“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.