Hellraisers

  “Lady, you’re going to have to go through my secretary,” he said, but he took a step back as he did so, hitting the wall.

  This won’t hurt, she said, and her words buzzed inside his ears like there was a wasp trapped in there.

  “What won’t?” Marlow asked.

  She sailed closer, still moving without really walking. Her eyes were growing alongside her smile, becoming as fat and bright as headlights. His headache was growing more painful by the second, needled feet walking across the flesh of his brain. His mouth was full of the taste of copper.

  “Marlow?” Charlie’s voice was quiet, as though he were speaking from the other side of the school, or Marlow had cotton wool in his ears. “Dude, your nose.”

  Marlow put his fingers to his face and they came away red, blood pattering down onto his T-shirt, onto his sneakers.

  Relax, the girl was saying, or not saying. I’m just going to open you up, see what’s inside. You have something we need. She was a dozen yards away now, still gliding. Her hands flexed in the air in front of her, and each time one of her fingers moved Marlow felt like a blasting cap had been detonated inside his head. Visions flashed up with each explosion, too bright and too real—the hospital parking lot, the demons, and her, Pan. Marlow groaned, putting his hand to his head, feeling like his mind was about to start slopping out of his nose along with the blood.

  “Hey!” yelled one of the cops. “What the hell’s going on? Get away from him!”

  Marlow felt Charlie’s fingers tighten around his arm, tugging. He let himself be pulled, taking a step down the corridor toward the fire doors.

  Where are you going, Marlow? the girl said. She reached out and took hold of his shirt, pulling him close, those eyes burning more fiercely than the sun. He struggled against her, hearing the police demanding to know what was going on, hearing Charlie shout his name. But all of it was drowned out by the girl’s voice in his head, those bone-breakingly loud whispers. Don’t be afraid, Marlow, the pain will be over soon, it will all be over soon.

  The memories flashed by without his permission, as if he were watching a movie inside his head. He saw things he didn’t even remember: staggering out of the office tower, so drunk he couldn’t stand straight; looking up at the window where he could almost make out Pan’s face watching him go, vomiting over a police car as they tried to bundle him inside. The girl’s eyes flicked back and forth like she was watching it all, like she was reading his mind. It was too much, too much.

  “No!” Marlow cried, lashing out, shunting the girl away. She grunted, the visions in his head vanishing so fast that for a second he couldn’t see anything at all. Something in her expression dropped away like a mask, her eyes suddenly normal, her smile wiped clean.

  “That’s enough!” yelled Yogi, moving toward the girl. “What are you doing here?”

  The girl closed her eyes, scrunched up her face, put her fingers to her temples like she was trying to remember where she’d left her keys.

  “You need to get the hell out,” Yogi said, reaching out for the girl with one fat hand.

  Then Caputo started screaming.

  It was a noise unlike anything Marlow had heard, a savage, brutal shriek that filled the entire lobby. Everybody turned to the principal as he pushed himself up from the wall, his movements jerky. He screamed again, spraying spittle, and started to run toward Yogi, building up speed.

  “Hey—” was all the big guy had a chance to say before Caputo leaped on him, his wiry arms clamped onto the cop’s big, bald head, his legs wrapped around his waist. Yogi staggered, trying to wrestle the man off him, but Caputo looked possessed. He raised a hand and punched Yogi, right in the side of the head. The noise was like somebody shooting a watermelon, a wet crack that echoed off the walls. He punched him again and this time his knuckles came away red.

  “Christ!” yelled one of the other school cops, running into the fray. Yogi and Caputo looked like they were locked in some kind of dance, then the big guy’s legs gave out beneath him and they both crumpled to the floor. Caputo was still punching, staving in the side of Yogi’s head, blood and bone spraying across the lobby. He was grinning like a madman, shrieking with glee as he bent down and bit into the gaping wound. Marlow heard the clack of teeth against bone and he almost screamed too. One cop shot his Taser, the principal’s entire body shuddering, blood spraying from his mouth. He lay there, out cold, twitching. The other cop was trying to yell something into his radio.

