Leaving our side as ready as we’d ever be as the elevator hit the halfway mark.
“No,” Rhea whispered, staring at it. “No.”
“When it arrives, make sure it’s her,” the mage instructed his people. “No glamouries.”
“This is my fault,” Rhea said, her voice rising in panic. “I saw him return, and now I’m helping—”
“It’s all right,” I told her.
But she shook her head, violently enough that a thin line of red bloomed against the paleness of her throat. “It’s not all right. It’s my fault, and when he comes back—”
“Rhea—”
“—he’ll kill us all! You, me.” She looked up, toward the tower where my suite was, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “The children.”
“Rhea!” I started toward her, suddenly afraid, but the mage jerked her back.
“Stick to the deal, Pythia.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Stick to the deal!”
“I’m sorry,” Rhea whispered, her eyes finding mine. And in them was everything I needed to know, and nothing that I wanted. Because I’d seen those eyes before.
I’d seen them on her mother, right before—
“Rhea!” I screamed, making the mage jump and tighten his grip on the knife, because he didn’t understand. She wasn’t trying to get away. She was trying—
“No!” I shouted as a gout of blood stained pristine white cotton.
The mage jerked the knife back, but too late. Suddenly, blood was gushing everywhere, the mage was cursing, and the two women who had almost reached him were looking back at me, shock and horror on their faces. And then the elevator hit the lobby, and we were out of time.
“Go!” I yelled, and they didn’t need to be told twice.
Françoise whirled and cursed the mage, who had let go of Rhea to stare at his bloody shirt in disbelief. He was blown onto his back and sent skidding across the highly polished floor while Carla’s enhanced voice blared, “Now! Now! Now!” and someone cut the lights. Leaving only smears of neon staining the darkness as I ran for my acolyte.
And as three cloth-covered mounds began lurching toward the mages, with the uneven, staggering gait of a trio of couture-clad zombies.
Which somehow made them worse.
Which somehow made them terrifying.
And then the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. And what had to be a thousand black, screeching, flapping nightmares poured out, like every bat out of every hell. The magic microphones flew straight into the already confused crowd of mages, who proved that the Black Circle had something in common with its Silver counterpart, after all.
Because they immediately began cursing everything in sight.
That included the approaching fabric mountains, who were hit by what had to be a dozen spells each. They didn’t fight back. They didn’t even seem to notice. They just kept going, staggering toward the suddenly panicked group of men, who nonetheless got their shit together and flung a series of combined spells at them from all directions.
And, finally, that got a response.
I had reached Françoise, who was guarding the huddled girl with the expression of a woman who thought it was probably futile at this point. And it looked it. God, there was so much blood. I squatted beside Rhea, my heart in my throat—
And was knocked back on my ass by three explosions, at almost the same time, which shattered every window on the drag.
I looked up to see a glass avalanche pouring down the front of the Old West stores, bouncing off the wooden sidewalks and flying into the air. It looked like silver rain, like tiny fireworks reflecting the neon and sparkling against the dark, like a million years of bad luck I didn’t need, since most of the windows had been mirrored. And it was earsplittingly loud, a jumbled cacophony that disoriented me and I was sitting down.
It was no wonder that, for a minute, nobody noticed the thin, watery substance spraying over the crowd, like the sprinkler system had suddenly been switched on.
It was peppering down along with shreds of couture, a few plastic body parts, and half of a blond wig. Because instead of ancient goddesses, the mounds that had just been blown to bits had been powered by Augustine’s mobile mannequins. And had been stuffed with the potion that was now covering the crowd, most of whom hadn’t gotten shields up in time because they were busy slaughtering harmless flying microphones.
The substance didn’t hurt them.
It did confuse the hell out of them, though.
Including their leader, who struggled back to his feet, a dozen yards away, to stare around in confusion. And then down at his hand, where the fine mist was coagulating into a sticky, gluey mess. And then up at me.
“This is your idea of a fight?” he demanded.
“No,” I rasped, my acolyte’s blood on my hands. “This is.”
And suddenly, I couldn’t see his hateful face anymore, because I was looking at something else: a darkened street, a shadowy hulk, a flash of recognition in firelit eyes. And a gut-wrenching power loss that, while not as bad as a time shift, had me screaming in pain.
Only nobody noticed.
Because something big and black and huge—and God, I’d forgotten how huge—had just joined the party.
For a second, everything stopped, the entire concourse staring at a hellhound the size of a house that stood steaming in the middle of the drag. And if it had been skin-rufflingly awful in its own milieu, it was utterly horrific here: claws that had to be three feet long, huge fangs dripping cascades of hot slime, skin knotty and bumpy and patchy with rank fur I could smell from across the room. And crisscrossed by the scars of a thousand battles with things worse than the Black Circle had ever seen.
And then it proved that Rosier had been right.
Demons really don’t like black magic.
Or its users.
The hound gave a metallic shriek that had a number of mages ducking and covering their ears in pain. And then staying that way, their hands stuck to their heads, their thighs and shanks fused, their weapons useless unless they’d already been in their hands. Because Augustine’s spell had started to solidify.
And, as a number of shoplifters could attest, it wasn’t easy to shake.
Not that the mages had a chance to try.
The hellhound made a leap that covered half the drag, and tore into them, and I looked back down at Rhea, unsure of what to do. The idea had been to distract the mages, grab her, and run like hell. Down the length of the drag, through the emergency exit at the end, and up the back staircase, which would get the fight away from the populated sections of the hotel. And give us the aid of the much more lethal wards on the upper sections of Dante’s.
Of course, this many dark mages might be able to overwhelm those, too, but it would take time. And they’d have a new set every level or so that we went up. And they’d have to banish the hound before they could even start. And by then, hopefully the Circle would have arrived to finish them off.
It had been a good plan.
I’d been proud of that plan.
It wasn’t going to work.
Because the mages farther down the drag were not running to support their buddies, as expected. They also weren’t running at us, because they hadn’t been ordered to, or because they thought I might have another hound up my sleeve. They weren’t doing anything, except standing there, eyes wide, watching the beast.
And blocking our path to the back stairs.
I stared at them blankly, knowing that I needed a new plan. I needed one now. But it was a little hard to think with my head reeling from the power loss, and with nothing left to work with: no weapons we dared use, no power, and no time.
And with Rhea on her knees, holding her throat, choking on her own blood.
I should have tried to shift her, I thought dizzily. But shifting two was exponentially harder than one—any one—and I’d been pretty sure I couldn’t do it. And shifting only one of us would have left a Pythian magic worker in the Black Circle’s hands, and was therefore useless.
But then, so was this.
Carla was kneeling on her other side, one hand on Rhea’s head, the other on her gory throat, blood welling up between her fingers. And her lips were mumbling something that I really hoped was a healing spell. But whatever she was doing, it didn’t look like it was working.