The train whipped around a corner, a hollow metallic snake with glowing white eyes running along every car. The night wind was split in two by its blunt nose, even as Wendell’s body was cut in half by the pain. He threw his head against the back of the day coach compartment’s seat as a fresh stream of sweat surged to cover his wide, pale forehead. Long legs sprawled out and twitching spasmodically, handcuffed hands clenched in his lap, he waited for the end of seizure.
“The third this hour,” the woman’s voice droned under the buzzing agony. “It’s getting worse. There is something wrong with him.”
“How observant of you,” the man’s voice was a chill of ice in the back of Wendell’s brain. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Cool, clammy hands with long nails unfastened the high collar that squeezed his throat to the point of suffocation. Wendell – eyes still squeezed tightly shut – dragged in feeble gasps of air, clawing at his throat, protecting the thing that hung around it – the thing they couldn’t find. He clenched his hands around it, pressing them to his chest, breathing heavier than before. The pudgy knuckles of the clammy hand were on his forehead, his temple, cheek, under his chin. Everywhere the fingers touched the pain flared.
“He has a fever as well,” muttered the woman.
“Oh joy,” the man said languidly. There was the rustle of cloth. “Here, give him this.”
The glass mouth of a small vial was pressed to his lips. “Drink, Mr. O’Muir. It’s for your own good.” The draught was poured through his half-open. When he refused to swallow it – he had no idea what it was and couldn’t have drunk anything if it had been the finest tea from the Queen’s own china – it dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. He coughed, groaned, and twisted to get away from the pain that even that small motion afforded him, but it followed him.
“If you don’t drink, Mr. O’Muir, the pain will continue,” the woman said shrilly, her voice suddenly too loud, demanding an answer.
“. . . can’t . . .” groaned Wendell, back arching. Falling back, the pain suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a breathless, welcome unconsciousness. Wendell slumped in his seat, his head lolling to his side. His clenched and manacled hands, dropping from his chest, opened to reveal a small locket embedded with a single large ruby.
“What is this?” The woman snatched it up, yanking it from the boy’s neck. “It could be important, Tiras. A clue.” She sat back down with the somber-faced man, handing it to him. “Something to tell us where it’s hidden.”
“I highly doubt he’d have the key round his neck, Ielma,” the man grunted, his thick pale fingers scrabbling to get a hold of the clasp to unlock it. “Really, it is that attitude – the idea that the whole of this organization is so stupid as to keep the key to their most powerful weapon round the neck of their most conspicuous man – that keeps us from getting farther than we have. Where is the infernal . . . ah, here it is. Probably a picture of his mummy . . .” The man opened it.
With a sudden shriek of magic shooting out of a constricted space, a black cloud rose like a fountain from the locket, growing into a dense charcoal smog as it hit the top of the compartment until it covered all four occupants in a darkness even the gaslight sconces couldn’t penetrate. From this cloud, magic continued to scream like a tortured child.
“What is it?” shrieked the woman, covering her hands with her ears and falling sideways to cower against the compartment’s wall. “Make it stop! Tiras . . . it will be heard!” Her pleading scream, the howling magic, and the blast of the train whistle blended together into one horrific devil’s yell as the train careened around another dark, treacherous bend.
*
Gilliam had been asleep when the screaming started. Sitting up quickly, he was instantly aware of his surroundings. The hard marble of the church steps, the cold bite of city air, the bright twinkle of Lilith’s will-o-the-wisps.
“You hear that?” Lilith demanded quietly, turning her haunted face toward him.
“Yeah,” Gilliam grunted, throwing off his ragged blanket. “Wendell’s in trouble.”
As Lilith extinguished her glowing balls of magic with one hand, squashing them into nothing with delicate fingers, Gilliam kicked Dom, who was still snoring.
“What? Who?” shouted the dark-skinned boy, jumping into the waking world with a yelp. “Oi! Who’s that screaming?”
“Wendell O’Muir’s on a train.”
“And? So?”
“And so he’s supposed to be at Amalgamation Headquarters, not on any train,” Gilliam said, yanking Dom to his feet. “Besides, his caller is screaming, never a good sign. Come on. Up.”
Lilith glided over, holding out her hands. The two boys took hers tightly, but Gilliam frowned when he saw the perplexed expression on her face. “What is it?”
“I’ve never dissipated onto something that was moving before,” she said, biting her lip. “The train is fast.”
“You can do it,” Gilliam urged. “We believe in you.”
“No pressure or anything,” Dom added darkly. “Just don’t drop us right in front of the bloody thing.”
Lilith frowned and closed her eyes. The three of them dissolved into mist and swirled upward, nothing more than another puff of fog in the middle of a foggy city.
*
The three children appeared on the top of the train, hands closed around the rungs that lined the top. The wind ripped at them, and the air smelled like smoke. “I did it!” cried Lilith exuberantly.
“Congratulations,” Dom yelled. “If we’d been killed, you would have been in a lot of trouble.”
The screaming had stopped, but Gilliam knew which compartment Wendell was in. Something was shaking inside of him, making it even more difficult to breathe. Wendell was an incredibly important piece of the puzzle – someone they couldn’t very well do without, for three extremely important reasons. One, he was the heir to the Keys, and without him the Devil’s Foot had no chance whatsoever of beating the Amalgamation. Secondly, with the O’Muir boy in their grasp, the Amalgamation had a very powerful bargaining chip and the upper hand. Thirdly, Wendell O’Muir was Gilliam’s friend.
Concentrating very hard, he used what little dissipating ability was in his less-than-adequately-magical system, and attempted to sink through the roof of the train. Halfway through, he was forced backwards by a very painful jolt.
“Damn,” he hollered, misting back into his normal form. “Warded.”
“Crawl along, let’s see if the rest of the train is,” Lilith suggested.
The three of them dragged themselves along the top of the train, the wind tearing at their faces so they could hardly open their eyes. “Why not just dissipate again?” shouted Dom. “This is killing my arms!”
“We’d blow away,” Lilith said.
Gilliam pulled himself along, soon leaving the others behind him. Misting his hand every carriage, he plunged it down into the top of the train, and each time he drew it back with a hiss of pain. It was warded all the way around – impenetrable. Whoever had Wendell was magical, that was certain. And they were expecting to be followed or stopped. Not good. So very not good.
They reached the end of the train. “We’ll have to go in conventionally,” he shouted to the others over his shoulder. “Swing down and go through a door.”
“They’ll be locked,” Lilith dragged herself shoulder-to-shoulder with Gilliam, her head bowed and her blond hair flying crazily about her like a devilish halo.
“Not a problem,” Dom shouted, flinging himself down to land on the small platform of the baggage car. Gilliam and Lilith followed, both of them clinging desperately to the poles to keep their balance.
A few seconds of bright green magic and the baggage car door was swinging open to Dom’s gentlest touch. Gilliam pushed through. No wards. Even an organization as powerful as the Amalgamation wouldn’t attempt putting wards through human entrances – it would drive the anti-magic hysteria up another notch and besides, it was forbidden by seven different Laws.
Lilith closed the door after them, lighting a will-o-the-wisp for them. They came face-to-face with the car’s only guard, a tall scrawny man who looked more than mildly panicked. “What are you doing in here? How’d you get in? That door was locked! And it doesn’t lead anywhere except out . . . Here, what’s that light – urgh.” The stream of questions was cut short as Gilliam put a sleeping spell on the guard, causing him to fall down where he stood.