The night around us was still and quiet, but the emptiness of the park was concerning in and of itself. The park naturally got less populated at night, but this was New York. There were always people around. Yet we hadn’t seen a single person on our walk in. Normally you’d run across homeless people searching for a place to spend the night, or young couples taking a shortcut that felt romantic. There weren’t even any would-be muggers out, trolling through the park looking for an easy target.
No one was here.
It was as if something about the park tonight was telling people, in no uncertain terms, Stay away.
I hated to admit it, but as we’d crossed the threshold on our way in, that same thought had passed my mind. You don’t want to go in there. These vamps had probably used some of the same magic that kept people out of the Council offices to keep mortals out of the park and away from interfering.
Honestly, I didn’t. There wasn’t a lot to be gained by squaring off against a demon cult and the probable appearance of a Prince of Hell.
This was a bad idea top to bottom, and one likely to end with some folks getting dead. But it was also entirely unavoidable. I couldn’t turn around and go home. I couldn’t make this someone else’s problem.
If we left, Sig would die, and Hell on Earth would be unleashed.
There was no plan B.
Wasn’t my job great?
Which was precisely why we found ourselves alone and waiting in the cold night air, hoping the Oracle had seen things right and we weren’t wasting our time on a hunch.
Though hunches weren’t really Calliope’s thing. And she had showed me this field clear as day. I had no doubt that this was the right place. It felt like Harry and I were back in that car, waiting for the cult to appear, and I knew the moment they showed up shit would hit the fan really quick.
When the first hooded figure showed up, I actually let out a sigh of relief.
The suspense was over. It was time for the rumble to go down.
“Now?” Shane asked.
I shook my head and lifted a finger to my lips to ask for silence.
These guys probably knew we’d be coming to stop them. I hadn’t been subtle or silent about my search for Sig, and in my bumbling super-sleuth manner, I had drawn plenty of attention to myself in this short trip back to the city. Davos might be locked up in a cell somewhere, but he still had reach, as evidenced by the thugs who had tried to grab me off the street only earlier that day.
Two more cloaked figures emerged.
Then two more.
Soon it seemed like cloaked figures were coming out from every part of the woods around the lawn. The original circle in L.A. had only needed six people to open it. Did they need more because of the size of this one, or had Harry lied when he told me the first one would only need six? A figure came out only fifty feet down the tree line from us, and it felt like a miracle that we’d chosen a place they hadn’t seen.
Miracles, though, were so often just plain dumb luck.
Whether luck or divine intervention, we were going to need one tonight, because by the time people stopped trickling out of the woods, there were about twenty-five of them in a circle almost two hundred feet wide.
Simultaneously, they pulled canisters from their robes and removed the caps. As they shook the containers, I realized they were holding spray paint. In a practiced movement, they worked in an arranged dance. Half the group moved in a slow, precise circle, while five made a smaller inner circle, and six or seven others began to create lines and symbols. One person in the middle began to trace out what I immediately knew was a pentagram, each of its lines at least fifteen feet long.
This was the biggest motherfucking demon gate I had seen in my whole life.
Now, granted, I hadn’t seen a lot of portals to Hell, but this was huge. They were using an enormous amount of the open space on the lawn, and the way they worked was so meticulous it had to have been choreographed like a dance routine.
These guys meant serious business.
Not that I figured they were in a demon cult on a whim, but it was still alarming to see how robotically they moved on the lawn, drawing out the lines. No one bumped into each other, no one outpaced anyone else. It was like watching a finely tuned clock run.
“What are they doing?” Holden asked.
“Drawing the circle to mark the gate,” Harry explained.
“Don’t they usually use charcoal?” I asked.
Harry tapped the side of his head as if saying it was a good question. “Chalkboard paint. It has, surprisingly, really similar characteristics. Saves groups like this a ton of money and keeps their hands relatively clean in the process.”