“What do you want?” I ask the woman from the Home Office, more brusquely than is strictly called for (because it is late and I am eager to make my way to room 309 and confirm that Mo is safe and uninjured and no more an undead thing of horror than I am).
She nearly recoils, but she’s made of stern stuff. “I was talking to a woman earlier, before the lightning strike—tall, red hair, something to do with Transhuman Coordination, I think she was one of your lot—” Now she recoils as I stare at her.
“Yes?”
“So she is one of your people?”
“What happened?” I demand.
Home Office woman bends but doesn’t quite reach breaking point. “She went that way”—she points at the lawn—“told me to follow. And I saw what happened. The lightning strike? The woman in white with the gun and the glowing jade eyes, and the man with no face and a laugh like dust swirling in an empty tomb—and she wasn’t there, between the first stroke of lightning and the next”—she blinks rapidly and begins to shake—“and I want to say, I need, if you’re looking for her I’m supposed to tell you something, something like—” Her eyes begin to glow and her voice changes as something hijacks her larynx. “Aw der hal amedn aset, aw der hal amedn aset! Aw der hal amedn aset, aw der hal—”
It’s a feeder, of course. Dumb, but not so dumb you can’t program them to loop a message, like a demented voicemail machine from hell. Fucker must have crept in while the cleanup crew’s back was turned, and of course the civilians aren’t warded. Being looped, it’s too busy running her vocal chords to eat properly, so I crunch down on it and catch her body as she topples. She’s still breathing, so maybe she’ll survive the attack. But right now I’m so furious and frightened I hardly care.
I wave for a paramedic, then walk towards the steps up to the terrace and the open French doors to join the Black Pharaoh’s court, leaving the last of the humans behind.