Marlow wasn’t sure how it was possible to get lost on a train, but somehow he’d managed it.
He reached the end of yet another car, the door sliding open automatically. The train felt like it was going at three hundred miles an hour, bucking so hard that twice now he’d almost spilled into the laps of other passengers. He pushed through into the next car, scanning the handful of people there. Nobody looked familiar.
He was positive he’d set off against the direction of travel. But he’d reached the end of the train with no sign of a café car, and now that he’d doubled back it felt like he’d come too far. But he would have noticed if he’d passed the others, wouldn’t he?
Bracing himself against the restroom cubicle, he scrunched his eyes closed and rubbed them with his fingers. Christ, he was tired. Everything still ached from the battle in New York. His body felt like it had gone through a meat grinder then been fed to a pack of dogs. Not to mention the fact that the Engine was still sapping every ounce of energy that wasn’t being used to fuel his powers.
He opened the restroom door and stepped inside, the overzealous air freshener punching him in the nostrils. The face that stared back at him from the graffiti-etched mirror was a corpse’s—too gaunt, too bruised. It was like he’d been buried for a month before clawing up from his grave.
Dead man walking.
Which wasn’t too far from the truth, was it?
He didn’t even know how he’d ended up here, a soldier in a secret war. It didn’t make any sense. His brother had been the hero—blown up while serving his country in the Marines. Danny had always been the brave one, the one who walked fearlessly toward chaos. Their mom had always made it clear that Marlow was nothing like his brother, that he didn’t deserve to live under the same roof. And that was true, wasn’t it? After all, here he was, hiding in the restroom and wishing he never had to leave.
He perched on the toilet, reaching for the metal sink and grasping it. He took a breath and then squeezed. The metal buckled like it was tinfoil, and when he pulled his hand away the imprint of his fingers was left, a sculpture in steel. He still had the powers the Engine had given him—the strength of ten men, the ability to run faster than sound—but for how much longer? The Circle would break his contract as soon as they could, then he’d have nothing. Mammon and his soldiers could crush him and the other Engineers as easily as a kid stamping on ants.
Not Pan, though. Pan had been promised a different fate. Her contract would be left to expire, and once that happened the demons would come for her.
That’s the price you paid when you pissed off the bad guys.
The train lurched from side to side hard enough to crack his head off the wall. He grunted, bracing himself until the rocking calmed. A storm was brewing in his gut, but it wasn’t as if there was anything left in there. He’d emptied himself out on the plane journey over. Plane journeys. They’d chartered a ride out of Pennsylvania, a tiny propeller plane that kicked like a rodeo bull and didn’t have a restroom. They’d had to fork out another hundred bucks when they landed in Kentucky just for the cleanup. From there they’d taken another jet-prop to Chicago, then bought their way onto a cargo plane heading to Paris. Somewhere in those fourteen hours in the air Marlow was pretty sure he’d chucked up every major organ in his body.
The train wasn’t much better, but at least they were on solid ground.
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.