Serpent's Storm (27 page)

I rolled over, pain shimmying up my body like an irate hula dancer, and I cracked my right eye open so I could get a look at the man as he stood on the other side of the turnstile, waving his cell phone with enough abandon to prove he was seriously freaked out by what he’d just witnessed: chiefly, a thin yet well-muscled seraphim-looking dude beating the crap out of some girl.

“If you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the police!” the man said, his voice shaking with fear. Still, the fact he’d taken it upon himself to get involved after he’d totally blown me off was a good sign.

Marcel stood a few feet away from me, grinning like a lunatic at the hysterical commuter. Having left my prone body behind him—I guess he’d beaten me to the point where he wasn’t worried I was gonna get up again anytime in the near future—he’d now turned his full attention to the terrified man on the other side of the turnstile.

“You don’t want me to come over there, do you?” Marcel said, blood still running freely from both nostrils. He was wearing the stupid injury like a badge of honor, which only made me wish I’d bloodied his nuts instead, ’cause he couldn’t very well show
those
off, could he?

“Stay on your side!” the man yelled, pressing the buttons on his phone as he spoke. The place was so quiet I could hear the dial pulses echoing in the empty subway station.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Marcel replied, his voice as smooth as polished chrome—but I could sense the razor’s edge of rage lingering just beneath the surface. He did
not
like being threatened by a mere human peon.

The man, who couldn’t have consciously known how dangerous a situation he’d stumbled into, reeked of fear as he defiantly put the cell phone to his ear in direct odds to Marcel’s threats. His unconscious mind must’ve understood the danger, though, because his whole body shook uncontrollably while he waited for the call to engage.

“I told you not to do that,” Marcel growled as he snaked his MetroCard from his back pocket and inched toward the turnstile. “And I don’t like being disobeyed.”

The man ignored him, concentrating instead on whoever had picked up the other line.

“I’d like to report an attack—”

Like a slinky black cat with a bone to pick, Marcel stalked over to the turnstile, the MetroCard in his hand extended toward the card reader. The Ender of Death was obviously a creature that did not like to be ignored—and from the gleam of malice in his eyes, I could tell the poor commuter was not going to fare well if Marcel made it to the other side of the turnstile.

“No!” I yelped, the words issuing from my mouth totally of their own accord. I don’t know where I got the energy—or which God/Goddess had smiled down on me and granted me another chance at salvation—but suddenly I found myself back on my feet, my nerves screaming incoherently from all of the abject pain I was imposing on them by just standing up like a normal human being.

All the rage and hate and pain welled up inside me, giving me the power to put one foot in front of the other, gathering speed as I went. My vertebrae ground together with each step I took, sending searing pain up my spine and down my legs—and I’m not gonna even talk about how badly my head was hurting. I couldn’t see my face, but I got the distinct impression that there was a rather large—and only getting bigger—blood blister smack dab in the middle my forehead. I don’t know how anyone else feels about blood blisters, but give me an out-and-out gash any day of the week and I’d be a much happier camper. I hated the idea that fresh blood was pooling underneath a thin layer of delicate skin, just waiting for me to make a wrong move and pop the bejesus out of it.

Just as I closed in on him from behind, Marcel turned his head, his eyes wide as he tried to reconcile the beating he’d given me with the fact that I was back up on my feet and still looking for punishment. Lucky for me, I had the “sort of” element of surprise, so before he could lift a finger to defend himself—and just as the MetroCard in his hand slid through the card reader on the turnstile—I body-slammed him out of the way, sailing past him and ramming my broken self through the revolving turnstile.

As I sailed through, I just happened to look down at the digital card reader where it was flashing the most beautiful sentence in the English language (at least it was to me at that moment): Balance: $0.00.

I wanted to cry with happiness as I collapsed onto the concrete floor on the
platform
side of the full-height turnstile, my whole body on fire with pain.

“Screw you, Marcel!” I screamed through the grille.

