Read Online Pandaemonium by Ben Macallan - Free Book Online
Authors: Ben Macallan
Tags: Urban Fantasy
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Holding out a hand to hoick me up the way he used to, frail girlie that I was.
I used to love that gesture. And cling to it, cling to him, because as often as not he was taking me into curious and frightening places, to meet curious people who were only not frightening because I was with him.
Now – well, he wasn’t frightened, but perhaps he ought to be. At any rate he was utterly out of place here, and if he wanted to pretend he was taking the lead, that was fine by me. It meant I could keep hold of his hand and see him through the tough stuff, nudge him when necessary. Push my own worries to the back of my mind, stop looking over my shoulder, focus on keeping Jacey straight. Yes.
Off the train, then, unhurriedly, letting everyone else go first because we could. Some days everybody wanted to do that, when it was a trainful of first-timers; the driver never hurried away. The doors stayed open until the last person finally found the courage to step down, or else irrevocably changed their mind and went back into the world.
Not us, not today. It wasn’t about courage, just keeping away from the world for a while. Having a place to be.
Here was the platform, like a recreation for a ’twenties movie, SAVOY spelled out in tiling on the wall. Original posters that were probably worth a mint, only nobody here would touch them.
One exitway, where everyone was headed. Old hands, perhaps; they didn’t dawdle, there was no reluctance in their shuffling, only the weight that the left-behind world had left on them.
Here was the stairway. Here was a boy not busking, just blowing a sad horn because that was what he did and what he could do, a boy with his face peeled off. Some Overworldly creature had taken it for a trophy, most likely, and left him with red-raw flesh exposed like dry meat at the butcher’s, with cartilage and bone and tendons showing through. He had no lips; he gripped the mouthpiece of his saxophone between his revealed teeth, which must make dentistry easier but music probably harder. I figured he had to be making some kind of seal with his tongue and the roof of his mouth – but what did I know? Maybe he wasn’t human and never had been; maybe he’d grown that way and not been hurt at all. Maybe he kept his lips behind his teeth. This was the underworld, these were the Stranded.
Beyond the boy, another brief tiled tunnel-passage led to another platform, the way the other passengers were heading. “That’s the dormitory,” I told Jacey. “Everybody builds their own nest, and we all bunk down together.” Us too, if we stay. I could read the unasked question on his face; I guess he could read the unspoken answer on my own. “We don’t go that way yet,” I went on, as though the whole silent conversation had been explicit, dealt with, shared. “Up first, to see Reno.”
Who’s Reno? – it was another of those inevitable questions that he managed not to ask. I wanted to applaud, only then I’d have to let go of his hand and I didn’t want to do that.
So his effort went unrewarded, if not unappreciated, as we started up the long straight flight of stairs. There were escalators on either side, the original old wooden kind, but they didn’t actually run; I wasn’t sure they ever had, and climbing a dead escalator is no fun at all. Even with your Aspect on. I’d let that slip since the train came, just keeping it at a low maintenance level, present but not obtrusive. Not in charge.
Hell, it was never in charge. It was a tool, that was all. And not addictive, either. No way. No.
“I don’t know what it is about escalators,” I said, to distract myself as much as him. “When they’re not running, I mean. The pitch is just wrong or something. It feels unnatural, not shaped for the human body. And they’re tiring .”
“Says the girl who’s just run fifty miles without getting out of breath.”
“Oh, hush, that’s different. Maybe I mean mentally tiring. Maybe it’s because they’re
I used to love that gesture. And cling to it, cling to him, because as often as not he was taking me into curious and frightening places, to meet curious people who were only not frightening because I was with him.
Now – well, he wasn’t frightened, but perhaps he ought to be. At any rate he was utterly out of place here, and if he wanted to pretend he was taking the lead, that was fine by me. It meant I could keep hold of his hand and see him through the tough stuff, nudge him when necessary. Push my own worries to the back of my mind, stop looking over my shoulder, focus on keeping Jacey straight. Yes.
Off the train, then, unhurriedly, letting everyone else go first because we could. Some days everybody wanted to do that, when it was a trainful of first-timers; the driver never hurried away. The doors stayed open until the last person finally found the courage to step down, or else irrevocably changed their mind and went back into the world.
Not us, not today. It wasn’t about courage, just keeping away from the world for a while. Having a place to be.
Here was the platform, like a recreation for a ’twenties movie, SAVOY spelled out in tiling on the wall. Original posters that were probably worth a mint, only nobody here would touch them.
One exitway, where everyone was headed. Old hands, perhaps; they didn’t dawdle, there was no reluctance in their shuffling, only the weight that the left-behind world had left on them.
Here was the stairway. Here was a boy not busking, just blowing a sad horn because that was what he did and what he could do, a boy with his face peeled off. Some Overworldly creature had taken it for a trophy, most likely, and left him with red-raw flesh exposed like dry meat at the butcher’s, with cartilage and bone and tendons showing through. He had no lips; he gripped the mouthpiece of his saxophone between his revealed teeth, which must make dentistry easier but music probably harder. I figured he had to be making some kind of seal with his tongue and the roof of his mouth – but what did I know? Maybe he wasn’t human and never had been; maybe he’d grown that way and not been hurt at all. Maybe he kept his lips behind his teeth. This was the underworld, these were the Stranded.
Beyond the boy, another brief tiled tunnel-passage led to another platform, the way the other passengers were heading. “That’s the dormitory,” I told Jacey. “Everybody builds their own nest, and we all bunk down together.” Us too, if we stay. I could read the unasked question on his face; I guess he could read the unspoken answer on my own. “We don’t go that way yet,” I went on, as though the whole silent conversation had been explicit, dealt with, shared. “Up first, to see Reno.”
Who’s Reno? – it was another of those inevitable questions that he managed not to ask. I wanted to applaud, only then I’d have to let go of his hand and I didn’t want to do that.
So his effort went unrewarded, if not unappreciated, as we started up the long straight flight of stairs. There were escalators on either side, the original old wooden kind, but they didn’t actually run; I wasn’t sure they ever had, and climbing a dead escalator is no fun at all. Even with your Aspect on. I’d let that slip since the train came, just keeping it at a low maintenance level, present but not obtrusive. Not in charge.
Hell, it was never in charge. It was a tool, that was all. And not addictive, either. No way. No.
“I don’t know what it is about escalators,” I said, to distract myself as much as him. “When they’re not running, I mean. The pitch is just wrong or something. It feels unnatural, not shaped for the human body. And they’re tiring .”
“Says the girl who’s just run fifty miles without getting out of breath.”
“Oh, hush, that’s different. Maybe I mean mentally tiring. Maybe it’s because they’re
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