Calamity (Reckoners, #3)

SHARP Tower rose, a dark form in the night save for the top floors, which glowed from the inside. The salt was a dusty grey in this area, so that the top floors seemed somehow both light and dark at once. Like a black hole wearing a silly birthday hat.

Megan and I approached, packs slung over our shoulders, wearing new faces courtesy of another dimension. This sort of little illusion was easy for her, and she could maintain it indefinitely so long as I didn’t stray too far from her. I couldn’t help trying to work out the mechanics of it. Were these the faces of some random people? Or were they people who, in their dimension, were going the same place we were?

A large number of people gathered on the ground floor of the building. The old windows, made of thinner salt, had a warm glow to them, and several doors had been opened up to let the elite gather. I stopped, watching another group arrive, conveyed in bicycle rickshaws.

They were dressed like people in Newcago: short, sparkling 1920s-style dresses and bright lipstick on the women; pinstriped suits and sharp hats, like in old movies, on the men. I half expected them to be carrying tommy guns in violin cases. Instead, their bodyguards were armed with Glocks and P30s.

“Darren?” Megan asked, using my fake name.

“Sorry,” I said, breaking out of my thoughts. “Reminds me of Newcago.” Memories of my youth carried a lot of baggage.

The guests were being entertained on the ground floor while they waited for their turn in the elevator up to the party. Music poured out of the lobby, the type Mizzy would have liked: lots of thumping and rattling. It seemed at odds with the elegant formalwear. Martinis and caviar were being passed around, more signs of favor and power.

I’d never even tasted a martini. For years I’d assumed it was a brand of car.

Together, Megan and I took a sharp right outside and rounded the building toward a smaller door at the back. Instead of trying to fake our way up the elevator with the rich people, we’d decided to try an avenue where we’d be under far less scrutiny. Tia’s plan had included a backup option of sending Team Two up with the servants.

With the images in Tia’s notes, we’d been able to fake an invitation here—and a quick check with the Stingray Clan verified that they weren’t going to be sending anyone to this party. They’d be expected, but were too busy with their preparations to leave the city.

That left a hole we would hopefully be able to wiggle through. Around the rear of the tower, we found a less privileged class of people gathering to be carted up a smaller service elevator.

“Ready?” I said.

“Ready,” Megan said. Her voice was echoed by those of Mizzy and Abraham, who spoke over my earpiece—I had it tucked up under the illusory hair Megan had granted me. Knighthawk was confident our lines would be secure; Prof had bugged our phones in Babilar, but he’d needed to physically place those bugs in the actual handsets, and we’d replaced that equipment.

“Engaging,” I said.

Megan and I started running. We jogged up to the crews working the back door and pulled to a stop, struggling to catch our breath as if exhausted.

“Who are you two?” the guard demanded.

“Cake decorators,” Megan said, proffering the invitation—which for workers like us was more an order to appear. “Stingray Clan.”

“About time,” the guard growled. “Get searched and I’ll put you on the next load up.”

Loophole loved fancy cupcakes. The Stingrays always sent a pair of cake decorators, even when they didn’t send Carla or other important people to attend the party.

My heart was thumping as we stepped over and relinquished our backpacks. A stern woman began unzipping pockets.

“Step one, pass,” Megan said quietly into the line as the guard pulled out our electric mixers and placed them on the table with a thump. Various cake-decorating paraphernalia followed. I didn’t even know the names of most of the stuff, let alone how it was used. All of this had taught me one thing: cake decorating was serious business.

After a quick frisk, we repacked and were ushered ahead of other workers into a dark, salt-walled room with an elevator shaft. The shaft didn’t have doors, which seemed terribly unsafe.

“We’re in too,” Abraham said, “one floor up.”

They’d snuck up using the rtich—Abraham had created steps out of mercury up to the second floor—then they’d melted their way in through a window using a specialized pressure washer that delivered a small jet of water strong enough to cut stone. They had used it on one of the windows turned to salt.

Megan and I were loaded onto the elevator, which was a small, ramshackle thing lit by a single lightbulb. The two of us were joined by three other workers, servers in white uniforms.

“Go,” I whispered.