Hunt the Moon

I couldn’t have agreed more.

The train had disappeared around a bend and we leaned left and followed, scooting around the corner at what had to be fifty miles an hour. We didn’t bother discussing a plan, because the plan was simple: find him; kill him. I actually wanted that bastard’s head more than the kidnapper’s, who at least didn’t appear to want my mother dead.

Right after we took out the goddamned Spartoi.

I leaned forward a little more, to the point that I risked tipping over, trying to milk every ounce of speed out of the spell. It should have been insanely frightening, rocketing into a pitch-dark tunnel with seemingly no end in sight, and no way to know if we were about to take a header into a wall. But apparently fear and fury don’t work together, because I didn’t feel anything but hurry, hurry, hurry thrumming through my veins and echoing in my ears, along with the growing rattle of the train up ahead.

And then light flooded the tunnel and we passed a station filled with people staring in the opposite direction, probably wondering why the hell the train had just barreled by without stopping. Or maybe they were wondering about something else. Because a couple of seconds later, we zipped into the tunnel’s mouth and almost ran into three figures streaking along ahead, barely discernable against the gloom.

It looked like the remaining Spartoi had arrived a little late to the party. But they were catching up fast, courtesy of some motor scooters they’d commandeered from somewhere and levitated. Two were on one and one was on another and they were tearing down the tunnel at a rate of speed that left them little more than blurs against the night.

I stared at them, horrified, because I’d just seen what one of these things could do. There was no way we could let three more get to that train. Just no way.

“Mircea—”

“I know. Get me close,” he said, like I had a choice. The damn tunnel was twelve, maybe thirteen feet across, and they were right in the middle of it. Which meant that anywhere I went was going to be close.

“Why?” I asked anyway.

And then we shot in between them, and I found out why.

Mircea savagely kicked the guy on one scooter, sending him crashing headfirst into the wall. And then he leaned over and kept him there, as we and the scooter and the guy shot ahead. Or, at least, most of the guy did. I was thankful that the headlight on the thing was jumping around, so that I didn’t get much more than a glimpse of the black streak left by his head as Mircea ruthlessly ground it into solid cement.

And then kicked him off and jumped on his scooter. The body went flying, tumbling back into darkness, and the scooter ricocheted away from the wall. And straight at the one driven by the other two guys.

It looks like caution is kaput for this round, I thought blankly.

But we’d had the advantage of surprise on the first attack, and we definitely didn’t now. One of the Spartoi jumped onto the front of Mircea’s scooter and then flung himself to the side, trying to tip him over. But Mircea flexed his thighs and stayed seated, which meant that they shot down the tube spinning sideways, over and over, as there was no inertia in midair to stop them.

I couldn’t help because the other Spartoi had spotted me and was right on my tail. I felt a bullet brush past my shoulder and another graze my thigh, leaving a line of searing pain all the way up to my hip. But it could have been worse—and probably would have been, but the suitcase steered like a wounded buffalo and was bouncing around all over the place.

But that wouldn’t help for long, and I didn’t have time to come up with something that might. Other than the definite impression that being the one in front was not a plus here. I pulled back on the suitcase, the Spartoi shot by me, and then I hurled myself ahead, getting right on his tail for a change.

The Spartoi spun, gun in hand, just as I aimed my bracelet at him and two ghostly daggers arrowed in his direction. They looked brighter than usual in the dim light, but had all of their usual enthusiasm for any kind of violence. I flung myself to the side to avoid any more bullets, so I didn’t see them land. But I did see the headlight from the scooter sling wildly around the tunnel, heard it crash into the wall, felt the heat when its engine decided “to hell with this” and exploded in a ball of orange fire.

I slowed down, the case turning in a wide arc as I stared at the flames licking up the side and roof of the tunnel. And felt vaguely sick. I hadn’t had a choice; I knew that. But it didn’t make me feel a hell of a lot better. I could count on one hand the number of lives I’d taken, and I wasn’t thrilled about increasing the number.

Only it looked like I hadn’t yet.

Because someone walked out of the flames, charred and burned and leaving blazing bits of himself behind on the tunnel floor. His clothes were mostly burnt off, his hair was on fire, his skin was cracked and charred and running, and fiery light was gleaming on the blood cascading down his body. But he was on his feet, acting like he didn’t even feel it.

And he was smiling.

Chapter Thirty-seven

I’d like to say that I planned what happened next, but I’d be lying. All I could think about was getting the hell out of there, but the Spartoi went for me at the same time. I started to turn back in the direction of the train, and he leapt in my path and grabbed the suitcase.

Although, in retrospect, that turned out to be okay, because the spell was a strong one and I was leaning forward with everything I had. And instead of stopping me, he was dragged along underneath, his feet making rhythmic bump, bump, bump sounds on the crossties.

At least, they did until a very alive-feeling hand gripped my thigh right over the bullet wound and I almost whitedout in pain. My body jerked and the scarred piece of luggage went shooting into the floor, hitting down hard and then scraping the Spartoi’s entire body across gravel.

I hadn’t planned that, either, but I damn sure kept the pressure on once it happened, knowing from personal experience exactly how sharp that gravel was. The chunks were big and there had never been any rain down here to wear off the knifelike edges. They were also coated with a layer of black grit or dirt or dust or whatever the hell —anyway, it was finer than sand, as it proved by flying up in a choking cloud all around us, leaving me gasping for air and the demigod cursing inventively beneath me.

But he still didn’t let go. Instead, he pushed off the ground, trying to use his extra weight to flip us, I guess to give me a taste of my own medicine. Which might have worked if we hadn’t hit a bend in the tunnel, which neither of us saw coming, thanks to the Underground’s idea of adequate illumination. I might not have seen it, but I felt it when we hit, and heard it when something of his went crunch.

It was alarmingly satisfying.

It was also useless, because the next moment, he flipped us anyway, using the wall for leverage, fighting and scratching and kicking as best as possible from two different sides of the case.

“Just fucking die,” he snarled, and I actually saw the expression through the diffuse light sifting in from somewhere up ahead.

I tilted my head back and saw the body of the train, which had either slowed to a crawl or was stationary. And either way would do.

“You first,” I snarled back, and flipped us one last time. Last, because a second later we slammed into the back of the train.

Or, to be more precise, he did.

Being on top, I sailed through the missing back window to experience the joys of rug burn on a whole new level. Which, all things considered, was better than smashing into a hunk of steel face-first. Although it wasn’t feeling so much that way at the moment.

I rolled to my knees after I rolled to a stop, almost to the door at the far end of the compartment. My body was crying out for rest, for oblivion, but my brain was telling it sternly to shut up. But it kind of looked like the body might win, because when I tried to stand, I staggered and wobbled and went back down. And not just because of pain and dizziness and a distinct desire to throw up.

There was something wrong with my feet.