  Nearly there, said the girl, and Marlow felt as if she had an ice-cream scoop inside his head, digging into the tender meat of his brain. Just a little more.

  “Screw this,” Charlie almost shrieked, and suddenly the girl was staggering back again, holding her nose. Charlie bounced on his heels, his small fist bunched. He moved in for another punch but the girl opened her mouth and shrieked:

  “Patrick! I need you!”

  The entire lobby shuddered, as though an earthquake had just hit. The windows imploded, a crack tearing its way across one wall. A cloud of dust billowed down from the ceiling, diffusing the sunlight and making the air swim like an ocean of gold. Marlow grabbed hold of Charlie to stop himself toppling. The room shook again. It was filled with so much dust that it took Marlow a second to notice there was one more person in the lobby.

  A guy stood right next to the girl; late teens maybe, blond hair, dressed all in black. The third cop leveled his Taser at the new guy and pulled the trigger, the two electrified wires burying themselves into the boy’s neck. They sparked once, but the guy didn’t even seem to feel it. The wires glowed red-hot, a bolt of electricity snaking into the cop’s hand and sending him flying into the wall. The Taser dropped to the floor and erupted into flame, the plastic bubbling. Smoke curled upward and suddenly the school was full of noise as the fire alarm triggered.

  Marlow tried to run but he couldn’t move. The dust and smoke was aggravating his lungs, making each breath a long, panicked wheeze. He felt Charlie pulling his arm but nothing was responding the way it should.

  I haven’t finished with you yet, said the girl’s voice in his skull. She reached out and he could feel her fingers there, plunging into his memories, filling his thoughts with pain. He tried to shake her away but he was rooted tight, like he was a puppet and she had hold of his strings. All he could do was watch as the guy in black lifted his hand once again. The cop vanished with a concussive thump, the whole lobby shaking with the force of it.

  The policeman on the floor was back on his feet and he swung a punch at the boy. There was another pop and the kid vanished. The cop’s punch hit nothing but air and the man spun around in a circle, tripping over Yogi’s body and landing on his face with a meaty crunch. Then Patrick was there again, blinking back into existence. He twitched his fingers and the man’s flailing body exploded in a blinding flash.

  Where are they hiding? the girl asked, pulling Marlow’s attention back to her. Her eyes were big and bright once again. Tell me.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Marlow said, feeling like his whole body was bound by invisible ropes, his lungs full of sawdust. “I don’t know anything.”

  The door at the far end of the lobby opened, a stampede of students spilling out, heading for the fire exits. Those at the front took one look at the chaos and tried to stop. The girl flinched, her attention wavering as she looked over. Marlow felt the chains loosen, just a crack but enough to let him move. He ripped his mind free, turning and bolting. His legs were like jelly, like this was the first time he’d ever used them, and he almost fell, but Charlie was by his side, hauling him along.

  No! came the girl’s voice, and he felt her fingers inside his head again, felt his body start to seize up. Then they plunged into the crowd, drowning in a river of limbs. Even past the screams Marlow could hear her.

  “Patrick, we can’t lose him!”

  There was another thump, a channel of warm air flowing over them, screams. The flow of people changed, everyone pushing back the way th
ey’d come and dragging Marlow with them. He lost sight of Charlie, called his name, but all he heard in return was the girl.

  Marlow, she said, her voice distant now, like a badly tuned radio. Marlow, don’t you dare run …

  Then she was gone. Marlow passed an open door and he plowed through the crowd toward it, squeezing into a classroom. There were half a dozen younger students there, cowering in the corner. Somebody had opened a window and was halfway out, casting a nervous look back before disappearing.

  “Go!” he wheezed at the rest, scattering them.

  He looked back at the crowd raging past the door. Charlie was there, pushing and punching his way through the melee until he was close enough to hold out a hand. Marlow grabbed it, hauling him in like he was dragging him out of quicksand. They staggered into the classroom together, Charlie panting and Marlow gasping.

  “What the hell is going on, Marlow?” Charlie asked. The room trembled, an aftershock strong enough to send chairs and tables skittering across the floor. “Seriously, dude, what the hell?”

