Rebel frowned. He knew Bruce was a self-serving coward, like all Byers. But he was a skilled actor who strongly resembled Peter. No one was better suited to bait the hook.
“Calm down. We knew you’d clear the lobby.”
“Really? Like you knew the sick yellow chinny would catch on?”
Mercy Lee gripped her rifle with ire. The willowy young woman was a daughter of the clan’s last pure Asian family, though one could hardly tell from the excessive amount of mascara she wore.
“Stow it, penis. No one’s in the mood for your mouth dump.”
“I said enough.” Rebel rubbed his eyes, then checked his watch. “In eight minutes, this place’ll be crawling with Deps. We gotta work fast.” He pressed his earpiece. “That means you, Gemma.”
“I got it. I got it. Trillinger and Farisi went east. They’re hiding in the office cubes. Looks like one of them’s bleeding.”
“What about the others?”
“Dormer and Maranan are in the maintenance hall. Not sure which part but . . . God.”
“What?” Rebel asked. “Are they going to be a problem?”
“No. It’s the Givens you need to worry about. In ninety-one seconds, they’ll come back through the southern arch. They are . . . Jesus, you guys have to be careful. They’ve gotten stronger. A lot stronger.”
Rebel took an anxious breath. He’d learned to listen to Gemma Sunder’s warnings. The girl saw things no one else could.
“All right. Freddy, you go after the boy and the augur. Forget the rifle. Just do what you do.”
Freddy smiled. His fists encrusted with spiky tempis. “Now we’re talking.”
“I want the rest of you on the sisters. Take them out. Do it fast. Mercy . . .”
The young woman nodded nervously. She knew she was Rebel’s ace in the hole. “I’ll be ready for them.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes at Rebel. “Where are you going?”
No one else had to ask. The cartoonist who’d rotted Rebel’s hand was in this building right now, hiding in the office cubes.
“Just help the others,” he told Bruce. “You all know what’s at stake here. Go.”
They dispersed. As Rebel hurried to the eastern door, Ivy’s dulcet voice rang through his earpiece.
“You be careful, Richard. You hear me? You kill them all and come back alive.”
Rebel pulled out his new revolver and checked the chambers. He’d been woefully unprepared in Terra Vista. It cost him six people and a hand. He knew better now. He was ready.
—
The sisters stopped at the lobby entrance, their heartbeats pounding in synch. Amanda choked back a scream and squeezed her golden crucifix. Please, God. Please let Zack and Mia be all right.
Hannah watched her sister’s teary prayer and suddenly rued her own agnosticism. She always saw higher meaning as something outside her reach, like fractal math or long-term monogamy. As the gun dangled in her quivering hand, all the actress could conjure was Ioni’s bright assurance. The sunrise. The full moon. The rainbow after a storm. These are all things that can’t be stopped by mere mortals. You know what the augurs call them?
“Givens,” she muttered.
“What?”
Hannah looked at her sister through moist eyes. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what they fought about this morning. She couldn’t fathom why they wasted any of their precious time on battles.
“I love you.”
Warm tears rolled down Amanda’s cheeks. “I love you too, Hannah. I love you more than anyone. As soon as you get in there, you go as fast as you can. You don’t slow down for a second.”
Hannah wiped her eyes. “I won’t.”
“I will not lose you today.”
“You won’t,” Hannah said. It occurred to her that she wasn’t entirely faithless after all.
“Are you ready?”
They clasped fingers in the dainty little way of children, and then anxiously pulled apart. Amanda coated her hands with shiny white tempis. Hannah shifted into the blue.
The Great Sisters Given stepped forward into the fray.
THIRTY-TWO
The matron healer watched the wall of monitors, her sausage fingers curled with tension. In her prime, Olga Varnov had been a knockout blonde of stunning proportions. Now her hair was gray as ash and her body stood a balloon-sculpture parody of its former self. Not that she cared. Her need for beauty had perished at age twenty, when a bad reversal rendered her infertile, unsuitable for marriage. She’d grown content in her role as the clan’s beloved nurse and nanny. There wasn’t a Gotham under forty who hadn’t had their diapers changed or their wounds undone by Mother Olga.
She followed Amanda’s progress from screen to screen as the lovely young woman brushed the wall of the lobby, clutching her crucifix necklace in fright. On another monitor, three hazy figures crept down the stairwell, all lumiflaged against the backdrop like chameleons. Olga knew Ben Herrick could sear poor Amanda to a crisp while Colin Chisholm could cut her to shreds with flying knives of tempis. They advanced slowly on their prey, approaching a range close enough to guarantee an instant kill.