Marcel glared at me, climbing to his hands and knees and crawling over to where the MetroCard had fallen after I’d knocked it out of his hand.

“No, screw you, Calliope!” he growled back at me, dragging himself to his feet with the help of the turnstile bars.

“Good luck with that one,” I jeered at him through the metal grating, trying not to smile—only because it made my forehead throb—but having trouble suppressing my glee.

“I’m going to end you,” Marcel said, holding up the MetroCard for me to see.

I shrugged—which only made him madder.

“You’re dead,” he growled, jamming the MetroCard through the card reader.

The look on his face was priceless when he realized there was no more money left on the card. Still, he just couldn’t seem to accept the reality of his predicament, so it was with utter triumph that I watched him repeat the process of sliding the card through the reader two more times before finally giving up.

“Ha!” I screeched at him. “You lose, jerkoid!”

Shoulders hunched, he cradled the empty MetroCard in his hand then turned away from me so I couldn’t see his face anymore.

“Don’t cry, Marcel!” I taunted. “You’ll get me someday!”

I was starting to feel better, my immortal blood going to work on my wounds, healing me from the inside out without me having to do anything more than just breathe. Just knowing the blood blister on my forehead was going to magically go away—sooner rather than later—made me glad I was immortal. This was something I’d never have copped to before, but from the moment I’d learned my mother was really part Siren, I’d started to feel differently about my supernaturalness. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic about it, yet, but I was beginning to accept it for what it was.

It was the commuter, cell phone still clutched tightly in his hand, but flipped back now to the “closed” position. He’d retrieved his briefcase from the other end of the platform, where he’d left it when he’d decided to play “hero,” and now he was standing behind me, his face full of concern . . . and frankly, disgust.

I guess I looked like shit on a stick, and who could blame him for not hiding his dismay at the state of my, uhm, person, especially my nasty forehead blood blister.

“I know it looks pretty terrible,” I began, “but it’s not as bad as it, uh, seems.”

He nodded, but I could see he was having a hard time reconciling how I
looked
with how I
said
I felt.

“Well, you don’t look very good, so . . .”

It was more of a statement than a question.

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

Now that we were up close and personal, I realized the error in judgment I’d made. Based on the guy’s height and nervous energy, I’d assumed he was just another uptight, middle-aged businessman, but I’d been wrong. Probably only in his very early twenties, with a hint of stubble on his chin and the kind of emaciated physique and wet, droopy eyes that made one think of the hollow-eyed Eastern European Jews lost to Hitler’s death camps, he was really more of a boy than a man.

His blue suit was threadbare and ill-fitting, his white shirt was made of cheap polished cotton, and a skinny tie was knotted at his neck like a noose. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the kid had inherited the getup from an older brother or uncle. Even the briefcase had seen better days. Its handle had been repaired in several places with silver duct tape, which someone had tried to color brown with a sharpie to match the calfskin spotted leather—my guess at the coloring culprit was the kid himself, but I could’ve been wrong—and the brass clasps that held the case together were edged in rust. The kid’s dark brown hair was pomaded back from his face, revealing faint traces of acne scarring on his upper cheeks and forehead.

I looked like crap ’cause I’d just gotten my head pounded into the concrete by the Ender of Death, but what was the kid’s excuse? He looked like crap because of neglect, not physical injury. I mean, he was so damn skinny I could see his wrist bones protruding below his shirt cuffs, and his cheekbones jutted out from beneath his pockmarked, olive skin like sharpened knives.

A sudden movement back on the other side of the turnstile forced me to put my speculation about the kid’s circumstances on the back burner.

Having discovered the only MetroCard machine in the station, he was now in the process of feeding dollar bills into the machine’s cash slot.

“Crap!”
I breathed, grabbing the kid’s arm and propelling him away from the revolving turnstile.

