Harris drew closer, near enough for us to make eye contact. Something about my face must have given him pause, because he slowed and came no closer. The look in his eye was unmistakable, a swirling transformation of confusion into fear.
Guyer’s cloak fell away, fluttering to the tunnel floor like a dead bird. My hands were in the air, one grasping the thread leading to the red-tinted shaft, the other entwined in the dozens stretching upward, to the tons of dirt and rock that would bury the thing beneath the Mount once more.
I worked my lips, but could find only one word.
“Run.”
I was already moving, and maybe that’s what spurred Harris to move as well. As I moved, I drew the last of the manna thread leading into the depths, and fed it back into the threads reaching up into the cavern roof. It collapsed with a roar, far exceeded by the sound of rage and betrayal from the thing beneath the vents.
I ran as fast as I could, not even slowing as my stomach forced my lunch up and past my lips. Vomit and sweat and blood and tears were all the same, and I was vaguely aware of the jagged shapes of rock gouging my hands as I neared the surface. Then I was through, and the air was still and cold and fresh, and it took a long moment before I realized the buzz in my ears wasn’t from that thing underground. It was the sound of my own screaming.
Harris was beside me, covered in dust and bleeding from countless small wounds. Someone ran into me. I was so weak on my feet that I stumbled forward. I turned, raising a hand. A woman in her mid-twenties, skin coated in soot and dirt, stared at me and worked her mouth, though no sounds came out. She shook her head and walked away, mouth still moving, silently objecting to the reality around her. Harris grabbed my shoulder, breathing hard, and whispered, “Oh, no.”
We’d emerged into the very chaos we’d hoped to prevent. Hundreds of people ran through Titanshade’s city center, screaming as a blend of commercial space and high-end living plunged into the sinkhole.
Twin holes had opened their hungry mouths to devour buildings and people alike. The first had been caused by Weylan, and had allowed Harris and Gellica to find us. The second had been caused by my attempt to bury the thing below. As of yet it was small, only taking up the center of the street. But it was spreading. And if we didn’t evacuate the area, people would die because of what I’d done.
From the building on my right terrified faces peered out the windows, some screaming, others staring blankly at the chaos. Screams and sirens filled the air, but then even they were muffled by a rumble of stone and collapsing dirt. The hole was expanding, reaching toward the sidewalks and creeping closer to the buildings. If those storefront facades fell into the hole, I wasn’t sure where the destruction would stop.
A hand gripped my arm. Harris pointed through the crowd at Gellica and Guyer and Jax. They were already helping the injured evacuate the area.
“This way,” I said, or perhaps it was Harris. We moved in their direction, but stopped when the electrical service flickered, then gave out, streetlights and neon signs going dead, plunging us back into the darkness. Something rumbled, and the hole expanded again. The building nearest us shuddered. Its structure began to slip, and the faces in the windows turned from shock to terror.
I stared, unable to help. Then material rose from the sinkhole and slammed into the façade, supporting it for a few precious moments. Metal sheets flew from the roof of a neighboring building, strengthening it more. On the sidewalk a group of divination officers controlled the objects, doing their best to slow the destruction and allow occupants to escape. Even in that chaos, people were helping one another.
We fell into a rhythm then, evacuating the crowd, as sorcerers stripped empty buildings to support the next as occupants were evacuated and survivors were plucked from the sinkhole. Gradually, the scene stabilized. More first responders entered the area. They carried flashlights and headlamps, each one as fragile as a candle in an ice storm. But together they lit up the night. I helped as long as my legs would hold me. Eventually I stumbled to the side, crawling onto a semi-stable mound of debris shed by one of the surrounding buildings to get a scope of the event as the rescue continued around me.
Lying on that pile of rubble, panting for breath, I stared at the ravenous hole in the ground. Even as the city’s residents rallied to help those in need, that vengeful, shifting thing was still below us, buried but not dead.
Whatever was trapped beneath the city of Titanshade, it was beyond our comprehension. It was angry. It was awake.
And it knew my name.
46
I DROVE ACROSS THE ICE PLAINS in a rented snow-runner. It was worth the price to not have this trip on the official TPD record. Early on in the drive, I passed one tour bus after another, all of them headed south. Maybe Dinah McIntire peered out from behind one of those tinted windows. Maybe not. Within another hour I was passing large trucks laden with the stage and support beams, the last remnants of the Ice on Her Fingers Festival, beating a hasty retreat to the south. As they passed by, the radio news slipped in and out of static. “New sinkholes . . . few casualties reported . . .” I
