet, a blade in one hand, that crap-eating grin plastered over her face.
“That all you got?” she said, then drove the knife into the top of the nearest table.
As soon as she pulled the blade free the table came to life, the surface folding like origami, one section splitting into a gaping maw while the legs wrenched themselves from the wall. It was another demon, made up of the table and a section of the train floor. It shook itself like a wet dog, its noseless face sniffing at the air. The train groaned in protest, the raging tracks visible through the hole the demon had left.
What the hell?
Pan fell back through the sliding door into the darkness between cars. The creature was there in a heartbeat, too big to fit, its snapping jaws loud enough to make her ears ring. Then, just like the last one, it blew apart in a hail of lethal pieces that threw Pan along the floor and into the door of the next car.
She groaned, shaking the blotches of light from her vision. She could hear screams behind her as the rest of the train caught on that something was wrong. The redheaded girl was marching leisurely down the aisle, using the tip of the blade to pick at a fingernail. She looked at Pan and shook her head.
“Finding you was too easy,” she shouted over the howling wind. “Mammon knew exactly where you would be. He wants—”
The girl’s head snapped forward and she dropped to her knees. Marlow was right behind her and he hit her again, driving her into the floor. He scooped her up and tossed her out the window like she was a bag of trash, dusting his hands off. Pan picked herself up, her flesh glinting with flecks of broken glass and steel.
“She won’t be dead,” she said as Marlow reached her. “And she won’t be alone.”
“How’d they find us?” he said, following her through the sliding door. The car was full of frightened faces, and the sight of Pan with her injuries didn’t do much to calm them. She ignored the stares. They needed to get to Truck and Night, needed to get the hell off this train.
“Had to happen eventually,” she said. “It’s the Engine. Can’t have it inside you without kicking out a homing beacon. Mammon probably didn’t even have to look for us. As soon as we landed in Europe it would have been like a siren going off in his skull.”
“So what do we do?”
She thumped past an old guy gesticulating at her and spouting French, walked through the next set of doors to see Truck right ahead. The big guy did the perfect double take when he saw her, hauling his massive bulk up from the seat.
“Ah, crap,” he said. “Already?”
“Already,” she replied. “Night, wake up.”
Truck reached down and shook the girl gently until her head emerged from the coat, dark eyes blinking.
“Already?” she said in her Spanish accent.
“Yeah,” said Pan. “That bitch from Budapest.”
“Any others?” Night said as she hopped off the chair, as graceful as ever.
“Yeah,” Pan said.
“What are we going to do?” Marlow asked, looking back, then out the window, then at her. “We’ve beaten them before, we can do it again.”
Maybe, but something told her that Mammon wouldn’t underestimate them twice.
“We crush ass,” said Truck, slamming a fist into his palm with a dull slap. He frowned, stared at his hands. “Oh,” he said.
“What?” Pan asked, but she already knew. Now that she was paying attention she saw that Truck looked different. Smaller, somehow. His skin looked healthier, more color in his eyes. “No, Truck. Don’t you dare.”
He thumped the window with his fist, grunting in pain. Then he looked down at Pan with an expression that belonged to a lost child.
“Circle cracked my contract,” he said.
So he was the first. They could crack only one contract at a time, and each one might take days. It made sense to take Truck out of the game. His strength was legendary, and he was an experienced soldier, too. Pan swore beneath her breath. This was bad. Without his powers, Truck was about as useful against the Circle as a baby hippo against armed poachers. He’d be as vulnerable as any of the normals on the train.
“No,” said Night, throwing herself on him, her arms not even making it halfway around his gut.
“Hide,” Pan said. “They’ll be coming for you, Truck. They’ll know you won’t be able to fight back.”
“No way,” he said. “I’m not leaving you guys, I’m not running. Can still knock some teeth out.”
“Truck,” said Night, letting go of him. “Don’t argue. You can’t win this one.”
“Listen to her,” Pan said.
“Screw you both,” he said. “You’re forgetting my other powers.”
He lifted both hands and proceeded to extend his middle fingers, waggling them in front of Pan’s face.
“Boom. Now what’s the plan? We fight?”
She shook her head and op
ened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off as the sliding door opened and a crowd of people appeared in a surge of panic.
“Come on,” she said. She didn’t want to find out what they were running from. She squeezed a burst of crackling electricity up to the ceiling, holding the crowd by the door, then led the way down the aisle and into the next car. It was the restaurant car, half a dozen people eating a late dinner.
“You have to be kidding me,” said Truck, aiming a scowl at Marlow. “You couldn’t find the goddamned café in the next car down?”
“I went the wrong way!” Marlow protested.
“Not the time,” Pan said. She spotted what she was looking for, pulling the emergency brake lever on the wall.
Nothing.
She tried again. Whatever happened next, it would be safer for everyone if the train wasn’t moving. But the lever was useless. If anything, she thought, they seemed to be going even faster, plates and glasses juddering across tables and spilling to the floor. The diners were growing concerned, standing, crying out. Pan cursed again, pushing through the car until she reached the next emergency alarm. She pulled it hard enough to snap it free. Still nothing.
“They’ve got control of the train,” she said.
“You serious?” asked Truck. He reached down and grabbed a handful of fries from an old man’s plate. “It’s an emergency,” he spat as an explanation.
“Why?” asked Marlow, looking at her. He answered his own question. “They’re going to crash it.”
“What better way to kill a handful of Engineers?” she replied, setting off again. “We need to get to the driver.”
She shouldered her way past the diners, all of whom were on their feet. One of them grabbed at her arm and she turned to see a middle-aged guy in an expensive suit. A younger woman—who could have been a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model—stood beside him, looking just about as sick with fear as anyone Pan had ever seen.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” the man asked, his fingers gouging trenches in her flesh. She tugged loose, practically hissing at him.
Hellfighters Page 2