Kintyre has Foesmiter drawn, and Bevel has the Shadow’s Cloak wrapped around his free arm in an impromptu shield. I unsheathe Smoke and together, we head toward the escalators.
There is a snap and a sizzle, and a shower of sparks suddenly rains from above. People gasp and yelp. The lights flicker once more, and then cut off again. Only the red and amber glow of the emergency beacons light our way. Was the power cut off in the massive crash above us, or is this more magic? Is this the Viceroy’s attempt to draw us out, or stalk us?
I wish I could stop guessing, stop thinking in circles, stop trying to anticipate. It’s exhausting. I wish to just know. I was always a Shadow Hand more at home behind a desk than out in the fields and castles and taverns, and now I am reminded why. I much prefer to read the reports of action, than to participate in it.
We make our way, quiet and stealthy as we are able, toward the escalators.
The food court seems abandoned, though I hear the harsh whispers of those hiding in the small booths as someone soothes a crying child, and someone else hisses medical instructions to another. The blue glow of phone screens being used as flashlights breaks up the darkness of the booths and carts. Good, it seems that these people, those that are left here, are safe and sane enough to care for one another.
Again, a pang of guilt for leaving them behind surges in my breast. But I am not their lordling; their safety is not my purview. Not until the safety of all can be assured.
We inch up the escalator slowly, ears straining for any sound that might give us warning that an attack is coming. The escalator is not functioning, the power cut along with that of the lights. I keep my eyes aimed at the ceilings and shadowed corners around us, not putting the Viceroy’s love of the dramatic out of my mind, knowing that he does prefer to be literally above everyone and everything.
Nothing. Nothing. Damn it, why does he wait?
When Bevel reaches the top of the stairs, he pulls Kintyre to an abrupt stop beside him. “Aw, hells,” Bevel whispers, and the moment I’m in the foyer of the convention center, I see why.
The grand glass doors have been entirely blocked with what used to be the floor above us. Jumbled boulders of concrete ring the escalators and fountain—which has gone quiet—cutting off access to all of the exits. The remains of tables and chairs from the Dealer’s Room above are sprinkled around the space, splintered and twisted, pebbled with abandoned wares and an avalanche of loose papers from destroyed books, and comics, and artist’s prints.
Syrupy afternoon sunlight streams in from the glass ceiling above us, now visible with the floor brought down.
“We could climb up there, break a window,” Kintyre says, pointing to the mountain of rubble and debris. “Get out that way?”
“I don’t trust it,” Bevel says. “It doesn’t look stable enough. And we’d be exposed and easy to pick off. I say we head back downstairs and regroup.”
“Agreed,” I say again, morose, and we descend the still escalator once more.
“I hope nobody is in that mess,” Bevel says, as we pick our way back down into the gloom of the lower levels.
“We must hope that they all escaped. And if some did not, there is nothing we can do for them now,” Kintyre comforts him with more wisdom than I am used to hearing from my brother.
“I despise that there’s collateral damage,” I add quietly. “And I hate that I am relieved that Alis isn’t among them.”
“Where is she?” Bevel asks.
“Not here, thank the Writer. She stayed with Pip’s parents,” I say. I pull my phone out of the pouch strapped to my sword belt, and bring up Martin’s contact information. “It may be on the news by now. They must be scared sick.”
I feel my whole body drop with disappointment when I look at the screen, however. “No signal.” I hold the phone up to the open air above our heads, watching the bars, but there’s nothing. “Either the concrete is blocking it all, or it’s been cut off on purpose.”
“What about outside help?” Bevel asks.
“Someone outside would have called for rescue personnel, yes,” I reassure him, replacing my useless phone in its pouch. “But it might take a few hours to get everything safely cleared and get inside. It might take days.”
“Then we assume we are under siege,” Kintyre rumbles.
I point at the fountain. “At least there’s water. It might be heavily chlorinated, but it will be safe to drink. And food, for a few days, in the food court, and in the . . . the bags down in the gaming room from the . . . uh . . .” I cannot say it, and instead, swallow heavily.
“We’ll search,” Bevel says. “I promise. We will get ourselves secure, and then scout for survivors.”
I can only nod jerkily. “This way,” I say, and point at the ballroom. “I dislike the openness. Collect what provisions you can, and rally those able to move. I would much rather we all weathered this siege in the ballroom, where there are only three entrances to guard.”
“Yeah,” Bevel says, echoing my sentiment, and shooting me a cheeky grin when I turn to look at him in surprise. Kintyre moves to obey me, and then pauses.
“I don’t even know what half of this stuff is . . .” Kintyre says, poking his nose into a cabinet filled with pizza slices. “Is this travel bread?”
“Of a sort,” I tell him.
“Oh, hello,” Kintyre adds, addressing someone who is behind the counter.
“He-hello,” that someone says, standing. It’s Ichiro, the liaison, his face smeared with dust-cut tear tracks, his bright volunteer shirt stained with what appears to be someone else’s
