The last hob to fall, a big brute the size of a freaking mountain gorilla, lay motionless near Michael’s feet. What was left of a bronze shield and sword lay in neatly sliced fragments around the body. Its blood spread sluggishly down the stairs, coated with blue-white flame as its body was slowly consumed by more of the same.

“Everybody can relax,” I panted as I caught up to Michael. “I’m here.”

Michael greeted me with a nod and a quick smile. “Are you all right?”

“Not bad,” I said, barely resisting the temptation to turn the second word into a barnyard sound. “Sorry I wasn’t much use to you once you waded in.”

“It couldn’t have happened without your help,” Michael said seriously. “Thank you.”

“De nada,” I replied.

I went up the last few stairs and got a look at what the hobs had been after.

Children.

There must have been thirty kids around ten years old up at the top of the stairs, all of them in school uniforms, all of them huddled together in a corner, all of them frightened, most of them crying. There was one dazed-looking woman in a blazer that matched those of the children, together with two women dressed in the casual uniforms of Amtrak stewards.

“A train had just arrived,” I murmured to Michael as I realized what had happened. “It must have gotten in through the weather somehow. That’s why the hobs were here now.”

Michael flicked Amoracchius to one side, shaking off a small cloud of fine black powder from the blade as he did. Then he put the weapon away. “It should be safe now, everyone,” he said, his voice calm. “The authorities should be here any minute.” He added in a quieter tone, “We should probably go.”

“Not yet,” I said quietly. I walked into the Great Hall far enough to see the area behind the first of the row of Corinthian pillars that lined the walls.

Three people stood there.

The first was a man, of a height with Michael, but built more leanly, more dangerously. He had hair of dark gold that fell to his shoulders, and the shadow of a beard resulting from several days without shaving. He wore a casual, dark-blue sports suit over a white T-shirt, and he held the bronze sword of a hob, stained with their dark blood, in either hand. He regarded me with the calm, remote eyes of a great cat, and he showed me some of his teeth when he saw me. His name was Kincaid, and he was a professional assassin.

Next to him was a young woman with long, curling brown hair and flashing dark eyes. Her jeans were tight enough to show off some nice curves, but not too tight to move in, and she held a slender rod maybe five feet long in one hand, carved with runes and sigils not too unlike mine. Captain Luccio had a long plastic tube hanging from a strap over one of her shoulders, its top dangling loose. Odds were good her silver sword was still stowed inside it. I knew that when she smiled, she had killer dimples—but from the expression on her face I wasn’t going to be exposed to that hazard anytime soon. Her features were hard and guarded, though they did not entirely hide a fierce rage. I hoped it was reserved for the attacking hobs and not for me. The captain was not someone I wanted angry at me.