spotted the white figures of sorcerers and readied himself to fend off a magical attack. But, for now, they were interested mostly in the barricades, where the defenders poured on fire, throwing the goblins back.
Harlequin saw a magical fireball shoot out from the attackers, slamming into a police cruiser piled with rubble-filled trash cans. Lightning answered back from one of the soldiers behind it, and he knew that the SOC’s law-enforcement support element was on the scene, the only magical forces ready to respond on such short notice. He’d worked SOC LE himself all those years ago. But even with arcane fire support, he could tell that the defenders were hard-pressed. The sheer volume of enemy fighters was staggering.
The Blackhawk jagged sideways in his peripheral vision, bringing its guns to bear over the scene below. ‘Hold your fire,’ he radioed. ‘We’ve got civilians down there.’ Here and there, he could see the corpses of traders and store clerks on the street, blood going tacky in their ties and aprons. He didn’t see anyone moving, but in the fog of war, that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
A huge black banner had been hung out the window of one of the buildings, at least ten stories up. FREE OSCAR BRITTON , it read. LATENT-AMERICANS ARE STILL AMERICANS . Harlequin had seen dozens of similar signs and posters all over the country since they’d saved FOB Frontier. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. From public enemy number one to hero overnight. It’s a mad world .
Then Harlequin passed over Broad Street and saw just how mad it really was.
The city’s financial hub was rent by a giant gate, bigger than anything Britton had ever opened, over fifty feet high and spanning the entire breadth of the street from the steps of Federal Hall to the offices on the opposite side. Its ragged edges pulsed green, bruised purple, rotten-looking. The air stank like a fresh corpse left out in the sun.
This area was mostly clear of goblins. Something far worse trooped through the gate, liquid black skin absorbing the fading light.
He’d fought less than ten Gahe as he’d flown air cover for the retreating force during the evacuation of FOB Frontier, and they’d been the toughest things he’d ever come up against.
Here were dozens, maybe scores.
All utterly impervious to bullets. Only magic could harm them.
He paused in midair, taking in the bobbing horned heads, the malevolent white smiles. The goblins kept a respectful distance as the Gahe fanned out, contenting themselves with looting the buildings and channeling their forces toward the barricades.
Harlequin noticed other creatures taking up positions around the stock exchange; giant rocs roosted in the eves, preening their sword-length feathers. A smallish-looking red dragon was curled around the base of George Washington’s statue, Whispered on by a goblin sorcerer draped around its neck.
As he took in the gathering enemy below, he caught a flash of white. He focused, squinting, maintained his altitude. He told himself that he didn’t want to go any lower for fear of coming in missile range of the gathering horde beneath him. But he knew it for the lie it was. The woman from the video was down there. His heart raced. He didn’t want to see her, knew he had to.
There, the flash of white again. This time he made out a beautiful face, wise, dark eyes, a severe slash of black bobbed hair.
It’s not Grace. It only looks like her.
She looked skyward, smiling. Harlequin had seen her reduce hundreds of men and women, dozens of helicopters and tanks, almost a mile of perimeter wall, to stinking slime. She’d used the same rotting magic that Harlequin could see at work on the edges of the rent between the planes.
Not Grace.
Scylla.
He pushed away the flood of memories that came rushing to the surface, clawing at him. She’d lived here once. They’d met mere blocks from this very spot. He’d told her he would help her. He’d failed.
That
Harlequin saw a magical fireball shoot out from the attackers, slamming into a police cruiser piled with rubble-filled trash cans. Lightning answered back from one of the soldiers behind it, and he knew that the SOC’s law-enforcement support element was on the scene, the only magical forces ready to respond on such short notice. He’d worked SOC LE himself all those years ago. But even with arcane fire support, he could tell that the defenders were hard-pressed. The sheer volume of enemy fighters was staggering.
The Blackhawk jagged sideways in his peripheral vision, bringing its guns to bear over the scene below. ‘Hold your fire,’ he radioed. ‘We’ve got civilians down there.’ Here and there, he could see the corpses of traders and store clerks on the street, blood going tacky in their ties and aprons. He didn’t see anyone moving, but in the fog of war, that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
A huge black banner had been hung out the window of one of the buildings, at least ten stories up. FREE OSCAR BRITTON , it read. LATENT-AMERICANS ARE STILL AMERICANS . Harlequin had seen dozens of similar signs and posters all over the country since they’d saved FOB Frontier. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. From public enemy number one to hero overnight. It’s a mad world .
Then Harlequin passed over Broad Street and saw just how mad it really was.
The city’s financial hub was rent by a giant gate, bigger than anything Britton had ever opened, over fifty feet high and spanning the entire breadth of the street from the steps of Federal Hall to the offices on the opposite side. Its ragged edges pulsed green, bruised purple, rotten-looking. The air stank like a fresh corpse left out in the sun.
This area was mostly clear of goblins. Something far worse trooped through the gate, liquid black skin absorbing the fading light.
He’d fought less than ten Gahe as he’d flown air cover for the retreating force during the evacuation of FOB Frontier, and they’d been the toughest things he’d ever come up against.
Here were dozens, maybe scores.
All utterly impervious to bullets. Only magic could harm them.
He paused in midair, taking in the bobbing horned heads, the malevolent white smiles. The goblins kept a respectful distance as the Gahe fanned out, contenting themselves with looting the buildings and channeling their forces toward the barricades.
Harlequin noticed other creatures taking up positions around the stock exchange; giant rocs roosted in the eves, preening their sword-length feathers. A smallish-looking red dragon was curled around the base of George Washington’s statue, Whispered on by a goblin sorcerer draped around its neck.
As he took in the gathering enemy below, he caught a flash of white. He focused, squinting, maintained his altitude. He told himself that he didn’t want to go any lower for fear of coming in missile range of the gathering horde beneath him. But he knew it for the lie it was. The woman from the video was down there. His heart raced. He didn’t want to see her, knew he had to.
There, the flash of white again. This time he made out a beautiful face, wise, dark eyes, a severe slash of black bobbed hair.
It’s not Grace. It only looks like her.
She looked skyward, smiling. Harlequin had seen her reduce hundreds of men and women, dozens of helicopters and tanks, almost a mile of perimeter wall, to stinking slime. She’d used the same rotting magic that Harlequin could see at work on the edges of the rent between the planes.
Not Grace.
Scylla.
He pushed away the flood of memories that came rushing to the surface, clawing at him. She’d lived here once. They’d met mere blocks from this very spot. He’d told her he would help her. He’d failed.
That
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