  “I told you, some weird stuff went down yesterday,” Marlow replied. He pulled out his inhaler, using it four times and feeling the panic subside as the hot, dusty air was channeled into his lungs. The relief didn’t last long. The room shook again, the windows shattering. Marlow shielded his head with his arms, feeling blades of glass embed themselves in his skin.

  “Marlow!”

  When he snapped his eyes open the boy called Patrick was right in front of him, wrapping a gloved hand around Marlow’s throat. He leaned in, snarling.

  “My sister has one way of interrogating people,” he said. “I have another.”

  Patrick grunted in pain as a chair exploded over his back. Then Charlie’s scrawny arms were around the guy’s neck, dragging him away. Marlow didn’t hesitate, throwing a punch. It was badly aimed, glancing off Patrick’s cheek. He threw another, this one connecting with the boy’s nose. There was a brittle crack and Patrick gargled in pain. Charlie was raining blows down onto his head and neck, trying to knock him down onto the floor.

  “Run!” he yelled at Marlow. “I got th—”

  There was a dull explosion and Charlie was gone, the dust billowing in crazed circles as the air rushed into the space he’d just occupied.

  “No!” Marlow said, just a choked cry. “Charlie? Charlie!”

  Patrick straightened his jacket, smudging blood over his face as he walked leisurely toward Marlow.

  “Where is he?” Marlow asked, backing away and bumping into a desk. “What did you do with him? I swear to god if you’ve hurt him.”

  “You’ll what?” Patrick said, advancing. “You’ll run to Mommy?”

  Patrick’s grin grew even wider. His was a shark’s smile too, and Marlow could suddenly see the resemblance to the girl, his sister. They had to be twins.

  “I’ll fu—” he started, but Patrick’s viper hand snapped out, fingers squeezing tight around Marlow’s throat.

  “That’s enough,” he growled. “Time to talk.”

  Something outside seemed to catch his attention and he swore. There was a blinding flash of darkness, like an inverse starburst. Marlow again felt like he was on a roller coaster, his stomach almost ripped out of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut against the sickening force of it, too scared to even scream. Then the world re-formed around him, his body too heavy, like he was conscious of every bone, every muscle.

  He opened his eyes to see Patrick. The boy’s face was worn and lined, his eyes pale, like he’d aged fifty years in a flash. Behind him was the big, blue sky, no classroom in sight. Marlow glanced left, then right, realizing that he was on the roof of the school building. And when he peered over his shoulder there was nothing but air between him and the parking lot forty yards below. Vertigo hit him like a punch to the solar plexus and he gulped air like a fish out of water. Only Patrick’s hand around his throat was stopping him from falling and he grabbed the boy’s arms, holding them tight.

  “Last chance,” Patrick said, the wind whipping his blond hair into a frenzy. “Tell us what you know.”

  “About what?” Marlow said.

  “About them.”

  “I don’t know anything,” he said, and Patrick straightened his arm, pushing Marlow farther over the edge. “I don’t, I swear, they gave me something, I don’t remember any of it.”

  “Then you’re no good to me,” Patrick said.

  “No, wait!” Marlow yelled.

  There was the sound of a door opening, the pop of a gunshot. Then Patrick was gone, and Marlow was falling.

  SAFETY’S OFF

  The van screeched to a halt so fast that Pan almost flew through the windshield. Outside, the school was in chaos, a hundred kids or more scrambling out of the gates and swarming to safety. Even from inside the van, over the panicked cries, Pan could hear the ringing of an alarm. There was smoke, too, rising from the main door.

  “There are definitely two Engineers inside, and they’re powerful,” Herc said, his eyes still glued to the monitors. “Where the hell is Truck?”

  “Probably taking a nap,” she replied.

  Something hammered on the van door and Pan wrenched it open. A familiar fat face glowered back at her.

  “Truck, nice of you to turn up,” she said.

  “Wish I could say the same,” he grunted, squeezing his obese frame halfway into the van, the whole vehicle tilting with his weight. “Herc, we got two agents inside and they’re blowing the place to hell. Do we engage?”

  “Engage,” said Herc, nodding. “Of course you should engage, you dufus. We got a chance to kick the Circle where it counts here. Try to take one alive, okay?”

