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We crossed the bridge to the barricade at Ohio Street, where he communed with the two soldiers stationed behind camouflaged vehicles.
Beyond them, Michigan Avenue had been cleared of vehicles—except for the tank parked in the middle of the avenue a few blocks down, its barrel pointed at the monster that was, sure enough, balanced on a crenelated turret atop the white stone Water Tower. The dragon had found its castle.
He showed his badge, and there was quiet discussion before he gestured to us. Then more discussion, and my grandfather walked back.
“We in?” Catcher asked.
“We are not,” he said, frustration in his eyes. “No supernaturals allowed in the vicinity, for fear that Sorcha will use them as she used the sorcerers last night.”
“Sorcha didn’t use Simpson,” Mallory said. “She bested her.”
“I believe that’s a detail they aren’t currently interested in. Their job is to bring down the dragon, and they’re going to do it the way they know how.”
“They haven’t fired yet,” Ethan said.
“They’re negotiating with Sorcha. They don’t want to start destroying property, and the rounds in that tank will bring down buildings.”
Catcher shook his head. “It won’t work. It’s too much weapon for downtown Chicago. If they’re hoping she has a conscience, or will be moved by that weapon, they’re doomed for disappointment.”
“They have to try,” my grandfather said. “That’s the paradigm—”
His next words were drowned out by the loudest noise I’d ever heard, a boom that echoed all the way down Michigan Avenue and had my heart hammering inside my chest like it was trying to beat its way out.
Smoke poured down the street, along with the sound of falling rocks and glass. Everyone near the barricade went still, staring into the smoke for confirmation that the tank had hit its target.
My ears rang for the five seconds it took for another concussion to rip through the air. By that time, the world was hazy, and we couldn’t see past the end of the block.
There was a thud, the screech of metal, and the whine of something moving toward us.
“Out of the way!” Ethan said, pulling my grandfather and me back as the tank barreled past us, landed upright in the plaza in front of the Tribune building, smoke pouring from the turret.
The dragon had thrown a tank half a mile down Michigan Avenue.
The soldiers at the barricade ran forward to help the soldiers still in the tank, worked to pry open the turret hatch.
“Did the tank miss?” Catcher quietly asked. “Or did that hundred-twenty-millimeter round have no effect?”
When very human screams began to echo through the streets, we decided it wouldn’t matter. Ethan unsheathed his sword, streetlights catching the polished steel.
“There’s a good chance the sword can’t do what a tank can’t do,” my grandfather said as we prepared to help whoever was screaming.
Ethan’s expression was grim. “It’s not for the dragon. It’s for the rider.” He looked at Catcher. “How much magic do you have?”
“I’ve got plenty of energy,” Catcher said. “The question is what to do with it.”
Ethan glanced at Mallory.
“Less energy than he does,” she said. “Last night wore on me. And the same question about what to do with it.”
Ethan nodded. “Go for Sorcha. She can be hit—we saw it last night.”
“And she’s probably even more pissed off.”
“Then maybe she’ll make a mistake,” Ethan said. “Because we could certainly use one.”
My grandfather nodded, looked at me. “Be careful,” he said, then went to talk to the soldiers.
• • •
