Pan was running on fumes. She felt like she was dissolving, like the electrostatic energy she’d been blasting out all night had hollowed her out inside, left her an empty husk. She knew she couldn’t go on much longer—the Engine could work miracles, but even it had its limits. Much more and she’d lightning herself right out of existence.
But she couldn’t stop now. That wormbag would turn the city into a ruin of bone and blood.
She limped on, feeling a hand under her arm. Marlow. The kid looked in a bad way, wincing every time he took a step. But he’d fought well, there was no denying it. She started to shake him off, then realized she’d be on the floor. She leaned on him instead, the four of them crossing the street to the Rock, following the path of carnage.
“Anyone got a line to Herc?” she said. She’d tried her radio twice since leaving the cathedral but it was dead. No sign of Herc, no sign of Ostheim.
“Everything’s down,” said Truck. “Haven’t heard anything since we entered St. Patrick’s. Probably the satellite feed.”
She hoped that was all it was—they’d never lost connection before.
“If you’re listening, Herc, you owe us one hell of a pay raise after tonight.”
Not to mention a retirement party.
They reached the gaping wall of the Rock. The skyscraper was living up to its name, the tower scratching the heavens. She focused on the hole in the wall, like the mouth of a cave. The lights inside flickered, strobing on and off, revealing bodies plastered to the floor. There was no sign of the Brianna-bag, but Pan could hear it, those demonic howls shaking the building to its foundations.
“What did you mean?” Marlow asked as they clambered over the wreckage. “Why does somebody need to go to hell with it? Who?”
That was a good question, and the answer was inevitable. Me, she thought, and suddenly stopped, looking back into the night, aware that this might be the last time she felt fresh air on her skin, saw the moonlight. Her heart was suddenly a ton weight slipping loose in her chest, sinking fast.
You knew it would happen one day. You play the game, you take the pain.
Yeah.
She took a long, shuddering breath and carried on, slipping and tripping on the loose stone, on the blood-slicked ground. At one point she lost her footing, her hand plunging into something warm and wet. She snatched it loose, a snarl throbbing in her throat at the horror of it. And for a moment she didn’t think she had it in her to get up again. Better to just lie here, listen to the dying night.
Then Marlow and Truck were there, grabbing an arm each and hauling her to her feet.
“What’s the plan, Pan?” Truck said. “Better let us in on it just in case next time you fall you drop right out of life.”
She opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a howl from farther up inside the building. The wormbag sounded hurt. Pan thought she could hear something else, too, a voice above the storm. The next time she spoke it was in a whisper.
“Herc told me once that there’s only one thing the demons want more than an owed soul, and that’s an escaped one.” Something ran out from behind a mound of rubble, a woman covered in blood, her eyes full of madness. One of her arms was missing, the other hand clamped over the gushing wound as she shuffled toward the street. “That wormbag got free,” Pan went on. “Patrick pulled his sister’s soul right out of hell, and that pisses the demons off big-time.”
“So you’re saying we need to get the demons here,” said Night. “Show them where to find their missing prisoner.”
Pan nodded.
“And therein lies the problem,” Truck said. “Because the only way of getting them here…”
“Is for one of our contracts to expire,” Marlow said, and Pan could see the understanding blossoming in his expression. “Or for one of us to die.”
Bingo.
The ceiling of the lobby had been torn away, a drooping hole that stretched up for what must have been four or five stories. Dust and debris rained down, and when the wormbag bellowed again it came from somewhere up there. This time Pan could definitely hear a voice, although it was too soft for her to make out what it was saying. She flexed her fingers, trying to drum up a little more juice. She didn’t even know if the plan would work. The demons were pretty single-minded when they came for you. Who’s to say they would even notice that Brianna was there.
What was the alternative, though? Let it rampage across Manhattan? And then what? A wormbag like that could take out the whole East Coast if it wanted to. How many would die? She couldn’t live with that on her conscience, in her soul.
Not that it would be her soul for much longer.
She kicked her way through the chaos to the stairwell, clattering up to the third floor and peeking out the door. There was a hole in the ceiling here and she climbed again, reaching the next level. This time, when she opened the fire door, she could see movement up ahead in the darkness of the tower. She held up her hand, motioning for the others to be quiet.
“… do it, I had to.” That voice was up ahead, and she was pretty sure it belonged to Patrick. “They deserved it, we need…”
A roar, like the wormbag was answering back. How much of Brianna was still in there? Pan wondered. How much was her, and how much was the festering madness of hell?
“I want you to do it, Truck,” she said, looking up at the big guy. It took him a moment to understand what she was saying and he shook his head.
“No way, no way, Pan. I’m gonna take the bullet on this one.”