  Truck nodded, his chins jiggling, then he pushed away hard enough to make the van rock on its suspension. Pan watched him go. He didn’t look like much, for sure, but she could almost smell the Engine’s power inside him—blood and iron, age and power. He would have gone for strength, the way he always did when he forged a contract. It was a safe bet, the Lawyers had brokered that one so many times they could break it with their eyes closed.

  The big guy reached the gates, the kids backing away from him like they could sense something different, something wrong. A small figure danced up beside him, casting a nervous look back and lifting a hand to Pan in greeting. Nightingale. Pan didn’t wave back, just nodded at her. Night would have gone for something else, speed maybe. It was impossible to tell until Pan saw her in action.

  She sat down, then pushed herself up again, pacing like a caged animal. God, she hated being out of contract, being human. The word caught in her craw, making her feel like choking. When she was human she was weak, fragile, pathetic. The Engine made her whole, made her real. With the Engine, she wasn’t human at all, she was something so much more.

  Being human didn’t mean she had to sit here like a lemon, though.

  “Don’t,” Herc said, squinting suspiciously at her.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t do whatever it is that you’re thinking about doing,” he said. “Let Truck and Night handle it, kiddo, you’ll be like a sitting duck out there. A duck with no legs or wings or … superpowers.”

  “That’s probably the worst analogy I’ve ever heard,” she muttered back, sliding the crossbow out of the pouch on her back. She’d lost three bolts in the hospital parking lot but she had two left, each one forged from the Engine. They were designed to stop the demons in their tracks, but they did a pretty good job of putting holes in Engineers too.

  “Pan, I’m serious, Ostheim wouldn’t want you out there.”

  “Ostheim can kiss it,” she said. “You want to take down the enemy, you’re gonna need more than a fat guy and his shadow. Give me that.”

  She nodded at the pistol holstered at Herc’s waist. He shook his head, but it was more in resignation than denial, because he popped the stud and held it out.

  “Safety’s off,” he said.

  “Just the way I like it,” she replied, grinni
ng. Then, before he could say another word, she was out of the van. The sun was fierce, drumming on her skull as she ran across the street. People pushed past her but she ignored them, crossing the parking lot, the pistol cocked in her right hand and the bow held tight in her left. There was a soft explosion, a set of windows to her left detonating into shrapnel. She jogged toward them, seeing a classroom drenched in shadow. It was so dark inside that she could only make out an outline. No, two outlines, next to each other.

  “That’s enough,” she heard one of them say. “Time to talk.”

  She lifted the gun, finger on the trigger. The man who had spoken saw her—his eyes glinting in the dark—and a second later both figures vanished, blasting out a shock wave of heat and air. Pan swore, jamming a finger to her collar radio.

  “Contact, we’ve got a ’Porter. It’s Patrick Rebarre. I lost him.”

  She looked right and left, waiting for them to reappear. Teleporters never went far, it was too draining, especially when they were carrying a passenger. There was another whump above her and she backed away, staring up the huge brick tower that made up the corner of the school. There, at the top, over the clockface, a figure dangling precariously over the edge. Pan swore again, clambering through the window into the school, blinking the last of the sun out of her eyes. She bolted across a classroom into the corridor beyond. To the right was the lobby and she could hear shouts inside, Truck’s voice booming. She ignored it—the big guy could handle himself—cutting up a flight of steps, then another. The halls were deserted now, the fire alarm still screaming. She reached the top floor, her injured heart beating like a hummingbird’s.

  “Come on, come on,” she growled, running one way then doubling back, finding a door with CLOCK stenciled on it. It was locked, but she aimed the pistol and fired off four shots, splinters of wood exploding. A solid kick forced it open and she ran up three more flights of stairs, bursting through the door at the top.

  Patrick and Marlow were there, dark silhouettes against the day. She squeezed the trigger, the pistol bucking in her fist. Too slow. Patrick blinked out of sight with another concussive thump, leaving Marlow hanging there, his arms cartwheeling manically, his mouth open in an expression of terror as gravity reached up and grabbed him.