In Stone (12 page)

“What? Now that is ridiculous,” I splutter. “Concerned maybe, that when I’m practically in a coma you’re off bagging yourself a new BFF.”

“Firstly, I don’t even know what a BFF is. And secondly, you weren’t in a coma; you were unconscious, during which time I never moved from your side.” He
heaves an exaggerated sigh. I only asked if he thought Lisa was pretty. Anybody would think I asked for a kidney.

We both stand, arms followed, huffing and puffing frustration like we’re having some sort of synchronized asthma attack. We’ve been waiting for almost forty-five minutes for our bags to appear on the carousel. The airport is like a graveyard. There’s no one else around; they all snatched their luggage and left mere minutes after the plane had landed. It’s late, and we’re both tired.

“Is this unusual?” Jack asks while pointing at the empty rotating conveyer belt. “I’ve never used an airport before.” I scan the floor for anyone in uniform and spot a guy with a white beard carrying a clipboard. He looks official enough for me.

“I’ll go find out what’s taking so long.”

“No,” Jack replies snatching my arm before I can take a step. The volume of his voice echoes around the empty rotunda and attracts a brief stare from the bearded guy, but he quickly loses interest. Jack’s eyes are slits as he scours our surroundings. “Something doesn’t feel right. We’ll have to do without. Let’s just go.”

“These are the only clothes I have.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“Oh really?”

“Really. I’d worry more about who might have our bags and what it is they are looking for.” I hadn’t really thought about that. Call it a side effect of being a mere mortal, but I was focusing entirely on not having my things to keep me company in this strange and unfamiliar country. I guess demons being hot on our tails is more important than curbing homesickness. Rookie mistake. At least I stuck my toothbrush in my hand luggage.

“Maybe it’s the lovely Lisa,” I prod as we start walking toward the entrance.

“Why, because she said hello to me?” He shakes his head. “Jealous.”

“Why are you so desperate for me to be jealous? Is it because I don’t go all gooey when you walk into a room? Aw, are you feeling insecure?” I bat my eyelids and start mocking the sheer delight that he seems to encounter every time he crosses paths with a girl. He rolls his eyes at me. “She was just being friendly.”

“Yes, but was she being friendly because she’s friendly, or could she have been using my moment of unconsciousness to scope you out?”

“Now you just sound paranoid.”

“You say paranoid, I say cautious,” I chime.

Jack’s stride toward the airport exit is strong and stiff. I speed up. We’re in a full on childish walk-race as we make our way through the exit of the Bulgarian airport.

Stepping outside is like stepping into a freezer. The ice-cold Bulgarian air hits me like a thousand tiny pins poking me in the face. We’re on the outskirts of nowhere, at an airport that’s only slightly bigger than a postage stamp. Silhouettes of triangular trees and jagged mountain tops stab into a navy sky. The moon here seems bigger and brighter. It catches the layer of snow that dusts everything and makes the whole place glisten. A landscape covered in diamonds. It’s beautiful.

“I’m just saying that I thought caution would be paramount when you’re inviting people into this demon infested climate,” I inform him as he heads over to a parked cab. He stops and turns sharply. His jaw is so taught his head trembles.

“You honestly think my interests lie with anything other than the knife? You honestly think I’d draft you into the obscure and drag you halfway around the world without making caution paramount?” He snarls through tight teeth. I need to put a bullet in this conversation before his bite becomes so intense his face splits and shatters.

“Okay, okay! You don’t have to get all twitchy about it.”

“Twitchy?” he repeats. His eyes practically pop out of their sockets. “Let’s just get in the car.” Jack opens the door. I slide in first, and he follows.

“Where to?” the Cabbie asks in what I assume is a Bulgarian accent.

“We’re heading to The Slip,” Jack replies with an unsuccessful cover-up cough.

“The Slip?” the Cabbie repeats slowly, stressing each letter, like he can’t quite believe the direction he’s just been given.

“Uh huh.”

“You got it, Boss.” The Cabbie starts the car.

“What’s ‘The Slip’?” I ask as we pull away from the airport.

