The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (35 page)

“St. Patrick’s blessed shit,” Cian said.

An overweight woman surged to her feet, her face purple, her mouth open in an ululating scream. She staggered halfway down the car. The rest of the passengers were frozen in silence. One of the spiders jumped.

Cian shot it out of the air. The giant spider tumbled to the ground, its legs curling up as it rolled to a stop. The gunshot rang over the rattle of the train tracks.

The purple-faced woman’s scream continued as she raced for the door.

That was enough to set the rest of the passengers into motion. Men and women and children stampeded. The giant spiders launched themselves into the car, and some of the people dropped beneath the level of the crowd. Cian shot twice more, picking off two of the spiders before the rest of the abominations had mixed with the crowd.

Irene’s hand was a block of ice wrapped around her revolver. She stared as a pale woman with pearls around her neck disappeared like a sinking ship.

Irene wasn’t a good enough shot. She couldn’t do a single thing.

“Move,” Cian said, shoving her behind him and into the next car.

She stumbled. Everything had gone distant—feet and fingers and face. The only thing that seemed clear, winter clear, was the screams. When they entered the next car, Cian fumbled with the door, but after a moment he gave up and pushed Irene down the car. Two men in this car were already on their feet, shouting questions at Irene and Cian.

Irene stared at them. She felt the lines of the revolver’s barrel under her fingers. She felt the lint and dirt trapped at the bottom of her coat pocket. She felt her heartbeat. Steady. Steady as the train’s chug.

But all she heard were the screams. And all she saw was the pale woman with the pearls, dragged down under the sea of faces.

Cian was shouting back at the two men, and a moment later, the car began to clear. One of the men took Irene’s arm, dragging her a step or two before she came back to herself. She knocked his hand free. The man looked back at her twice, but he didn’t stop running. Within moments, the car had emptied.

Cian had his back to Irene and was staring at the door they had come through.

Waiting.

“Cian,” Irene said.

He shot her a quick look and then turned back to the door. “Damn it, he was supposed to get you out of here.”

“There are too many of them.”

“Go, Irene. You saw—” He stopped and shivered.

Irene wished she could see his face.

“How many rounds do you have left?” she asked.

It took him a moment to answer. “Four.”

“Cian.”

“Please go, Irene. Please.”

The car jumped again, as though some new force had threatened to throw the train from its tracks. Irene stumbled, caught the handrail, and held on as the train bucked against the rails.

And then she had an idea.

She grabbed Cian’s coat and pulled. “Cian, now.”

He stumbled after her. Behind them, the door flew open, and the hound-sized spiders surged through, crawling across the walls and seats and roof towards Cian and Irene. Irene ran faster, Cian on her heels. Two more gunshots rang in her ears, but she didn’t glance back to see if Cian had hit.

Of course, since it was Cian, she was fairly sure he had.

They cleared the car, and Cian slammed the door shut. The wood shivered, and one of the giant spiders threw itself against the glass pane. The glass cracked. Cian and Irene crossed to the next car, but before they entered the car, Irene dropped to her knees.

“How do they do it?” she asked.

Cian stood over her, Colt out. “What?”

“Detach the cars.”

For a moment, Cian stared down at her. Speechless.

Irene had to fight a crazed smile. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen him speechless before.

The silence was somewhat nice.

Then she turned her attention back to the car coupling. There was nothing she could grab onto. Not without losing a hand.

A crack came from the car they had just left.

“Irene,” Cian said.

“I’m hurrying!”

Then she saw it, on the corner of the car, a substantial piece of metal sticking out. She wrapped her hands around it and pulled.

It wouldn’t budge.

“Irene,” Cian said.

Glass shattered.

“It won’t move,” Irene said. She yanked on the pin with all her weight, but the damned piece of metal was stuck.

“Of course it won’t move,” Cian shouted. He fired a shot. “They don’t want the cars to come flying off. That’s the whole point!”

“You’re not helping!”

He swore and shot again.

Irene wrapped her hands around the pin. She risked a quick look at the car they had left.

A pair of spiders poked limbs out of the broken window, dragging themselves over the shards of glass. Cian stood with the Colt out, but he hadn’t fired.

He was waiting. He wanted to make the shots count.

God above, he only had three shots left.

The passenger car with the spiders trembled, and from further back along the train, two figures sailed into view. They flew through the air, arms and legs rigid, like carvings dropped from the sky. With a crash of metal and wood, the forms landed at the edge of the passenger car. The car tipped forward under the weight.

The train coupling shifted. Suddenly the pin had plenty of room to move.

Irene hauled on the pin. Even through the train’s vibrations, she felt the click. The coupling loosed, and the passenger car fell away, losing ground as the train continued forward.

“What in the—” Cian stared at the distant car and then at Irene. “How—”

Irene slumped onto the narrow span of metal. Her hands smelled like rust, and her heart jounced inside her head. Only the rush of cold air in her ears, howling like a storm, registered.

“Well,” Cian said. He helped her to her feet. “That was . . .” He stopped. His hands tightened over hers. “That was amazing.”

Irene wanted to say something, but before she could, a squeal of metal came from the dwindling form of the passenger cars. The car twisted and turned, the wheels tearing free of the rails, and then the row of cars came off the tracks. With a crash, the series of cars plowed into the frozen dirt.

In the sky, two cut-out figures fell towards Cian and Irene.

“Run,” Irene said.

They forced their way into the next car. It had already been evacuated, with only an assortment of forgotten items to witness to the departed passengers: a briefcase open with papers scattered across a seat; a stuffed bear with a bandaged paw; a woman’s scarf that waved goodbye—or hello—in a draft.

