Numbed by sorrow, lulled by joy, Malcolm hadn’t reached for his gun when he heard the door open. When Alfie had come into the baggage car, Malcolm had the gun aimed at him before he even had the door all the way open. Not this time.Stupid, so stupid, he chided himself, even as he reached for the Browning.
The raven clocked his movements, knew there must be a weapon, and launched toward him. Malcolm tried to step back into the shelter of the steamer trunks, pulled the Browning, started to take aim, but the man seemed to appear before him in the space between breaths, too fast. Too goddamn fast.
Malcolm pulled the trigger. The shot cracked the air, so loud in the confines of the baggage car. The raven had him by the wrist, smashed the gun against the wall, started to twist his hand backward. Malcolm’s fingers released, the gun fell to the floor, kicked away as the raven shoved him into the window. Glass shattered. November wind howled around them and the rain swept in. Gripping Malcolm by the front of his coat, the raven shoved him again, lifting him as if he were a child. Malcolm’s head andshoulders were out the window. Jagged glass in the frame tore at the wool of his coat sleeve, dug into his arm.
Through clenched teeth, he snarled.
Rain pelted his face. The tracks felt so close beneath him, but his belt had snagged on the broken glass stuck in the window frame. Shards cut into his back, drew hot blood, made him feel like ice slid inside him.
The raven needed a moment, the tiniest second effort.
Malcolm wouldn’t give it to him. He hooked his right foot behind the man’s knee for leverage, grabbed hold of his would-be killer’s wrists, and jerked himself forward, head ducked. A sharp edge dug a groove in his scalp as he punched the raven in the throat.
The son of a bitch staggered back two steps. Malcolm held on, using the foot hooked behind the raven’s knee to unbalance him, and then kicked him sprawling into the same pile of suitcases Violet had used as a bed. The raven scrambled fast, limbs like a spider’s as he righted himself and sprang to his feet.
By then, Malcolm had retrieved the Browning. Took aim, fired twice. One bullet missed, the other thumped the raven in the chest, right below his left collarbone. Close to the heart, but not close enough, since he threw himself across the baggage car and slumped across the crate holding Maggie’s corpse.
Piano notes?Maybe. Malcolm heard something from inside that crate.
The raven dug his bare fingers under the crate’s lid and started to pry it up. Nails screeched as they were torn from wood. The man’s strength had to be incredible.
Malcolm shot him again, this time in the back, as he marched across the baggage car. The train hit rough track, jounced, began to turn slightly leftward enough to make them both stagger. Malcolm pulled the trigger again. The bullet took off the raven’s left ear, dug a bloody groove alongside his head.
It made him angry.
He leaped at Malcolm. So fast, so fast. The gun went off again,but the bullet went wide. This time, the raven didn’t even bother trying to take the gun away. He picked Malcolm up, smashed him down on top of the two steamer trunks, then slipped off his scarf and wrapped it around Malcolm’s throat and began to strangle him.
“I’d nothing against you,” the man said, face much too close now as he yanked the ends of the scarf, tightening it. “I just needed you out of my way. But you’ve made me angry now.”
He wheezed when he spoke, like one of the bullets had done something awful to his lungs. Blood burbled from his lips, but whatever damage being shot had done to his insides, he barely seemed to notice.
Why?Malcolm wanted to ask, but he couldn’t get the word out.What do you want with her?Blackness crept in at the corners of his eyes, and he realized he would die. He flailed, tried to shove the man off, but the raven was too strong and had all the leverage.
Digging his fingers under the scarf, he managed a tiny inhalation, only for his nostrils to fill with a stench so foul that hot bile roared up his throat. Putrid, rotting meat, but more than that. The stink reminded him of prisoners kept too long among their dead and dying, of men who hadn’t bathed in weeks, of filthy crotch and asshole, of misery and despair.
The raven’s breath had all those things. His irises were oil black and flowing, pupils pearl white.
“I wasn’t always this,” the raven huffed as he yanked harder, cutting off any chance for one more breath.
Malcolm thought of Violet, and his promise to Maggie, and the life he’d told himself might be possible for him, despite the war and being from Elkhart. With Violet, he might’ve found a life of shared laughter. He might’ve been a father, a grandfather full of stories of wild adventures to tell his grandchildren. Malcolm could almost see her in his mind, the old woman Violet might become, settled down after years encouraging each other to dream.
He’d have said her name with his final breath, if he hadn’t already used it.
Then he saw her.
Behind the raven, off to his right.
The raven jerked upright, tried to reach behind him.
Alfie Hannigan stood there, one fist full of the raven’s hair, the other one jamming his knife into the man’s back again. The raven wheezed, sneered, gritted his teeth in pain and arrogance, and started to twist around to face Alfie, but Alfie wasn’t having it.
With a fresh yank of the raven’s hair, Alfie pulled the man’s head back and sliced his blade across the raven’s throat. Skin split like it had been unzipped; blood spilled onto the raven’s clothes and then onto Malcolm.
Violet muttered prayers and love words in equal measure as she appeared beside Malcolm, hair whipping in the wind. Her fingers were urgent instead of gentle as she loosened the scarf from around his neck and cast it aside.
“My God,” she said, looking at the damage the scarf had done to his throat. “Can you talk?”
“I can breathe,” he rasped. “Let’s start with that.”