“It’s a railway,” Jack replies bluntly. Apparently, we’re on a fight, and I am ignored as he starts chatting away to the Cabbie in a language I don’t understand. Karma is getting me back for quashing his conversation with Lisa on the plane. I stare out the window at the photo-gasmic landscapes lit up by the white light of a moon so big and close I could reach out and touch it. This is undoubtedly more interesting than what they’re saying anyway.

We’ve slipped out of town and are driving up the side of a mountain, on a tightly curved road that isn’t much thicker than a shoelace. Below is a long drop into pitch black. I suspect uncharted regions of a forest are hidden under all that darkness. It’s definitely a drop that we wouldn’t survive should the Cabbie lose control of the car and we drive off the edge. A shudder ripples through me. Maybe looking out the window isn’t such a great idea.

By the time we get to The Slip, it’s almost midnight. This is good. The last trip the train makes is at midnight; there won’t be another till eight in the morning, or so I gather from the broken bits of English conversation I’ve heard.

“Good luck,” the cab driver calls from his window as his car crunches over the gravel road and starts creeping back down the side of the mountain. A chill weasels its way inside my jacket. The air is thin up here. There’s nothing around, except for a couple of roadside pine trees that bow in a light breeze and a small wooden shed balancing on the edge of a cliff.

“What’s that?”

“That’s the train station.”

Despite the fact that the wooden shed can in no way be described as a train station, I say nothing.

Pressing my face up against the Perspex window of the wooden hovel, I see that there’s a little coal burner tucked away in the corner. It sheds a soft amber glow on a guy sleeping in a chair. A least I think it’s a guy, and I think he’s sleeping. He’s half-buried in a sleeping bag. It’s hard to tell.

“Welcome to The Slip,” I hear Jack’s hands slap against his thighs and the gravel shift under his feet as he makes his way over to me. The guy in the bag doesn’t seem to be moving. I drum my fingers on the window in the hopes of stirring him, but still he doesn’t move.

“There’s someone in here.” I look to Jack and point back at the window. Jack’s eyes shift upward, prompting me to take another look.

“Holy ...” I jump back, bam straight into Jack’s chest, heart hammering. It takes a second for my body to settle back into my skin. The sleeping bag has risen. A ghostly white face is staring at me through the window. He is, without a doubt, a guy, an antique guy with wild, white hair, sallow cheeks, and a chin so bristly it could scour the tin off a baking tray.  He slides open the window and grumbles something at me, in a language that again I don’t understand. Jack starts spitting some Bulgarian lyrical over my shoulder. The guy snatches some cash from Jack, throws him some tickets, and slams the Perspex shutter closed.

“He was charming,” Jack notes sarcastically while jabbing me lightly in the ribs. Fight’s over. I follow Jack. We walk a little further up the gravel path.

“Where are we going?”

“Down there.” He points to a set of brown steps, half-eaten by rust, built into the ground.

“What’s down there?” I hesitate.

This trip will end in a place Jack calls the Underworld. He told me that before we left Plumbridge. The Underworld is where the demons dwell, where we’ll find immortal fire, and eventually destroy the knife. I’m trying not to think about it because any place that’s named The Underworld isn’t a place I want to be, but we must be getting close.

Jack takes hold of my hands, brings them together, and then encases them in his. He shoots a breath of warm air into the middle of our balled up palms. His eyes gleam as he stares deep into mine. He knows why I’m hesitating. He knows that I’m thinking this is it; this is where my world vanishes and another begins.

“Not yet,” he says with a soft smile. “We have to catch a train first. It’ll take us to the bottom of the mountains. We have, at the very least, another half a day ahead of us.” I’m glad we’re friends again, I think as he keeps hold of one of my hands, and we make our way down the creaky steps.

The train platform is carved into the side of the mountain. It’s a shallow cove with a couple of benches and a rusty oil lamp or two nailed to the slate-grey stone. Spotlights sway about in the icy breeze. As far as I can see, the train track skims alongside the mountain for a couple of miles and then actually cuts into it, turning the steep slanting mountainside into a tunnel.

