“You’ve got one job, friend,” Asti said. “Keep that giant busy.”
“And you?” Veranix asked.
Asti drew out two knives and grinned. “I’m going to welcome these bastards to my neighborhood.”
The fire subsided, and the nimbus shielding them dropped.
“Go!”
Hemmit had lost track of everything in the chaos. When the ground cracked, and the machine rose up, he had gotten separated from everyone else, pinned, hiding behind rubble while the zealots and the beasts tore through Saint Bridget’s Square. Terror had paralyzed him, terror and shame for failing to be of any use to anyone.
He was still of no use.
Go, Hemmit thought. Run for more help. Do something.
But his legs refused to do anything. His whole body rebelled at the thought of taking any action.
A bright blast of fire filled the square. Hemmit wasn’t even sure where it came from, but instinctively looked toward it, covering his eyes from the glare.
The fire faded, and in a shimmering spectrum of light, there they were.
Saints.
Champions.
Dayne Heldrin and Jerinne Fendall, their Tarian uniforms a mess, their shields scorched and seared. But still standing strong, refusing to yield to these villains.
Inspector Minox Welling, sword in one hand, the other glowing with magic.
Inspector Satrine Rainey, in the red and green of the Constabulary, crossbow in hand.
The Rynax brothers. Asti in his patchwork coat and knives at the ready. Verci, leather coat over suspenders and shirtsleeves. Darts in one hand, metal glove on the other.
And the Thorn—Hemmit could barely believe he was real—with his crimson cloak shimmering with magic as he leaped into the air, drawing back his bow.
They all launched into action, moving as one.
Asti Rynax was out in front, charging into a pack of the beasts. He fell upon them like a wolf upon deer, slicing through them with easy, fluid movements of his blades. Like a poet of death, he was perfect. No fear, no hesitation, like he had become a machine himself, one made to stop these creatures.
Satrine Rainey and Minox Welling moved toward the machine, on either side of Verci Rynax. He slipped and dodged his way past the zealots who tried to grab him, firing shots from his gauntlet as he went. The zealots who went for him found themselves facing Minox’s sword or Satrine’s crossbow. Minox fought with precision and care, as if each opponent was a book he had already read, anticipating their moves before they were even made. Satrine was the opposite, scrapping with each one wildly, impossible for them to predict or match.
The Thorn had landed on a lamppost, scanning the chaos and homing in on targets. He spotted a group of zealots and monsters charging off toward Frost Street. In a flash he was off, bounding after them.
Jerinne went for zealots dragging children to the machine, bashing them with her shield, wrenching the children free. She fought through to a pair of civilians caught between two monsters, pulling them out while knocking the monsters into each other. She pointed each person she rescued toward the church, working her way closer with each person she saved.
Dayne—bless him, that man—he ran straight toward that great giant, the largest beast of them all. He went at him, hands open. Hemmit couldn’t hear over the din and madness, but he could see that Dayne was doing what he always did. The thing that made him Dayne.
He was trying to talk to the giant.
The giant threw a massive punch, which Dayne blocked with his shield. The sound rang out through the square like a church bell. The giant punched again and again, but Dayne held his ground and took the blows.
And kept talking. Because he was Dayne.
These saints. These champions. These people fighting so hard for this city, for the people in it.
Hemmit prayed it would be enough.
The church was filled with terrified people. Kaiana was no exception, but she wasn’t going to let it show on her face. She made Delmin sit down in one of the pews, as he looked like he was only making himself stay on his feet as a point of pride.
“What’s going on out there?” one of the brothers asked. “What can we do?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Kaiana said. “But those . . . people. They want these children. They need to be kept safe.”
“They will be,” the reverend said, coming up to them. “You all are safe in this house, daughter.” He looked to Delmin. “You look decidedly unwell.”
“I am,” Delmin said, looking back toward the narthex and the doors leading outside to the square. “That power is building to something, I can feel it.”
“Something dark and unholy,” a young cloistress said, walking down the aisle. “Something so . . . contemptible, so abhorrent the ground itself shudders in its horror.”
“Sister,” the brother said. “Perhaps we should look after the children, the flock. We should—”
“I am not here to tend to children,” she said vacantly. She turned to the reverend, her face a puzzle. “This is really today, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he said. “We’re ready.”
The sister’s eyes found Kaiana. “You’re the one who tends to things. To keep all the . . . you help . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m made of memories I’ve lived too many times, but I haven’t lived yet. I’m just so very grateful to you and can’t understand why.”
The brother gently took the cloistress by the shoulders. “Maybe these children are hungry and we should—”
That was as far as he got before she swung her arm hard and knocked him down.
“Do not!” she snarled. Then her face went calm again, looking to Kaiana. “Watch. Remember. Listen.”
She turned and walked down the aisle to the door.
“Sister Myriem!” the reverend called out. “You’re certain?”
“Of nothing,” she said, looking back. “But necessity still calls.”
Kaiana looked at Delmin, who was rubbing his temples. “It’s going further,” he said. “The machine, it’s magic and science and . . . life. I can feel it all, and she—” He looked down the aisle to Sister Myriem, now in the narthex. “She prayed with Vee yesterday.”
“He’s going to need her prayers,” Kaiana said.