“Truck, you couldn’t take the bullet because you’d just try to eat it,” she said, managing a half smile. “Just do it, okay? I’m tired of it all, anyway. Crush my head. One punch. I don’t want to see it coming.”
“Pan…”
She rested her hand on his arm, met his eye, gently shook her head.
“It’s okay, I’m ready for this.”
“Nobody’s ready for this,” he said.
Marlow reached them, both hands wrapped around his stomach. Even though his asthma had been canceled he was still wheezing.
“Don’t feel too good,” he said.
“Poor diddums,” Pan spat back. “You wanna stay here while I call your mommy?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked through the door into the shattered remains of an office. The noises were coming from the other side of the space, behind the wall of the elevator shaft. She clenched her fist, feeling the energy building up, bracing herself for another fight. Truck could do the deed now but she wanted to make sure it was definitely Brianna up ahead. Nothing would suck quite as much as being dragged to hell, then realizing that the wormbag was nowhere nearby.
She eased her way around a desk, hearing Patrick more clearly now.
“… be okay, I’ll look after you, we can still do this, just—”
Something crashed to the ground behind her and a scream slipped between her lips before she could stop it. She spun, ducking down, seeing Marlow standing beside a desk, a computer monitor lying in pieces by his feet.
“That wasn’t my fault,” he said, his words almost drowned out by a bone-shaking roar from the other side of the room. There was the sound of galloping feet, then the elevator shaft detonated like it had been packed with C-4. The wormbag pile-drived through, its mouth the size of a house, its fleshy back dragging against the ceiling, its eyes hanging loose and useless.
“Ah, screw this,” she heard Truck say, seeing the big guy running at it. He bent low like he was going in for the tackle, slamming into the beast like two trains crunching into each other. They careened into the outside wall together, punching right through it, both of them tumbling out into the night.
“No!” Pan yelled, running to the edge of the building in time to see them hit the ground. The Brianna thing burst, its rotten guts exploding over Rockefeller Plaza. There was no sign of Truck.
“Brianna!”
Patrick shuffled around the ruined elevator shaft. He moved like the living dead, limping, bleeding heavily, his eyes still full of lunatic hope. Pan had her hand up, ready to unleash a burst of energy, to fry the asshole for good, but he passed her like she didn’t exist, moving to the window. For a second she thought he was going to fall out too. Instead he looked down, the wind snatching at him like it was trying to finish the job.
“Brianna,” he was sobbing. “Nonono.” He spun, jabbing his finger at her. “You did—”
Pan flinched against his attack, a burst of electrostatic burning from her fingers, whip-cracking against him. Too late she realized that he wasn’t attacking but ’porting, half of him already erased, like he was a phantom. The lightning snapped around his ghost-like body, leaving just a coil of smoke where he had been standing.
Something fizzed in the plaza, an echo of her strike, a crackle of lightning down below. Then Patrick screamed—a noise so shrill and so full of pain that Pan had to clamp her hands to her ears.
“Come on!” yelled Night, heading back the way they’d come. Pan started to follow but felt herself scooped up, Marlow’s arms beneath her like he was carrying her over the threshold on their wedding day. He stepped through the window and they dropped, Pan clamping her mouth shut to stop her stomach flying out of her throat. They landed hard but Marlow cushioned her, putting her down gently. She braced herself, building up another charge, ready to fight.
The wormbag was lumbering to its feet, its sides literally split, tar-colored organs slopping out of it and splashing on the ground. Truck was underneath and Pan almost cried with relief when she saw the big guy sit up. Patrick screamed again and the Brianna thing cocked its butt-ugly head, whining. Pan scanned the plaza, found Patrick. And even after everything else she’d witnessed tonight, this was the thing that made her double over, made her empty her stomach over the ground.
Patrick’s upper body grew from the plaza like a stunted plant, a flagpole protruding from his shoulder. Half of one foot stuck out from the stone, twitching. There was no blood. It was like he was fused there, a statue that had come to life. And that’s what had happened, she realized. Her strike had thrown off his aim. She’d made him ’port right into the ground. Patrick’s whole body shook, the horror dripping from his eyes. He opened his mouth and shrieked, somehow the loudest noise Pan had ever heard. She put a hand to her mouth to stop a scream of her own from spilling out.
I didn’t do this, I didn’t do this.
The wormbag lumbered across the plaza but it wasn’t coming for her. She stepped aside to let it through, the creature moving toward the screams of its onetime brother. It sniffed him, uttering a low, grief-filled whine. Then it collapsed beside him, dwarfing him, its blind face nuzzling his body. One of its feet, bigger than a car, pawed at Patrick, like it was trying to pull him loose. He screamed again, holding on to one of the finger-like digits.
The air hammered as a chopper flew across the plaza, the sound of sirens filling up the whole city. Pan ignored it. They had time. They had to see this through.
