Blood Engines(65)
“Where’s the train headed?” Marla asked, following Bethany into the engine car. This compartment was more like a comfortable living room than a train car, with lounge chairs, a couch, a flat-screen television, and ranks of humming black component electronics. A small control panel with sterling fixtures stood beneath the curving front window, but otherwise there was little to mark this as a functional rather than a living space. Bethany sat in a lounge chair—leather, of course, as was all the furniture—and gestured for Marla and the others to seat themselves.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Bethany said. “The journey is the destination. The train simply circles the track. This is where I live.”
“Constant movement,” Marla said. “Good for screwing up location spells.”
“A girl has to be careful when she lives in such a bad part of town,” Bethany said. “I’d love to have a train that goes somewhere, but there’s not a lot of room for surreptitious subterranean expansion under here. I’ve always wanted to live on a train, so I built this little loop. It’s just a toy train set writ large, I suppose. I like to play.” Bethany flickered her tongue.
Something in the front window went zipping past, a flash of gleaming blue on the wall of the tunnel.
“A toy,” Marla said. “Spinning in a loop past runes inscribed on the tunnel walls, generating kinetic energy, turning widdershins, keeping a magical field humming along. Right?” Finch got power from his sex parties, Dalton from his computers, the Celestial from ancient objects and an apothecary of rare herbs and potions, and Bethany had her train. Marla found it all intriguing, if a bit foreign, since in recent years she’d drawn her power from the bustling activity of the whole city she watched over.
“Good eye!” Bethany said. “Dalton rode this train a dozen times—well, his mirror-selves did, mostly, Dalton One didn’t go out much—and he never noticed the runes on the walls. Of course, he usually had other things to occupy him.”
“It’s a clever system,” Marla said. She had always admired fabricators and macro-magicians, people who made things. Marla had always been better at tearing things apart, at least on the physical level (though she liked to think she was good at building more theoretical things, like the complex structure of loyalty, fear, and obligation that kept things running back home). And while Marla had little patience for people who wore ostentatious piercings and tattoos, in Bethany’s case she could believe that body-modification was just an extension of that urge to change the shape of the natural and make the world accord with her own desires. “But are you clever enough to stay alive? There’s a sorcerer named Mutex picking off your associates, and he’s good at what he does.”
“Yes,” Bethany said, tugging thoughtfully on the ring in her lower lip. “He’s becoming more than an annoyance. I just got word about Dalton, a bit before you arrived.”
Rondeau, who was clearly already beyond mere boredom and well into the realm of utter distraction, began humming and tapping his feet. He was on to Sergeant Pepper’s now.
“Are your boys hungry?” Bethany said. “There’s a dining car a couple of compartments back, with a well-stocked fridge. I’m sure there’s cold meat and bread back there if they want to make sandwiches for themselves.”
“Scamper, you two,” Marla said. “And stay out of trouble. If you notice any frogs or hummingbirds, give a shout.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Rondeau said, nodding at Bethany. B nodded and started to follow Rondeau out.
“Wait!” Bethany said. “Are you Bradley Bowman?”
“So they tell me.”
“From Hollywood to the hidden world,” she said. “I hope I get to hear the tale of that journey someday.” She returned her attention to Marla, dismissing B and Rondeau from her attention. “I’m not clear about your interest in Mutex,” Bethany said. “I’ve heard you’re pursuing him, and that you were on hand to witness his murder of Finch and Dalton—which makes you seem like bad luck, so you’re lucky I let you onto my train at all—but why, exactly, are you after him? And what are you doing in San Francisco anyway, besides making enemies?”
“Mutex killed my friend Lao Tsung.”
“Right, Lao. We came to the city at about the same time, though beyond that we didn’t have much in common. I envied his longevity.”