Chapter 9
1563 Words
The Aetherial Express did not look like a machine. It looked like a dragon made of iron and brass, resting on the tracks as it exhaled clouds of cedar-scented steam.
Lyra stood on the frozen platform of the Ironwick Station, clutching the handle of her trunk. It was 5:00 AM. The sun hadn't risen, but the train was glowing. Every window was lit with warm, golden light, and the wheels were etched with movement runes that pulsed softly in the dark.
"Stop staring, Cadet. You look like a tourist."
Malakai stepped up beside her. He had shed his tactical vest. He was wearing a long, tailored coat of dark wool with the collar turned up, looking less like a soldier and more like a weary aristocrat.
‘I am a tourist,’ Lyra projected, hurrying to keep up as he strode toward the First Class car. ‘I’ve never been further west than the Black Lake.’
"Then try not to faint when we cross the Ley Line," Malakai muttered, handing their tickets to a conductor who looked like a badger shifter in a very tight uniform.
The conductor sniffed the tickets, then sniffed Malakai. His eyes widened. He bowed low.
"Executor. We didn't know you were traveling. The Onyx Suite is prepared."
"Keep it quiet," Malakai said, slipping a gold coin into the badger’s paw. "We are not here on official business."
They boarded.
The interior of the train was suffocatingly opulent. The walls were paneled in mahogany, the carpets were thick velvet, and the air smelled of coffee and expensive perfume.
Malakai led her down a narrow corridor to a door marked SUITE 1A. He tapped the handle with his wand, a quick, sharp unlocking spell, and pushed it open.
Lyra stepped inside and dropped her bag.
It wasn't a seat. It was a small apartment. There was a plush velvet sofa that clearly converted into a bed, a small round table set with crystal, and a private window that stretched from floor to ceiling.
"This is ridiculous," Lyra projected, spinning in a circle. "Who travels like this?"
"People who don't want to be bothered," Malakai said, locking the door behind them. He tossed his coat onto the rack and loosened his tie. "And people who might get assassinated in Coach."
He moved to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtains shut.
"We are crossing the Waste," he explained. "Between the Academy and the Capital, the magic is wild. No laws. If anyone knows we have the Codex, this train becomes a target."
He turned to her.
"For the next three days, you are not Cadet Grayson. You are Lyra Blackwood, my specialized consultant for..." He paused, looking her up and down. "...Historical Linguistics."
‘Linguistics,’ Lyra repeated. ‘Boring. I like it.’
"Good. Now, get changed. We have dinner reservations in the Dining Car at eight."
Lyra looked down at her oversized sweater and leggings. ‘I didn't pack for a gala, Malakai. I own exactly two dresses, and both of them are wool.’
Malakai sighed. He walked over to his own trunk, a sleek, leather military case, and popped the latches.
"I anticipated that."
He pulled out a garment bag and tossed it onto the sofa.
"I had Barnaby transmit your measurements to a tailor in the city before we left. It should fit."
Lyra stared at the bag. He bought her clothes?
"Don't look at me like that," Malakai said, turning his back to pour himself a drink from the suite's mini-bar. "It’s tactical camouflage. If you look like a scholarship student, you stand out. If you look like money, you’re invisible."
Lyra picked up the bag and retreated to the small washroom.
When she unzipped it, she gasped. It wasn't just a dress. It was... silk. Midnight blue, the color of the sky just after sunset. It was simple, elegant, and clearly expensive.
She stripped off her travel clothes and slipped the silk over her head. It fit like a second skin. The neckline was high, modest but fitted, and the back dipped low.
She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like the mute girl who hid in the library. She looked... powerful.
She braided her hair into a crown and stepped back out into the suite.
Malakai was sitting at the small table, reading a file. He looked up.
He froze. His hand, which was holding a glass of amber liquid, stopped halfway to his mouth.
The silence in the room changed. It wasn't the silence of reading. It was the silence of a predator who had just spotted something unexpected.
He stood up slowly.
"Well," he said, his voice dropping to that rough, gravelly register. "That works."
Lyra felt her cheeks heat. ‘It fits,’ she projected, smoothing the silk nervously.
