“I can think of only one reason,” he said. “Because they know I can use magic whether the dampener is functional or not, and they want to be able to use it too.”
“Well,” Sloane said, “let’s get our siphons before they find us, then.”
Mox led the way to the row of lockers where they had stored the siphons. When he entered their combination and opened the door, it was with a sigh of relief. The siphons were there, side by side. He put the green one on his hand and flexed his fingers, then took the tooth attachment from its little pouch and stuck it in place over a canine. Sloane put on her siphon grudgingly, hating the coldness of it against her hand, and the weight, and the way it pinched her wrist.
Mox watched her fumbling with the clasp for a few seconds, then reached across her to take her wrist in his hands. He tucked a finger under the band to test its tightness, then pushed the clasp in place with a flick of his wrist. She felt heat where his fingertip had been against her skin. And she knew what that heat meant and where it might lead, if she let it, but it felt like another betrayal.
She shut the locker door and turned back to the Grand Hall. In Chicago, most of the people she saw wore the dramatic clothing that, she had learned, was a trademark of the magical elite. But in St. Louis, a haven city, there were no sweeping fabrics designed to display throat siphons or wrist siphons, no elaborate updos dotted with round gold clips that accentuated ear siphons, no modern mimicries of wizard garb. In fact, the fashion seemed to have gone in another direction, as a reaction: a woman in a collar so high it cradled her jaw rushed past them, tiny buttons drawing a line from throat to bellybutton; a man in a startlingly bright pink and orange shirt had fabric around his wrists and his upper arms, but between them was mesh showing bare skin, untouched by magical technology; a sullen-looking child wore a gray shift that looked like a monk’s robe. The child eyed Sloane’s wrist, then scowled at her. Sloane scowled back.
Then a quick movement caught her eye—someone darting behind a pillar. She reached behind her and slapped Mox’s stomach a little too hard.
“Ouch,” he said. “What—”
Sloane raised her siphon hand and pointed it at a Flickering soldier, approaching under the shadowed awning that framed the room.
Mox stiffened and turned too, facing the other direction, so they were almost back to back.
“Sloane.”
She recognized the voice; it belonged to Edda, who had been with her and the others during the Drain. Edda stepped around the red faux-velvet furniture on Sloane’s left, her hand up and gleaming black. A spark danced across her palm, her siphon ready to launch its working.
“Hey there,” Sloane said, her gaze shifting from Edda to the other soldier, a small, spry woman with a crown of curly black hair. She wore a siphon over her eye, a half-mask of smooth chrome fitted to her eye socket and cheekbone. “You’re kind of harshing the vibe of my St. Louis vacation, Edda.”
“Sloane, he’s used some kind of working on you,” Edda said steadily. “Some kind of mind manipulation.”
All the civilians around her had already ducked behind tables and chairs, huddled together in the corners, or fled out the doors. The little girl in the monk garb was crouched near Edda’s feet, shivering.
“Nope,” Sloane said. “Next theory.”
“I don’t have any other theories,” Edda said.
“Here’s one: you’ve been lied to,” Sloane said. She was just delaying, scanning the room for emergency exits. There was a solid wall of lockers on her right, but beyond it, she remembered the red glow of the sign. If she could get Mox to blast the lockers out of the way, they could make a run for it.
“Not possible.” Edda was shaking her head. Sloane leaned back slightly to feel the press of Mox’s shoulder against hers.
“I mean,” Sloane said, “it’s always possible that you’ve been lied to.” She was nudging Mox with her elbow, the one facing the lockers. Gently, she tapped the locker door with her knuckles.
“Lieutenant, she’s—” The soldier in front of Sloane started to say something, but Mox slammed a hand against the locker bank and let out a sharp sound almost too high to process. There was a deafening crunch as the