Irene and Cian had made it halfway down the aisle when the rear third of the car collapsed. Metal folded, wood splintered, and the roof and walls of the car crumpled. The shock of the blow traveled through the car, knocking Cian and Irene forward. Cian caught the handrail. Irene watched him as she flew past and struck the corner of the door. Pain flashed in her forehead, and she felt something warm trickling down the side of her face.

As she got to her feet, she looked back to see what had happened.

From the rubble that had, moments before, been the rear portion of a passenger car, two golems stood. They forced their way through the wreckage, tossing aside metal sheets and broken beams without a pause.

Cian fired. The bullet took one of the golems in the face, knocking off its hat and snapping its head back. The abomination had only the crudest features—a misshapen, melted face that looked like the worst kind of sculpting. The bullet hole between its eyes didn’t seem to bother the golem in the slightest.

“Pearl didn’t do her job,” Cian said.

In response, one of the golems tore a bank of seats from the car and hurled them at Cian and Irene.

Cian dropped, and Irene slid to the floor. The row of seats struck the wall of the car and bounced back, missing them by inches. Cian scrambled to his feet, grabbed Irene, and then they were off again, racing into the next car.

“Your head,” Cian said as they forced their way into the next car.

“I’m fine.”

The next car, however, stopped them. It was packed with passengers, men in dark suits clawing at the windows, women in heavy coats and heavier stockings huddled with their children at the far end of the car. The door at the other end of the car was blocked.

Irene slumped against the wall and dabbed at the cut to her forehead. It stung. The train had begun to sway in earnest, and her stomach flipped over.

“Irene—”

“I said I’m fine,” Irene said, but then the roof of the train began to loom over her, and suddenly she was staring up into Cian’s eyes. “Such nice eyes,” she said, reaching up to pat his cheek.

For some reason, Cian’s lips came together in a tight line, and he grabbed her hand. He squeezed her fingers until Irene thought they might break, but she didn’t mind. At least, not too much.

Something heavy was coming towards them—pounding steps that rocked the train like a ship in a storm. And then Irene heard a familiar voice.

“Excuse me. Pardon me. If I could just—yes, perfect, thank you.”

Her eyes were heavy, and she was struggling to keep them open. But then she saw his face.

“Sam?” she said.

“Hi there, Irene,” Sam said. His voice was softer, the way Irene would speak to someone who was ill. The tone rankled. “Good of you to come.”

Cian let go of Irene’s hand.

“Now listen, Cian,” Sam was saying. He had his hands up and was stepping backwards. “No need to be hasty. We’ve got bigger problems coming our way. Those golems will be here in seconds.”

“Good. You won’t have to worry about them.”

“Cian, I can help you. I know how to stop them.”

“So do I.”

“Why am I lying on the floor?” Irene asked. Her eyes still felt heavy, and her stomach had twisted itself inside out, but something was pressing on the back of her brain. A warning. “Did I fall?”

Cian swore. He helped her up and pushed her into Sam’s arms. “Be careful,” he said.

“I always am,” Sam said.

“I meant be careful with her.”

And then Cian threw open the door and stepped out onto the narrow platform between the cars.

The door swung shut, and then all Irene could see was Cian’s shoulder, and the trembling frame of the car, and the landscape unrolling from icy spools. From outside, there was a crack of gunfire. Screams filled the car, and Irene pulled away from Sam, lunging for the door.

Her knees gave out as the car titled beneath her. Sam caught her and pulled her back.

“He’ll be fine. He’s a big boy.”

Irene pried at his fingers, but Sam wouldn’t let go.

Then there was a muffled crash. Another round of screams from the passengers. The sound hammered at Irene’s head. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She heard the car door open. And then steps.

Sam shifted and he said, “Stop right there.”

“You little piece of shit,” Cian said.

Irene opened her eyes.

Sam still had one arm around his waist, but in his free hand he held a knife. “Listen, Cian. I like you. And I like Miss Lovell here. But I like myself more. I’m going to keep Miss Lovell with me until we get to the next stop. Then you stay on the train, and I’ll go on my way, and Miss Lovell will be just fine.”

“You’re as dumb as you look,” Cian said. “The Children found you. Do you think they won’t find you again? You can run all you like, but they won’t stop.” Cian paused, and a revelation showed in his face. “Good God, you didn’t give it to them, did you?”

Sam tensed. Irene slipped her hand into her pocket. The world was still sliding sideways, but she found the revolver.

“What was it?” Cian asked. “You gave them a fake?”

Sam laughed. It was a bitter sound. “I’m smart but not that smart. I wish I’d thought that far ahead. I left the box somewhere safe. I thought I’d just run through the deal and see what they offered. I didn’t expect them to lock me up and beat the stuffing out of me.”

“They’re going to do worse when they find you again,” Cian said. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“Alone? Look who’s talking. You can’t see straight when you’re around Witte. He says black, you say white. He says left, you say right.” Sam took a step back, dragging Irene with him. She stumbled along as best she could. “I think I’ll be safer on my own than with friends like that.”

“Irene,” Cian said. He took a frustrated half-step forward, and Sam brandished the knife. “God damn you.”

Irene slipped the revolver from her pocket and set the muzzle to Sam’s jaw.

Sam froze.

“I’m feeling quite a bit better,” Irene said. “But I’ve still got a bit of a tremor. Why don’t you drop that knife before my finger slips?”

“Miss Lovell,” Sam said.

“Right now, Sam. Drop it right now.”

Sam let out a breath and dropped the knife.

The train stopped at Kirkwood, a small town to the west of St. Louis. The station had only a single platform, which was crowded as the passengers fled the remaining cars, braving the cold rather than another minute aboard the train. Cian kept a tight grip on Sam’s shoulder as they stepped onto the platform. To judge by Sam’s face, Cian had found one of the many cuts and bruises that were still healing. Cian tightened his grip, and Sam barked a few choice swears, his face paling.