A uniformed police officer stood in the intersection up ahead, diverting traffic. Another officer on horseback trotted up the opposite side of the road. Two helicopters circled overhead. From what I could see, one was a news chopper, while its louder big brother looked military.

Lena took the lead, being the best equipped to deal with physical confrontations. Nidhi and I followed close behind, letting Lena serve as our icebreaker. I split my attention between Smudge and the crowd, watching for potential magical threats. Smudge seemed more interested in the bugs swarming about the street lamps.

Yellow barricades blocked the streets at Ottawa and Capitol. Beyond those barriers, ambulances and police cars lined the roads. The news vans had parked farther off. It looked like every camera crew in the state was pressed up against the yellow tape surrounding the capitol building, along with reporters from some of the national outlets.

The tension after the hearing in D.C. had been bad, but at least that had been in daylight, with a short, clear path to our escape.

The emotion here was colder and less stable. Officers in riot gear were doing their best to keep things under control. I found myself holding my breath, like I was afraid of setting off an explosion. Sweat trickled and tickled down my back.

All reporters were being kept back with the rest of the crowd. Some called out to officers and detectives for statements, while others interviewed random bystanders. I eavesdropped long enough to overhear one reporter say something about werewolves and an unknown number of casualties. I turned up the collar of my duster and approached the nearest uniformed officer, keeping my hands in full view.

“Sir, you need to stay back.” This was a man clearly practiced in using his voice as a tool to keep people in line, and his tone suggested he was equally prepared to use other tools if his words failed to do the trick.

I glanced back to make sure none of the reporters were paying attention. The last thing I wanted was to get mobbed by news crews looking for a sound bite. “My name is Isaac Vainio. I’m a libriomancer, one of the directors for New Millennium and a member of the Porters. We can help.”

He looked the three of us over. “Nobody gets across that line. Especially magic-using types.”

I understood his paranoia, even as frustration tightened already-tense muscles in my neck and jaw. For all he knew, we were here to finish the job the werewolves had begun.

I looked past him to the two ambulances parked on the sidewalk. Their crews were checking over a small group of people with blood on their clothes. A short distance beyond was a white FBI truck, possibly a command vehicle. I counted three other vans, another FBI truck, and six state and Lansing police cars.