A Vigile let me past when he saw my uniform, but tackled an amaurotic woman. A man grabbed my jacket—whisperer—but I was running too fast, and he let go. My mind was a streak of pure light. Antoinette was headed straight for the Westminster Archon. She was off the cot to head in that direction, but I didn’t care about her motives: she was giving me a priceless opportunity. There was a tube station opposite the Archon. It was always packed out with Underguards, but also with commuters. If I took off my mask and jacket, I could slip past the barriers and disappear into the crowd. The pillars outside would give me shelter from the NVD, and I’d only have to stay on a train for one stop to reach Green Park. I could get to Dials from there. If that didn’t work, I’d go for the Thames. I’d swim. I’d do whatever I had to do to escape.

I could do it. I could do it.

My legs pumped. The pain in my arm was ferocious, but I couldn’t stop. Antoinette’s trance seemed to have fueled her speed. No human being could run like that, not unless she was guided by spirits. I tried to keep their auras in range as I weaved my way through droves of people and cars.

A taxi braked in front of Antoinette. She and Situla split around it, straight into a horde of pedestrians. I took the straightest course: kept running, right up the front of the car and onto the roof, and slid down the other side. Antoinette was through in a flash. Seconds behind her, Situla cut through the human obstacles. They screamed. One of them died. I couldn’t stop. If I let up for a moment, Antoinette and Situla would be out of range. Finally, when I thought my lungs would burst, we reached the end of Whitehall.

This was the center of the citadel, according to the map: I Cohort, Section 1. Voyants avoided this area like the plague. I looked up at the Westminster Archon, my fingers dripping blood. The clock face burned red, the hands and digits black against the light. This was where Frank Weaver’s puppets danced. Had I been in a less life-threatening situation, I would have liked to leave some choice graffiti on the walls.

I ran toward the Starch. Situla was just ahead of me. When she reached the bridge, Antoinette turned to face her foe. Her skin seemed stretched across her bones, like a thin layer of paint, and her lips were pursed and white.

“You are surrounded, oracle.” Situla stepped toward her. “Surrender yourself.”

“Do not call me ‘oracle,’ creature.” Antoinette raised her hand. “Stay and find out what I am.”

The air iced over.