CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
With Otis carefully tucked under her arm, Lucy walked into the Midnight Carnival with Gabriel. They were not alone. Jared and Joe were with them. They all paused to survey the bustling scene.
Researchers were scattered around the vast chamber making notes, taking measurements, and photographing the various artifacts. A woman in a white lab coat was studying a scaled-down glass conservatory that appeared to be filled with strange plants made of crystal. The sign over the entrance read LUCINDA BROMLEY’S PSYCHIC GARDEN. The researcher looked up and smiled when she saw Gabriel.
“Mr. Jones,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Dr. Peabody,” Gabriel said.
“I believe he’s inside the House of Mirrors.” The researcher aimed her pen at one of the rides.
“Thanks,” Gabriel said.
He led the way through the exhibits and rides. Lucy and the others followed him into a dark, cavelike structure. The interior glittered with mirrors that gave off an eerie energy. The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted in response. Not in a good way. She knew the others experienced the same disturbing sensation. Otis sleeked out a little and muttered.
Reginald Peabody was using a flashlight to examine the small train designed to take people through the winding corridor of mirrors. He straightened when he noticed the group standing at the entrance.
Otis chortled a greeting and waved the toy dust bunny.
Peabody grimaced. “Oh, dear. Not again.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Peabody,” Lucy said. “I’ve got a good grip on Otis.”
“I certainly hope so,” Peabody said. He turned to Gabriel. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?”
“We need to borrow a few artifacts,” Gabriel said, “and a couple of your security staff.”
Peabody stared, appalled, but he managed to pull himself together. “Of course, Mr. Jones. Anything for the Guild.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lucy stood in the deeply shadowed entrance of a long-closed nightclub. She was not alone. Otis was on her shoulder. Gabriel, Aiden, and Chief Hopton were there, too. They all watched the old casino at the end of the narrow street. A few architectural features remained from its semiglorious heyday. The faded sign on the marquee announced loose slots, complimentary drinks, and an Elvis impersonator.
“I remember this place,” Chief Hopton said. “When I was a rookie we busted it regularly. The management was always running off-the-books, high-stakes poker games in the basement. Every time we raided the joint, the gamblers escaped through that hole-in-the-wall you found. We always lost ’em in the tunnels.”
“Not this time,” Gabriel said. “Ready?”
Hopton looked at the half dozen officers in heavy SWAT gear who were waiting in another doorway directly across the street. He raised one hand in a signal.
The woman in charge of the team acknowledged the signal and led the other officers toward the casino. Under the cover of the heavy fog, they took up positions. One of the team primed a small explosive and hurled it at the boarded-up front door of the casino.
There was a loud whoomph. Glass and wood shattered. When the smoke began to clear, mag-rezes roared from inside the casino, spraying the area around the entrance.
A guard poked his head around the doorway. He saw Hopton and Gabriel, fired two quick shots, and ducked back inside.
“It’s the cops and the new Guild boss,” he yelled. “We’re gonna need the suppressor.”
“Get out of the way,” Dillon Westover shouted from somewhere inside.
He appeared at the entrance. His face was twisted into a wild, frantic mask. He used both hands to grip a strange-looking machine. He swung the barrel of the device in wide arcs, evidently searching for a target.
The machine began to glow with an ominous silver energy. The lights inside the casino dimmed and winked out.
Gabriel checked his amber. “Flatlined.”
Hopton took out his mag-rez. “Dead. That damned machine really works.”
Gabriel signaled Aiden and the two museum security guards.
“Go,” he said.
They raised the control devices and pressed the keys.
Westover did not see Mrs. Bridewell’s clockwork curiosities advancing toward the entrance of the casino until it was too late. The queen, a soldier dressed in the uniform of an Old World military regiment, and a miniature carriage drawn by two four-footed animals moved relentlessly toward Westover.
Belatedly, he heard the clanking of the killer toys and looked down.
“What the fuck?” he yelled.