The group exchange tense glances, shaking their heads. The fire chief removes his helmet and drops his gaze. “There are no survivors, ma’am.”
“You mean…” She shakes her head rapidly, as if she can’t even comprehend his words.
“The people inside city limits at the time of the attack,” he says, “they were…” He clears his throat, barely holding onto his composure. “They were incinerated.”
“Everyone?” she gasps.
“Incinerated,” he says.
“Incinerated.” I swallow hard, the word carving a deep gash in my heart.
All of us watch the unfolding coverage in stunned silence, unable to move, unable to draw breath as the screen fills with devastating video shared by passersby and people who were lucky enough to be out on their boats when the explosion hit.
An entire town, filled with businesses and restaurants and homes and cookie shops and day care centers and gardens and swimming pools and libraries and ocean views that stretched on for miles… It’s just gone. Smoldering. Incinerated.
“Cities kneel before the flames,” I finally whisper, glancing over at Kirin, who hasn’t moved from the chair. “Thus begins the deadly game.”
Could this be the beginning Mom foretold? One of the Dark Magician’s tricks?
“Our information is still limited at this time,” the newscaster says, “but they’re now saying the confirmed death toll is already over…” She closes her eyes, the skin between her brows pulled into a deep crease as she tries to maintain her professional detachment. When she speaks again, her words are barely audible over the bustle of police and rescue activity around her. “North of four thousand.”
“People?” I exclaim, as if the number is too vast to comprehend, too ridiculous. Surely she means four thousand cockroaches, or windows, or boat docks. But people?
“Many others are still unaccounted for,” she says. “Sadly, we expect that number to rise as the evening wears on. Judging from the visual extent of the damage, it’s clear that anyone who was within city limits at the time of the explosion is now presumed dead. We realize this is a very difficult time for all those affected, but authorities are asking anyone with loved ones in the area to stay away and keep the emergency phone lines clear. We will continue to provide updates as more information becomes available.”
Baz switches the channel to another newscast, a different angle on the same billowing smoke and haunting black metal frames, this time with an alarming news ticker scrolling along the bottom in bold red letters.
witchcraft blamed for deadly attack on peaceful california beach community… thousands murdered by act of magickal terrorism… all witches and mages must report to local fbi centers for questioning…
“…now confirming that a group of mages calling themselves the Soldiers of Light have claimed responsibility for the attack,” a voiceover pipes in over the horrifying images. “Information on the group is limited, but authorities believe they may have connections to the Arcana Academy of the Arts, a magickal university headquartered in London with campuses overseas as well as in the southwestern United States. Anyone with information about the Soldiers of Light is asked to contact the FBI immediately.”
“Soldiers of Light?” Professor Maddox says. “I’ve never heard of such a group. Certainly not in association with the Academy.”
“That’s because they likely don’t exist,” Doc says. “It’s a setup. It must be.”
Again, Mom’s prophecy echoes in my mind.
Soldiers marching for our doom…
“Regardless of current legal status,” the voiceover continues, “all witches and mages in the United States are required to report to local authorities for immediate questioning. Any magickal persons who do not report within the next twenty-four hours will be considered fugitives.”
“Are they fucking serious right now?” Carly asks. “They can’t do that.”
“They can, and they are.” Baz clicks to another channel, this one showing footage from stoplight and retail security cameras capturing the precise moment of the so-called attack. One minute, everything is normal—people walking down the sunny streets with ice cream cones and shopping bags, a pack of motorcycles racing by, a guy on the corner dressed like a clown, waving a big sign about cell phone deals inside. Then, out of nowhere, streaks of silver-blue light tear across the pavement, one right after another, igniting an inferno that burns so hot, it literally melts the pavement.
And everyone on it.
My stomach churns, my knees nearly buckling. It happens so fast—maybe three seconds onscreen—and then the image cuts out.
The security cameras were destroyed.
The screen switches to an arial view, a traffic copter catching the same moment. From the sky, it looks like a nuclear attack—a flash of bright white light, then nothing but fire as far as the eye can see.
All around me, the energy in the room turns to ice. Panic and dread, confusion, fear, sickness.
“It’s so much like that night at Breath and Blade,” Doc finally says. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“It really is an uncanny resemblance,” Professor Broome says.