"Yes," Malakai murmured, his eyes tracking the line of the dress. "It certainly does."
He cleared his throat, buttoning his suit jacket. The casual air was gone, replaced by a sharp, protective tension.
"Stay close to me," he commanded, offering her his arm. "And remember: you don't speak. You observe."
Lyra took his arm. His bicep was hard as iron beneath the expensive wool of his suit.
‘I’m always observing,’ she promised.
The Dining Car was a masterpiece of enchantment. The ceiling had been charmed to look like the night sky, complete with shooting stars. Floating candles drifted above the tables, and a string quartet was playing in the corner, except there were no musicians, just instruments playing themselves.
The car was full. High-society witches in glittering jewels and warlocks discussing politics over roasted pheasant.
As Malakai and Lyra walked in, heads turned.
Lyra felt the weight of the stares. She tightened her grip on Malakai’s arm.
He covered her hand with his own. "Chin up," he whispered near her ear. "You belong here."
The maitre d' led them to a secluded booth in the back, draped in shadows.
"Executor," the maitre d' nodded nervously. "The Chef sends his regards."
They sat. Malakai positioned himself so he was facing the door. He scanned the room constantly, his eyes moving over every face.
"Do you see something?" Lyra projected, picking up the menu.
"I see three Council lobbyists, a retired General, and..." Malakai’s eyes narrowed on a table near the front. "...someone who shouldn't be here."
Lyra followed his gaze. A woman was sitting alone at a table for two. She was striking, silver hair cut into a sharp bob, wearing a suit of crimson velvet. She was sipping wine and reading a newspaper, but her eyes kept darting toward them.
"Who is she?"
"Valeria Vane," Malakai murmured, picking up his menu to hide his mouth. "A private collector. She deals in illegal artifacts. If she’s on this train, she knows about the Site."
Lyra felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. ‘Is she dangerous?’
"She’s a Siren," Malakai said grimly. "Voice magic. She can convince you to walk off the moving train with a whisper."
He reached across the table, taking Lyra’s hand. To anyone watching, it looked romantic.
"Listen to me," he said, his thumb pressing into her palm. "If she approaches us, do not let her speak to you. Block your mind. Fill your head with the loudest thing you can think of."
‘Like what?’
"Like me," Malakai said intensely. "Think about me."
The waiter arrived with their wine, breaking the moment.
Dinner was a blur. The food was exquisite, truffle risotto and glazed venison, but Lyra couldn't taste it. She was too busy watching Valeria Vane.
Halfway through the meal, the lights in the car flickered. The music stopped. The train lurched, the wheels screeching against the track.
"We’re slowing down," Lyra noted. ‘Are we at a station?’
"No," Malakai said, his hand going to the wand concealed in his jacket. "We’re in the middle of the Waste. We shouldn't be stopping."
The lights went out completely. Pitch blackness swallowed the car.
Screams of surprise erupted from the other diners.
"Lyra," Malakai’s voice was right beside her. "Get under the table."
‘What?’
"Down!"
He shoved her. Lyra slid off the velvet bench, crouching beneath the tablecloth.
A second later, a flash of red light illuminated the car. CRASH. The window of their booth shattered.
Someone had fired a spell from outside the moving train.
"Barnaby was right," Malakai growled from above her. He was standing now, shielding her with his body, his wand drawn. A shield charm shimmered blue in the air, deflecting the glass.
"They aren't spies," he said. "They're raiders."
Lyra huddled in the dark, the silk dress pooling around her. She closed her eyes.
She didn't panic. She listened.
She pushed her mind out through the broken window, into the freezing night air.
She felt them. Six minds. Hovering on brooms alongside the train. Their thoughts were jagged, loud, and violent.
‘Malakai,’ she projected, her mental voice screaming over the chaos. ‘Six of them. Port side. They’re aiming for the coupling. They want to detach this car.’
Malakai didn't ask how she knew. He just acted.
"Stay down," he commanded.
He kicked the booth table aside and vaulted toward the broken window.
"Where are you going?!" she panicked.
"To say hello," Malakai snarled.
And then, the Executor of the High Council jumped out of the moving train.
- Writer
