or in reverse, or something,” Mox said. “So they kept it.”
Sloane grinned. She would have to revise her opinion of Unrealists. “Even though no one cares about baseball here?”
“Oh, it’s not for baseball anymore,” Mox said. “It’s a track-and-field stadium.”
“That’s it. This obsession with ancient Greece and Rome has gone too far.”
They cruised past the stadium. Beyond it was the interstate and the Red Line station’s entrance on the 35th Street overpass. They used the back doors of the bus to exit there, getting out right by the awning of the train. She went to one of the machines to get passes for the three of them, leaving Ziva hunched by the curb, facing traffic, and Mox looking out over the interstate.
Behind the machine was a Genetrixae message board, a public corkboard with flyers pinned to it. Most of them were requests for partners in complex workings; any group larger than three was called an assembly. It was, evidently, how they transmitted information without the internet. Cyrielle had seemed confused that people would want to sit down and stare at a video rather than do something on their own. Why be on the internet when you can set things on fire with your mind? Matt had said with a shrug.
She hoped he was okay.
Hit with another wave of nervousness, Sloane waved Ziva and Mox over and handed them their passes. Together they went through the turnstiles and walked down the ramp to the Red Line platform. There were more people here than there had been on the bus—more people to notice Ziva and Mox, but also more people to ignore them, bury them in a crowd of people going to their jobs.
A group of women near the end of the platform wore loose, gauzy robes in all the colors of the rainbow that shimmered when they moved. One of them had her hair tied up in a scarf that was equally colorful. They were like caricatures of tarot readers, their bracelets jingling, eyes wide as they peered into the future. After meeting Sibyl—paranoid, magic-hating Sibyl—Sloane thought they looked ridiculous. Who wanted to see the future anyway?
But there were other nods to magic-users of the past among the people lined up on the platform. A teenager in a magician’s top hat and white gloves—the rest of his clothes were more typical—stood next to a girl with a flower crown, like a nymph. A woman standing near them wore a large, elaborate amulet; her companion had a high, face-framing collar, like something out of Snow White.
“Everything’s gotta be ironic now,” Ziva said, her voice gritty from the siphon. “You don’t see me wrapping my entire body in bandages or something.”
“You could make a convincing Frankenstein,” Sloane said. “Just stick real bolts in your skull.”
Ziva narrowed her eyes at Sloane.
“I saw someone in a pointed hat the other day,” Mox said, shaking his head, “casting runes on the sidewalk. Some guy tripped over one, almost fell flat on his face.”
The light of the train caught Sloane’s attention. It was approaching their stop. Sloane steered them away from the people in gauzy robes and toward one of the middle cars.
The train wasn’t the sleek silver Sloane was used to; it was older, painted brown along the bottom and orange along the top. The sides were flat, the edges squared, like a shoebox. Inside, the seats were plush and arranged in forward-facing rows, but there was a small alcove in the back where the seats faced inward, separated from the rest of the car by a barrier. Sloane elbowed a man in red suspenders to get there first. The barrier would be useful for hiding Mox and Ziva.
Ziva sat in one of the seats, Mox across from her. Sloane stood so that she was blocking the aisle between them and looked out the windows as the train pulled away from the platform.
The train stopped at Cermak/Chinatown, and a woman in mint-green hospital scrubs got on, her bag tucked under her arm, along with a man in beat-up sneakers. Ahead, the tracks bent toward the lake and then plunged down, the train charging into a tunnel. All through the car, Sloane heard low, quick whistles as people did small workings like turning on reading lights or putting barriers around themselves, apparently to block out sound. It was like listening to pigeons roosting.
At the Jackson stop, Sloane gave Mox a meaningful look. The next station was theirs. The train squealed as it eased to a stop, and