Of course, if they didn’t show up, no explanation would be necessary, because bubbeh would be sitting shiva over her mangled corpse. As excuses went, it was about the only one Esther would accept.
Kylie settled into a seat at the end of a long outer aisle in the rear right corner of the room. Then she had to slide over a seat as Dag insisted on putting himself directly on the aisle. With the threat expected to come from the outer perimeter of the room, he had already told her he would expect her to let him stand between her and danger. She had initially rolled her eyes, but when he pointed out that she was so much smaller than him that she couldn’t effectively shield him anyway, she had to concede to his logic. She’d need three of her to block him from attack.
At least their assigned seats kept her from having to crane her neck to look around her. She had a decent view of the whole room, although the balcony had given all of them cause for grief. They couldn’t be certain that the nocturnis would not choose to open the portals up there rather than on the auditorium floor, but they were not able to effectively cover both levels so they had to work with the highest probability. Opening portals on the balcony would be more discreet, but it would also delay the moment when the demonic attack could begin, and it might give some of the crowd time to escape in the initial moments of violence.
Gee, wasn’t this a fun topic to muse on?
Turning her attention to the stage, she took in the elaborate curtained backdrop, the projected images of the Carver foundation’s logo, and the silent slide show of all the good work the group was doing. In a good number of the photos, Richard Foye-Carver posed with shirtsleeves rolled up and battered boots on his feet, helping African farmers in their fields, listening to the concerns of poor women, even playing with dusty urchins and their underinflated soccer ball. It was enough to warm the coldest heart.
Provided you didn’t look closely enough to see the dead, flat, empty void behind the man’s smiling eyes.
Kylie shifted in her seat and glanced down at the time displayed on her phone. T-minus eight minutes. She wondered if her nerves would survive the wait.
“Relax,” Dag whispered, leaning down to place his lips near her ear. “Your worry will only slow your responses. Do as Wynn advised you and breathe slowly.”
“Easy for you to say, Goliath. You were made to fight Demons. I was made to eat latkes and kvetch about the state of the world. There’s a big difference.”
“No,” he disagreed, brushing his mouth against her temple. “You were made to set me free, little love, and to spend a lifetime by my side. Never forget that.”
Well, when he put it that way …
It didn’t do away with Kylie’s nerves, but it allowed her to press them back enough to manage a deep breath. The feel of his huge, warm hand enveloping hers didn’t hurt, either. Both gave her courage, and if all else failed, she would do the one useful thing her father had taught her—fake it with authority.
When the lights dimmed and music began to hum through the loudspeakers, she felt every muscle in her body go tense and had to force herself to shake off the instinctive reaction. Adrenaline, Wynn had taught her, could be her friend or her enemy. Enough of it would sharpen her senses and hone her reflexes, helping her out in tight situations, but too much could make her freeze and leave her vulnerable to attack.
Fight or flight. Kylie sure as shudden intended to fight.
The focus in the room turned to the stage where a small, portly man in a wrinkled pair of khakis and an ill-conceived shirt-and-tie combination appeared behind the podium to introduce the keynote speaker. With a forced-casual glance she saw the ushers who had manned the doors step inside the room and pull the panels closed behind them. All perfectly innocent actions to ensure privacy and minimize the chances of outside interruptions and distractions, but to Kylie it smacked of sinister intent. The ushers to her appeared more like guards, stationed at the exits to prevent any attempt at escape.
She forced her attention back to the man speaking at the front of the room. Kylie barely heard a word he said. While the music had gradually lowered and then turned off, the buzzing in her head had quadrupled in volume. She felt as if a swarm of bees had nested in her ear canals and settled in for a long honey-making chat. She couldn’t seem to sit still, either. Her habitually bouncing foot shook so fast her eyes could barely focus on the movement.
Beside her, Dag shifted, his gaze moving over her with obvious concern, but she couldn’t do much to reassure him. She couldn’t even reassure herself. Something was so very, very wrong. She felt it in her bones.