Mac rammed the revolving brass doors of the Grand Halcyon Hotel with his steel shoulder.
The heavy glass panels spun with a screech of rusted bearings. Mac, Julian, and Clara spilled into the vast, cavernous lobby of District 3’s oldest luxury hotel.
The air inside smelled of wet carpet, lavender floor wax, and cold fear.
Under the towering crystal chandeliers, six hundred working-class tenement families were trapped on the sweeping marble grand staircase. Mothers sat on the crimson-carpeted steps, clutching their infants against their winter coats. Men in wool flat caps and grease-stained mill jackets formed a human wall across the landing, holding broom handles, iron tire irons, and brass umbrella stands.
At the base of the stairs stood twelve tall figures in immaculate black-and-gold bellhop uniforms.
They were the Bellman Auditors.
Their uniforms were tailored from heavy black velvet, with double rows of polished brass buttons that caught the dim light. Where their heads should have been, they wore brass birdcage helmets lined with velvet padding.
Each Bellman pushed a heavy four-wheeled brass luggage cart.
