gloves, and on his belt was a tiny brass clockwork mechanism.
Eliot had misjudged the size of the man. He was not hunched over from age, but because his head would otherwise have bumped the ceiling.
The man cast about, mumbling. He sniffed the air, looked behind a table, then turned-only just remembering to turn down the lights as he left.
Eliot exhaled with relief (and because he was running out of air). He waited until the lights in the second and third cars also dimmed, and then he crept back inside.
That had been close.
Eliot collapsed into an upholstered chair at a poker table.
He had to find Jezebel and talk to her. Or should he keep following her and learn more before he made his move? In truth, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.
He should have. But when it came to Jezebel, he was finding it harder to think and too easy to let his emotions drive him.
That’s the way it’d been with his music. . all passion in the beginning. He reached into his pack and reassuringly touched Lady Dawn. Only now did he have even a little control. And how many people had he hurt in the process of learning that? How many times had he almost been killed?
It wasn’t a fair comparison, though. Lady Dawn, despite her namesake, wasn’t a real girl.
Then again, technically, neither was Jezebel anymore.
His eyes fell upon the poker chips on the table. They gleamed with inset rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. There were plastic-wrapped decks of cards, too. And there were dice-dozens of pairs of dice: ivory, some clear red plastic, others black iron.
He unthinkingly reached for them. He could let chance decide what he should do next. .
The door to the rear platform opened-slammed shut.
Eliot jumped up and turned.
The old man in uniform stood behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ticket, young man?” he demanded.
Eliot backed up, almost falling over his chair. “I. . I didn’t-”
The old man leaned over him, and a jagged smile broke his face. “Just pulling your leg, sonny.”
He offered a hand to shake, but there was no way Eliot was touching him, so he stepped back out of reach and politely nodded.
“So,” Eliot asked, “you don’t need a ticket to ride?”
“Oh, you most definitely
A chill shuddered up Eliot’s spine.
The man set his thick fingers on the tiny typewriter apparatus on his belt. “Name?”
“Uh. . Eliot Post.”
The man froze. “Not Master Eliot Zachariah Post, by any chance?”
Eliot nodded.
“A thousand pardons, sir.” The man eased to one knee and bowed so low that his bones creaked. “Allow this lowly Ticket Master to welcome you aboard
Eliot wasn’t comfortable with this genuflection. “Sure. Thank you. Uh, get up, please.”
The Ticket Master obeyed. His expression was one of utter respect, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. “How may this most unworthy one be of service? A drink? A companion, perhaps?”
Eliot wasn’t about to disagree with someone mistaking him for a real Infernal Lord. . especially someone who was big enough to flatten him with one fist. And besides, Eliot might be able to use this case of mistaken identity to his advantage.
“How about some information? Can you tell me what stop is-?” Eliot searched his memory. Louis had shown him an image of Jezebel in his ring, and her Queen Sealiah, and then he’d mentioned the name of the realm she ruled. “-the Poppy Lands?”
The Ticket Master flinched. His gaze darted to the front of the train.
“Stop after next, young Master.” He swallowed. “After the Slag Mountain Station in the Blasted Lands.”
Eliot followed his gaze up the train, seeing nothing. “Is there a problem?”
“The Protector of the Burning Orchards is also on board,” the Ticket Master whispered. His rubbing hands stopped. “Her clan and your father’s. . I wish there to be no trouble.”
There was already trouble. Eliot was on a train to Hell. There was no guarantee of him getting back. No one knew where he was. How Jezebel reacted when she finally discovered him tailing her. . that, at least, might be trouble he could delay.
“There won’t be any,” Eliot told him, “as long as she doesn’t find out I’m here.” He tried to sound elegantly threatening just as his father sometimes could.
The Ticket Master took an involuntary step back.
Eliot felt bad, so he added, “If you don’t mind, please.”
“It shall be as you say.” His hands smoothed over one another again. “If you require anything”-he gestured to a silver noose hanging on the wall- “pull that. I will come.”
The Ticket Master then bowed and bowed again, backing toward the door, and left.
Eliot sighed with relief. . but then started to worry. What if the Ticket Master found out he wasn’t really an Infernal Lord? Did they let just anyone ride this train? He bet not.
Light flashed from the cars ahead, closer and closer-then sunlight streamed through the windows. This light was the color of blood and so bright that Eliot had to squint and blink away tears to see outside.
The landscape looked like a newly formed planet Earth. There were rivers of lava and exploding volcanoes. It rained fire and ash. Clinging to raftlike islands of rock were screaming people-fighting one another for space.
Air-conditioning whispered on within the rail car, blowing cool air on his face.
He reached toward the window, but had to halt because it was too hot.
The train plunged into darkness-another tunnel-and then emerged in desert where it continued to rain smoldering ash. Meteorites fell from the sky, too. In the distance, zeppelins crashed, blossoming into fire. Eliot counted one, two-then three airplanes plummeting from the black clouds, crashing and tumbling into flaming wreckage.
He stared, horrified, eyes wide, unable to move.
The Blasted Lands. . aptly named.
The Night Train raced through this terrible place, faster than the falling jets. One tiny bit of wreckage on the track, though, and that would end the breakneck ride.
There was no debris on the tracks. Even the falling ash seemed to avoid it. It was a clean line of crushed gravel and iron rails that ran through the desolation.
A single red mountain sat among distant ashen dunes, and pink-tinged whirlwinds screamed about it.
As they got closer, Eliot saw the mountain wasn’t natural; rather, it was piles of old cars, steel girders from bridges, countless tin cans, cut-up oil tankers, and miles of unraveled wire-all corroded and melting into piles of rust.
The train slowed. Their track joined dozens of others, and then the Night Train entered a huge metal station roundhouse. They eased to a stop with a scream and a hiss.
There were dozens of trains here. Most were junk heaps, billowing black smoke and barely able to pull themselves along the track. One, however, was a sleek silver bullet that levitated over the tracks.
“Slag Mountain!” The Ticket Master cried, walking alongside the cars. “Five minutes, Lords and Ladies! Apologies, apologies-but there is an unbreakable schedule to keep. Slag Mountain! The Blasted Lands! All depart who so wish. Abandon all hope.”
Shadows and shapes left the cars ahead. Eliot sat alone in his chair, trying to look invisible.
After five minutes, there was a tug from the engine, and they moved again.
There was more desert and desolation, and fierce winds tore at the land. Hot air balloons and gliders and kites and even people tumbled in the tornadoes that passed.
The Night Train slowed as it crested a hill, and then tilted downhill and accelerated. Streams of muddy water
