The bronze bell-throat of the gargoyle shrieked across the quadrangle, a thunderous sixty-cycle blast that tore chunks of turf from the earth.
The four-ton monster was eighty yards away and closing fast. Its heavy lead talons tore craters into the flagstones with every thundering bound, throwing shards of shattered granite into the mist like shrapnel. Superheated steam hissed from the copper joints of its wings, leaving a burning white trail of vapor behind it.
“Julian!” Elena screamed from the bus doorway, her hands gripping the door frame as the coach shook on its heavy leaf springs.
“It’s going to hit the gate! You’ve got three seconds to jump aboard!”
“Let it come,” Julian said, his boots planted firm on the turnstile’s bronze floor-plate.
He didn’t run. He didn’t flinch.
In retail, when a pallet jack lost its hydraulic seal on a steep loading ramp, running away meant the falling crates crushed the temp workers unloading the truck at the bottom. You didn’t run.
You dropped the dock lock, jammed the steel chock under the wheels, and took command of the floor. A good clerk stood where the danger was thickest and made sure the inventory survived.