“Who builds a train track here?”

“It was purposely built in the Eighteenth century, so the locals could get access to the mines and build more houses on the off-road terrain.”

“Is it safe?”

“Yeah, totally. As sturdy as a rock,” he replies with far too much enthusiasm. A big red sign covered in white writing snatches my attention.

“What does it say?”

“Oh that.” Jack casually strolls up to the sign, his hands linking behind his back. Can you look British? Because right now he looks British. “That’s a disclaimer. It warns against journeying on this train if you have any heart conditions, respiratory problems, or are any persons over the age of sixty and under the age of eighteen.”

“Really?” I gasp.

“Oh yeah.” He nods, his features as stiff as a plank of wood. “But don’t worry; you’ll be fine. The trick is not to look out of the window. Keep your arms and legs in the ride at all times, and only scream if you want to go faster.” He whispers into my ear. I hear something else, a laugh. He’s teasing.

“That’s not funny.” I smile and simultaneously sock him on the arm.

“It was a little funny,” he replies, poking me in the shoulder.

Unexpectedly, we’re caught up in this chuckle-fest, playfully poking each other and arguing about the lack of humor in the last ten seconds. There’s something about his laugh that pulls me in. I like the way it makes his cheeks swell, the way it makes his eyes change to silver, and the slight bounce it causes in his chest. My heart catches as he grabs me from behind and encases me in a vise-like grip. His arms pin me to his chest, and he pushes his face into the crook between my cheek and shoulder.

“Say I’m funny,” he orders lightly.

I shake my head, flatly refusing. “And lie to a friend? Couldn’t possibly.” I giggle as he presses his fingers into my ribs and starts scratching at every ticklish spot on my stomach. I can’t breathe; my muscles ache from all the laughing.

“Say I’m funny.”

“Never.”

A sound, like the squeak of a mouse being strangled, echoes from over by the steps. The horseplay is halted, and we’re joined on the pseudo-platform by a panting dude with a guitar strapped to his back. Jack and I break apart. Jack looks cool and nonplussed, but I feel all short of breath and rosy cheeked. It takes me back to last year and being busted kissing Mark behind the back of the bleachers during Gym class.

“Did I miss it?” the newcomer asks. He leans forward putting his head between his knees and trying desperately to regain some composure.

“No, not yet,” Jack answers.

“Brilliant. I panicked for a second there,” he replies with a strained smile. His accent is rough and his tongue curls around every letter. He’s Irish.

“I’m surprised to see anyone up here,” he continues. “Folks have been telling me how dangerous this track is.” He drags himself over to the bench and sits down with his legs apart and his guitar resting by his side. The leather of his jacket makes a crispy, plastic crunching sound every time he moves. He’s got a set of thick black brows, hovering above a pair of bright green eyes. Dirty rock-star, I think. Or maybe a greaser from the
1950s. Whatever look he’s going for suits him. It really, really suits him.

“That cold catches up with you when you’re not running,” he breathes into clam-shelled hands. Jack turns his back and saunters off toward the tracks.

“Are you two local or just visiting?” he asks me, but his eyes dart over at Jack. A little alarm starts sounding in my ears. Why does he want to know who we are?

“Just visiting,” I reply with a hint of hostility. Call me crazy, but it seems that every time a good-looking guy wants to chat with me, shit hits the fan. My thoughts catch, and for a second I’m stuck on the memory of Jack calling me paranoid at the airport. So what if I’m paranoid? I’d rather be paranoid than underprepared.

“Yeah, me too. I figured I’d come up here and try and tame this beast. Disappointed really, it doesn’t look that scary a drop. I’ve conquered bigger.” He winks and holds out his hand. “I’m Callum by the way.”

“Beau.” I shake his hand.

He looks past me and over my shoulder at Jack, then back to me. Why does he keep doing that? What is it about Jack that has spiked his interest? Something strong and loaded with suspicion is growing inside me. I want to know where he’s come from, why he’s here of all places, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, just after our bags went missing from an airport not thirty-minutes away.