The light inside the Federal Grand Assembly didn’t simply fade. It was put out in a violent, bone-shaking surge of magnetic distortion that rattled the teeth of every human in the room.
The hundred-foot crystal chandeliers hummed with a harsh, clashing ringing whine before their glowing filaments burst one by one, showering the dark wood desks and velvet carpets with glittering drifts of tiny glass dust. The grand light-projected projectors suspended beneath the dome ceiling spasmed wildly, the clean amber light of Arthur’s careful data dissolving into jagged, chaotic ribbons of diseased violet and putrid green static.
“Total power failure in the main spreading ring!” an emergency engineer shouted from the rear audio balcony, his voice cracking with panic. “The backup diesel turbines have been cut at the sub-basement power bars! External hum override detected across all satellite and hard-line comms channels!”
A freezing, unnatural draft swept through the darkened tiered arena. It didn’t carry the clean, rain-washed chill of the Atlantic storm. It reeked of damp woodland humus, stale bog water. The sickly, cloying sweetness of fermented nightshade and rotting flesh.
Grimm rose to his feet in an instant. The Stygian direhound’s lips pulled back to the gum-line, exposing four inches of serrated black glass enamel as a deep, rumbling growl rang from his chest cavity. The thick hair along his spine stood rigid, a dark crest of needles bristling against the pitch darkness.
