We climbed down into the car. "Dead?" Marcone asked.
"Napping," Sanya said.
Marcone nodded. "We should finish them. These men are fanatics. If they wake up, they’ll attack us without hesitation, armed or not."
I eyed him. "We’re not going to murder them in cold blood."
"Is there a particular reason why not?"
"Shut up, Marcone."
"They would show us no such mercy. And if they are allowed to live they will surely be used by the Denarians to cause pain and death. It’s their purpose."
"We’re not killing them."
Marcone’s mouth curled into a bitter smile. "How did I guess." He snapped open a case on his belt and tossed two sets of handcuffs at Sanya. The Russian caught them and cuffed the downed men together, looping one of the sets around a metal strut of the car.
"There," Marcone said. "I suppose we’ll just have to take the chance that none of them will chew off his own hand at the wrist and slip free."
"Sanya!" Michael’s voice thundered over the noise of the train, and a sudden, brilliant glare of white light leapt up from the top of the next car. Steel chimed on steel.
Sanya shoved his assault rifle at me. I caught it, and he pushed past me to start climbing out of the car. He hauled himself up with his right arm, his injured arm dangling, and heaved himself to the lip of the cattle car. He stood, drew Esperacchius in a blaze of more white light, and threw himself to the next car with a rumbling shout.
I let my staff drop and fumbled with the assault rifle, trying to find the safety. Marcone set his hunting rifle aside and said, "You’re going to hurt yourself." He took the assault rifle out of my hands, checked a couple of things without needing to look at the weapon, and then slung it over his shoulder as he climbed out of the car. I muttered to myself and went up the wooden slats beside him.
The next car was another metal box. Michael’s and Sanya’s swords shone like the sun, and I had to shield my eyes against them. They stood side by side with their backs to me, facing the front of the train.
Nicodemus stood against them.
The lord of the Denarians wore a grey silk shirt and black pants. The Shroud had been draped over his body, like a contestant in a beauty pageant. The noose around his neck blew out toward the rear of the train in the wind. He held a sword in his hands, a Japanese katana with a worn hilt. Droplets of blood stained the very tip of the sword. He held the sword at his side, a small smile on his lips, to all appearances relaxed.
Michael checked over his shoulder, and I saw a line of blood on his cheek. "Stay back, Harry."
Nicodemus attacked in the moment Michael’s attention was elsewhere. The Denarian’s weapon blurred, and Michael barely managed to get Amoracchius into a parry. He was thrown off balance and to one knee for a fatal second, but Sanya roared and attacked, whipping his saber through whistling arcs, and driving Nicodemus back. The Russian drove the Denarian toward the far side of the car.
I saw the trap coming and shouted, "Sanya, back off!"
The Russian couldn’t stop his forward momentum entirely, but he pivoted and lunged to one side. As he did, steely blades erupted from within the car. The metal of the roof screamed as the blades pierced it, rising to a height of four or five feet in a line, a half breath behind Sanya. Nicodemus turned to pursue the Russian.
Michael got his feet, whipped the heavy blade of Amoracchius around, and slashed three times at the roof of the railcar. A triangular section three feet across fell down into the car, and the edges of the metal glowed dull orange with the heat of the parted steel. Michael dropped down through the hole and out of sight.
I lifted up my blasting rod and focused on Nicodemus. He shot a glance at me and flicked his wrist in my direction.
His shadow flashed across the top of the railcar and smashed into me. The shadow wrenched the blasting rod from my grip, dragged it through the air, and then crushed it to splinters.
Sanya let out a cry as a blade tore through the car’s roof and one of his legs collapsed. He fell to one knee.
Then brilliant light flared up within the car beneath the combatants, spears of white lancing out through the holes the blades had cut into the metal. I heard Deirdre’s demon form shriek in the car beneath us, and the blades harassing Sanya vanished.
Nicodemus snarled. He flung a hand toward me, and his shadow sent the splinters of my blasting rod shrieking toward my face. As they did, Nicodemus attacked Sanya, his sword flickering in the moonlight.
I got my arms up in time to deflect the splinters, but I was helpless to assist Sanya. Nicodemus knocked Sanya’s saber out to one side. Sanya rolled, avoiding the stroke that would have taken his head. Doing it left Sanya’s wounded arm on the ground, and Nicodemus crushed the heel of his boot down upon it.
Sanya screamed in pain.
Nicodemus raised his sword for the death blow.
Gentleman Johnny Marcone opened up with the Kalashnikov.
Marcone shot in three chattering bursts of fire. The first one tore through Nicodemus’s chest and neck, just above the Shroud. The next hit on his arm and shoulder opposite the Shroud, all but tearing it off his torso. The last burst ripped apart his hip and thigh, on the hip opposite the Shroud’s drape. Nicodemus’s expression blackened with fury, but the bullets had torn half his body to shreds, and he toppled from the car and out of sight.
Below, there was another demonic shriek, and the sound of wrenching metal. The shrieks faded toward the front of the train, and a moment later Michael climbed up the ladder rungs on the side of the boxcar, his sword in its sheath.
I leapt forward and ran to Sanya. He was bleeding a lot from his leg. He had already taken off his belt, and I helped him wrap it around the leg in a makeshift tourniquet.
Marcone stepped up to where Nicodemus had fallen, frowned, and said, "Dammit. He should have dropped in place. Now we’ll have to go back for the Shroud."
"No, we won’t," I said. "You didn’t kill him. You probably just pissed him off."
Michael stepped past Marcone to help Sanya, tearing off a section off his white cloak.
"Do you think so?" Marcone asked. "The damage seemed fairly thorough."
"I don’t think he can be killed," I said.
"Interesting. Can he run faster than a train?"
"Probably," I said.
Marcone said to Sanya, "Do you have another clip?"
"Where is Deirdre?" I asked Michael.
He shook his head. "Wounded. She tore her way through the front wall of the car into the next one. Too risky to pursue her alone in close quarters."
I stood up and crawled back over to the cattle car. I clambered down in it to fetch my staff. After a moment of hesitation, I got Marcone’s rifle, too, and started back up.
As it turned out, I was mistaken. Nicodemus could not run faster than a train.
He flew faster than a train.
He came sailing down out of the sky, his shadow spread like immense bat wings. His sword flashed toward Marcone. Marcone’s reflexes could make a striking snake look sluggish, and he dodged and rolled out of the way of the Denarian’s sword.
Nicodemus sailed to the next car on the train and landed in a crouch, facing us. A glowing sigil had appeared on his forehead, the sign itself something twisting, nauseating to look upon. His skin was marred and ugly where Marcone’s shots had hit him, but it was whole, and getting better by the second. His face twisted in fury and a kind of ecstatic agony, and his shadow flooded forward, over the length of the railcar in front of him and dipping down between his car and ours.