10 Chapter 10: All Part of Being a Dragon, Part 2

Theresa hissed, and snapped at the creatures as they stabbed at her. One towered over her, cocked its head, and lunged for her eyes. Azrael's hand shot down at the last second, and covered her face. The bird speared it instead, lodging its beak just below his wrist. He roared in pain, ripped the chicken away, and threw it across the train.

Azrael tore his coat off and wrapped it around Theresa, her scaly face peeking out of its folds. He stood, ignoring the barrage at his back and sides. He spun, and kicked the car's window. It cracked. A second kick, and it shattered. He wrapped his arms around Theresa, and dove through.

He tumbled onto the tracks and rolled, his head stopping just short of the electrified third rail. His arms, back, and legs were lacerated. Theresa could see his left femur poking out against his pants. His hand was a mess of blood, shattered bones, and tendons. He stumbled across the tracks, through the support beams, and to the Manhattan-bound side of the tunnel. He made his way to a service alcove and crouched, clutching Theresa to his chest.

"Azrael," she said, "let me out of here."

"Shush."

"I can't breathe."

Azrael loosened the coat around her mouth. "Thank you," she said. "What the hell are you doing? Why didn't you - "

"Shush."

"Don't shush me, asshole. Why - "

He covered her mouth with his coat again.

The sound of clucking came down the tunnel: agonized, bewildered clucks. Theresa could make out the army of approaching fowl by the dim, blue service lights. "They followed us through the window and regrouped," Azrael said, his voice soft. "Now, will you please shut the hell up?"

Theresa stopped thrashing. She extended her tail, and brushed it against his ear. "Not now," he said. "I'm trying to protect you. Please, just stay still."

Theresa's eyes adjusted to the near darkness. The chickens had been broken and bloodied by their fall. Several had shards of glass protruding from their flanks. She did not see X-Fifty-Nine, but that did not mean he was not nearby. Such a dramatic manipulation as the chicken army should have been a ridiculous drain of his energy. Perhaps something as simple as materialization was beyond him now.

Azrael placed his hand under his coat, and held Theresa's mouth closed. He pulled her free, and placed her on his shoulder. Relieved, she slipped her tail into his ear, and attempted to synchronize with him for the third time. He did not reciprocate. Instead, he sent her a message:

Access the MTA's dispatch computer, and tell me when the last local train left Twenty-Third Street in Queens.

Not until you tell me what's going on.

Do you want to live, or argue?

No dice.

Azrael did not respond.

Are you insane? Please tell me what's going on here. Are you damaged, or something? Why didn't you manipulate the Tapestry? And even doing something as stupid as trying to shoot him - with your reflexes, how could you miss?

He stood silently, his eyes masked behind his glasses.

Azrael!

Theresa wondered if chickens could see in the dark, or for that matter, if they had exceptional hearing. Would they go for her eyes again? Puffing her neck in irritation, she hacked into the dispatch computer.

Goddamn you, it departed two minutes and thirty seconds ago.

Thank you.

Now tell me -

Azrael yanked her tail out of his ear, and tilted his head. His lips twitched as he spoke through calculations. He crawled forward, and touched the Manhattan-bound track with his shattered hand. He cocked his head again, and his lips counted silently from sixteen to zero.

"Over here!" he shouted.

The army stopped. They paused, as if considering their options. They turned in a single, synchronized motion. Some caught their claws on the tracks, and stumbled. Azrael breathed in sharply through his teeth as they floundered. Theresa guessed he had not anticipated the delay.

"Come on, you lice-infested bastards," he said. "What are you waiting for?"

His voice echoed down the tunnel. The sound was overwhelmed by another: the thunder of an approaching train. Azrael jumped back into the grime-coated alcove as it rattled by. "Goddamn MTA," he said, "first time in a century that it's not late."

When the track was clear, the chickens marched forward. As each row came to the third rail, they cleared it with a fluttering hop.

Theresa nuzzled Azrael's face. He looked down and smiled. She did not smile back.

He brandished the mangled umbrella and tore at its fabric, stripping it until he held an aluminum tree. He snapped off the wooden handle, and waited until the last chicken was on the track.

"Keep your head down," he said. He flung the umbrella spine sideways, twisting his wrist. It spun onto the tracks, simultaneously touching the farthest wheel rail and the electrified third.

Six hundred and twenty-five volts of electricity shot through the aluminum with an explosion of white fire. The surge of lightning grabbed the chickens along the grounded rail, and held them fast. They cooked and bubbled where they stood, filling the tunnel with the stench of charred meat.

Within seconds, the thin umbrella frame melted to slag, breaking the connection. Less than half of the fowl had been electrocuted. Those that remained once again began their approach, peering at Azrael and Theresa with beady eyes in the smoke-filled darkness. They were badly burned, with useless, charred limbs dangling from their sides. Azrael unwrapped his coat.

"Run," he said, "I'll hold them off."

Theresa winked. "Don't move," she said.

Azrael opened his mouth to protest, but closed it at the sound of clattering wheels. A train tore along the rails, grinding the remaining chickens into its tracks. Theresa feared it would stop, but it continued as if nothing had happened. Azrael stroked her neck. She shrugged.

"You asked me about the local," she said with no small amount of satisfaction. "That was the express." She flicked her tongue. "Not bad, even if I'm not a Dragon. Can you walk?"