Patrick was dying, fast, the color all but drained from his face. He coughed out blood, gargled as he tried to breathe. It made her sick to see him there, pinned like a butterfly. But he deserved it. He was one of the enemy. The thing that had once been his sister lay next to him, panting like a dying horse. He held on to her as a drowning man would hold on to a float, staring at Pan with a look of pure fury.
“Last chance,” she said. “Just tell us how we can access your Engine. Just do the right thing before you die.”
Patrick spat out a noise that might have been a laugh. His hands dropped to his sides and he seemed to give up, resting his head on the wormbag’s paw.
“Least I don’t have to crush your head,” said Truck. He was drenched in wormbag guts, steam rising off him into the night. The relief that hit her—the knowledge that she didn’t have to die—was as painful as it was sweet. She could take no joy in this. There was a definite scent in the air, over the smoke—that same sulfurous stench as before. She scanned the street, waiting for the demons to pull themselves loose, to come collect what they were owed.
“Please,” said Night, “just tell us, and it can all be over.”
“It’s already over,” said Patrick, a dry wheeze that Pan could barely hear. His face twisted into something that might have been a grin. “We found your Engine.”
The world stopped spinning. Pan was suddenly drowning in silence. Her heart stuttered, stalling for what felt like an eternity before revving back to life. She lost her balance, only Truck keeping her standing.
“Yeah, sure,” she said.
“Try to…” He paused, coughing up blood. The smell of sulfur was getting stronger, burning up her nostrils. “Try to contact them. You can’t, can you?”
“What’s he talking about?” Night said.
“He’s talking crap,” Pan replied. “Not for much longer, though. They’re coming for you, Patrick. Can you feel them?”
“I don’t care,” he said, a tear winding its way down his face, cutting a line into the dirt and the blood. “I did my part. We did. And at least now we get to go together.” He stroked Brianna’s hand. “We can look after each other.”
“You did your part?” Pan said. “What does that even mean?”
He started fitting, shaking so hard that his skin was tearing loose from the ground. There was a ripping sound, his upper body coming loose. Beneath was an impossible mix of concrete and flesh, infernally bound.
“We only had to get you here,” he whispered. “To distract you. The others took care of the rest. They opened the door.”
“Don’t even bother,” Pan said. “It’s not true. It can’t be. Nobody gets in to the Engine.”
“Not unless you let them in,” said Patrick. “Not unless you open the Red Door from the inside.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, her fingers a mass of crackling light.
Somewhere overhead there was a crunch of rock, dust raining down. She could almost see them, the demons, teeming just behind the skin of reality, frantically tearing their way through so they could claim Patrick’s soul and reclaim Brianna’s. She took a step back. Patrick turned to Marlow, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“What?” Marlow stuttered. “Why?”
“You ended the war,” Patrick said. “You made it happen.”
Marlow raised his hands, shaking his head.
“I swear, I have no idea what he’s going on about. I didn’t make anything happen.”
“Not you,” Patrick said, his words barely louder than a breath. “Your friend. Charlie.”
Pan felt as if time had stopped, everything slowing to a nightmare singularity.
“No,” said Marlow. “He’d never … It’s impossible.”
“He opened the door,” said Patrick. “He let us in.”
“It’s not true,” he said. “He wouldn’t do that.”
But Pan could see the uncertainty there, the doubt. She swore, terror rising up inside her like a cold, dark wave. Patrick reached up, spoke into his collar radio.
“It’s done,” he said. “Tell her. Please. I want to see the look in her eyes before I go.”
Her earpiece fizzed, then a voice she knew all too well. Bullwinkle.
“Pan.” He was sobbing. “Oh god, Pan, he let them in, he let them in, they’re all—”
A pistol shot, so loud that she had to dig the receiver out of her ringing ear. She called Bully’s name, holding the earpiece there, trying to make out what was going on. But there was only static. She looked at Night, the girl’s eyes big and white and laced with horror. Even Truck was scared, the big guy shaking. Pan looked at Marlow, ready to rip his head off, but the kid seemed about ten years old, his hands held up defensively.
“Here’s what’s going to happen next,” Patrick said, stroking his sister’s paw. “They’re going to cancel your contracts. Then they’re going to come for you. You won’t be able to fight them, you’ll be defenseless. Mammon will pick you off one by one. Not you, though.” He looked at Pan. “You get to keep your contract. I want you to think of Brianna. I want you to think of her for however many hours you have left. I want you to think of her when they come for you.”
She looked at her watch. 649:43:20:18. It couldn’t be happening. It could not be happening. More crumbling dust from up the Rockefeller tower, a faint, distant, demonic scream. The wormbag lifted its head, sniffing the air, uttering another mournful groan. Patrick held his sister tight.
“And when they come for you,” he whispered, “we’ll be waiting.”