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And no, the bitch hasn’t been that far from my mind. She still haunts all of Reece’s and my nightmares—and neither of us has succumbed to the mistake of assuming she’s slunk away forever—but it has been a beautiful break not surrendering every moment of idle mental time worrying, wondering, and pondering where the hell she’s gone to elude us.

Unless I see proof otherwise, that stress has no place in the here and now.

When reality is giving us a hotel lobby full of suffering people.

Deeply suffering.

The marble floor is smeared with tracked blood. People in various states of injury and shock fill the furniture. The check-in desk is stacked high with bandages, ointment tubes, clean blankets, boxes of gauze, miles of rolled tape, and electrolyte drinks. Next to the desk is a woman who was probably Florence Nightingale in another life. Her hair is twisted in a prim Victorian bun, but her face is fixed in don’t-fuck-with-me firmness. There’s a smartpad in her grasp, and she’s dutifully notating every new arrival.

What we do know is this. Someone approved the Brocade as a rudimentary crisis command center, and first responders—who are here in just as many numbers as the victims—are bringing people with minor and surface injuries.

But injuries from what?

That’s what we don’t know yet—and might not anytime soon.

If it sounded like an earthquake and felt like an earthquake, chances are it was an earthquake. Yes, an earthquake is an earthquake, but this looks like a lot of collateral damage in an area where most buildings in the area have been quake retrofitted.

And if Mother Nature’s not really to blame, then there’s only one conclusion to be gleaned right now.

Faline’s back in town.

Not just back in it but fucking with it.

Every new development of this situation feels like it. Stinks like it.

Reeks of her special brand of wickedness.

Before I can utter either the obvious question or the ones that send a massive ice storm through my nervous system, the main guest tower elevators open. Angelique and ’Dia step out, along with the party attendees who accompanied them down. As Lydia hugs her farewells to everyone in the throng, a few of them direct knowing winks at Lux. Thank God for Neeta and her fast thinking with the NDA forms. With all the blatant human suffering in here, people should be willing to forget a flying toddler. Sugar highs can be deceiving fuckery, after all—but I don’t think a single one of them has forgotten the show they just got from my son. Not one.

They can’t talk—and they won’t. So now you need to forget them and move the hell on.

Though it’s sheer hell, I accomplish just that. The curious whispers about my kid are pushed to a distant back burner as Fern Pettigrew, the Brocade’s new night manager, hurries forward. “Mr. Richards!” The freckles across her nose, which have always made her look friendly and open, seem to emphasize her glaring inexperience with a mass dilemma like this. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I—I mean they—well, they all started stumbling in, and we had no idea what to do.”

“The right thing.” I speak it at once while sweeping my stare across the lobby again. “That’s what you did, Fern,” I assure. “And what Neeta or I would have done if we were still in your shoes.”

As Fern exhales in relief, another wave of the injured stumbles past our departing guests. And, thank God, the partygoers finally have concerned stares for what’s going on around them instead of amused gawks at my son.

The only new arrivals not looking shell-shocked are the firemen, dressed in full uniforms, boots, and shield-covered helmets. One of them breaks away and sets a course toward Reece and me. As he gets closer, I’m able to discern the meaning of the gold medallion on the front of his helmet. He’s the battalion chief.

He stops and drops a respectful nod. “Mr. Richards.”

Since there are a thousand ways in which the man already knows who Reece is, neither of us interrupts his flow with so much as a blink, and I hold my breath, waiting for the fireman to continue.

“Chief…Davidson, I presume?” Reece returns the nod after reading the name on the chief’s helmet. “It’s good to meet you. Thank you for your service to our city.”

Davidson’s answering smile is more like a facial tick. “Looks like I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“Doubtful, but my building and its staff are at your service.” Reece sweeps a commanding stare across all the areas of our impromptu crisis center. “What do you need? Some ground floor guest rooms for triage? Access to the roof, fire escapes, or basement?”

Davidson props his hands on his hips, covered in thick yellow pants that have become nearly brown by dirt and soot. “Actually, none of the above.”

As the man looks up and studies Reece with half of a grimace, the ice in my veins throbs more painfully. I flick a glance toward Angie, hoping her electronic Spidey senses have told her if Faline’s really crept back into the area. My whole torso gets the popsicle treatment when Angelique winces and shrugs, giving the answer that isn’t an answer. Her mental Je ne sais pas turns my nerve endings into complete stalactites.

“None of the above?” Reece gives Davidson’s assertion a dark scowl. “I don’t understand.”

“Well.” The chief purses his lips while tracking a glance around the lobby, cranking his neutral expression into a look of undisguised fury. “What we really need is…you.”

Reece rocks back on one foot. Nods with reluctant understanding. “Oh. Now I do see.”