“Is he gonna kill us?” the kid asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed nervously.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was hanging out with Death’s Daughter, so he should probably worry more about
me
accidentally killing him than any damage Marcel might inflict on him. That just being in close proximity to me was enough to raise your “sudden death quotient” by about 100 percent, a ratio about on par with that of a shutter-happy American tourist on vacation in Kabul.

“Do you know when the next train is coming?” I asked, ignoring his previous question, but the kid only shook his head.

“I’ve never been here before. Wow,” he said, pointing at my forehead. “The thing on your head’s almost gone!”

I reached up, my hand probing the skin where the blood blister had been only minutes before, but finding only firm, smooth flesh in its place.

“Told you,” I said, grinning at him. “Wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

The kid took a step away from me, trying to put a little distance between himself and the rapidly healing crazy lady.

“Whatever you say.”

But he didn’t look convinced.

There was a muffled thud from across the platform. Marcel was having a little trouble with the MetroCard machine and in his frustration he had decided that kicking the heavy metal apparatus might yield some kind of benefit. Of course, kicking or thumping something big and metal and full of computer circuitry is never a good idea. Machines don’t like to be poked and prodded by human appendages; that’s when they eat your money and then tell you they’re “out of order.”

Which was exactly what I hoped was happening right at that very moment to Marcel.

“Do you hear that?” the kid asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s the train. It’s coming.”

The kid was right. I could feel the low rumble of the approaching subway train as it shook the platform. Our only hope was that the train arrived before Marcel worked out how to get the ticket machine to do his bidding.

Marcel kicked the machine one more time then froze as the machine made a funny gurgling noise and spat something yellow and paperlike out onto the concrete floor.

“Damn,” I murmured under my breath as Marcel squatted down to pick the thing up. My hopes were dashed when he whirled around to face us, hoisting the yellow card above his head and waving it around so I could see that he’d triumphed over the ticket machine.

“Stay behind me,” I said to the kid, stepping in front of him like a mother bear protecting her cub.

“Do you want to know what your weakness is, Calliope Reaper-Jones?” Marcel sang as he sashayed over to the turnstile and slid the newly topped-up MetroCard through the card reader.

The rumbling was getting louder. A blast of warm air wafted out of the tunnel’s yawning mouth and I knew the incoming train was very close.

“No,” I shot back at him as he pushed through the revolving turnstile.

The whole platform was starting to shake now, the air billowing around us like curling fingers of warmth.

“Are you sure about that?”

I nodded.

“Totally sure.”

The kid grabbed my arm and squeezed just as the subway train pulled into the station with a startling squeal of brakes.

“You guys are nuts,” he breathed in my ear. “Complete wackos.”

I had no argument. Instead, I focused all my attention on Marcel. The Ender of Death was trying to decide what to do. Should he rush me? Keep me from getting on the train? Or should he move to one of the other doors and then wait and see whether or not I got on the train before making his move?

The doors of the subway train slid open in a burst of steam, but no one got off. There wasn’t a soul on the train.

“Get on the train,” I growled at the kid, shoving him back with my elbow.

He hesitated, unsure whether he should leave me out on the platform or not, but when I kicked back at him with my foot, he took the hint and scurried onto the subway car.

“Sacrificing yourself for a kid, huh?” Marcel laughed. “Pathetic.”

“There’s nothing pathetic about it,” I shot back at him. Behind me, I heard the conductor ease up on the brake, preparing to close the doors and shove off for the next station. “Particularly because, like I said earlier, I’m just gonna use the opportunity to kick your ass.”

Marcel laughed so hard, he snorted.

“Nice snort,” I said.

“Oh, Calliope,” Marcel said as he shook his head. “You really are a bitch, aren’t you?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but a sharp tug on my collar constricted my throat and suddenly I was airborne, my body yanked over the threshold and into the subway car just as the doors slammed shut. I saw Marcel’s shocked face gawping at me from the other side of the window as the train shuddered to a rolling start then sped up—leaving him standing alone on the empty platform.