must have finally stopped, Emily supposed, for she could very clearly see the ground on which they had landed and it wasn’t moving.
Stanton climbed to his feet, legs trembling. He swayed, holding his head, the heels of his palms pressing hard into his eyes.
“Knife,” he muttered. “I need a knife.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the misprision blade, and slid it open with a hissing snick. Then he looked up at Emily, his face wild with fury.
“Get away from me!” he screamed at her, sweeping the air with his arm. “Far away!”
She scrambled away from him, turning to watch him sink to his knees on the train tracks. With swift brutality, he slashed the sharp edge of the misprision blade over each of his wrists. She watched with horror as he clenched and unclenched his hands, spurting arterial blood pooling around his knees. He barked a loud, resonant command and the bleeding stopped.
Rubbing his hands together, he drew strange glyphs in the spilled blood, chanting guttural magic in a language she had never heard him use before. The words were not clear clipped Latin but something else—something far older, harsh and cruel, rich with acrimony and malice.
As he chanted, power surged around him. The wind whipped the tall dry grass alongside the tracks. Emily drew back even farther, clutching her right hand to her chest as she watched a black thing rising from his spilled blood—a small black thing like a writhing leech. With bared teeth, Stanton seized a large piece of stone and began bashing the thing, crushing it into a pulp. The thing squealed.
“Bastard!” Stanton screamed, as he brought the rock down again and again. “Oily, stinking bastard!”
He beat at it until only a greasy stain remained, then threw the rock away from himself with an angry cry. He slumped over the smeared blood, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
Emily watched him for a long time. When she approached him, her steps were tentative crunches on the gravel. She touched his shoulder. There was a large rip in the shoulder of his coat through which torn and abraded skin showed.
“That … thing …” Stanton stammered. “In my own mind. Filthy, vicious … I would have used magic on you! I would have …”
“Are you all right?” she said.
He was silent for a long time. Breathing.
“I cleansed myself. I had to do it before Rose had a chance to wake up.” He touched the blood around his knees, pressed his palms into it heavily. “It was the only way.”
Emily looked at the crimson splashed all around him, at the garish blotches streaking his face and arms.
“What … kind of magic was that?” she asked, aware of the smallness of her own voice.
Stanton said nothing. His jaw was clenched.
“I’ve never seen you work that kind of magic before,” Emily said.
“It’s none of your business,” he growled.
“But—”
“It’s nothing,” Stanton said, with a horrible force that made Emily shudder.
“We should get away from here, Mr. Stanton,” she said quickly, not wanting to hear him speak in that voice ever again. “It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe anywhere,” Stanton said, closing his eyes. He made no move to stand.
The bleeding had slowed, but his wrists were still oozing, sticky crusting rivulets flowing over his fingers. Bending, Emily tore fabric from the hem of her skirt, then knelt before him. Carefully, she took his hands, examining the cuts. They were not deep; they seemed to be healing even as she looked at him. She began bandaging them anyway. He took her hands midmovement. He took her by the arms and pulled her close. She felt his heart thrashing in his chest. He smelled of sweat and blood and creosote.
“Thank you.” His voice resonated against her ear, his breath hot on her skin. The heat from his body beat against her in waves, but still she shivered.
“You only ever thank me when I save your life,” she murmured.
He lifted his gory arms and took her face between his hands. With his thumbs, he smoothed the swelling places where Rose’s fists had landed. Then he pressed his mouth hard against hers. His lips were hot and feverish; she felt the brush of his stubble against her cheek. She leaned into him, kissing him back, suddenly remembering all the times that she’d wanted desperately to kiss him but didn’t know it. She felt light and translucent, like a paper lantern lit from within.
She felt his hands slide down over her waist. The touch made her breath