After another shuddering breath, Frost took tight hold of her cane and stepped inside from the balcony. She led the way into the library. One wall held display cases of objects of unusual industrial design. Frost hurried up to the adjacent wall and touched the plate of a light switch, which opened to reveal a large brass drawer pull, fastened vertically.
“You do it,” Frost said, stepping aside. “It takes strength I no longer have.”
Constance grasped the handle and pulled. With a creak, a large section of the wall swung away on hidden hinges. Beyond she could see a row of narrow metal doors, all closed, spaced perhaps four feet apart, marked with labels.
Frost pointed with her cane. “Third door on the left.”
Constance opened the door and turned on the light. Arranged on shelves she saw a veritable museum of weaponry. Along the left wall were derringers, dueling pistols, ancient six-guns, and — ironically — a Les Baer 1911 Heavyweight. And on the wall to her right were two long guns, including an ancient Henry .44 rimfire lever-action. Beside these rifles was an automatic weapon with a drum magazine and — beneath it — a worn wooden case with black stenciling on one end.
“I helped bring that thing to life,” Frost said. “I have a duty to destroy it.”
“What about ammunition?”
She pointed to the weapon with a drum magazine, resting on two rubber-covered hooks. “This Thompson tommy gun has a full magazine.” She glanced back at Constance. “I suppose you’ve never handled a machine gun?”
“Not one that small.”
Frost began to laugh, then faltered when Constance did not smile.
“And that?” Constance pointed to the wooden crate.
“A recoilless M1 ‘stovepipe’ bazooka.”
Removing the wooden lid and flinging away a covering of straw, Constance saw a metal tube, about the length of a bassoon but with a wider mouth, painted in camouflage. A handgrip was attached to its belly. Nestled against it were shells with fins. Constance lifted it out.
“No,” Frost said. “That one is suicide. Those old solid-propellant rockets become unstable over time. The ones in that crate are only ten years younger than I am.”
“Very well.” Putting it back, Constance picked up the tommy gun and swiftly examined it. There were two lollipop-style toggle switches set just above the left side of the wooden grip. Constance swiveled the rear switch from “safe” to “fire” and the front switch from “single” to “full.” Then she reached for the charging handle on the right side of the receiver and, with a firm yank, pulled it all the way back.
“I guess you weren’t kidding,” Frost said.
At that moment, the lights flickered, then went out.
Carrying the gun, Constance ran out of the storage vault, through the library, and to the balcony. It was brighter outside, the city painted with flames from a dozen fires. She paused, shocked anew at the sight of the creature and the destruction and death it was wreaking. It was closer than where she’d first seen it, gliding over the park, approaching the hotel.
She knew the drum magazine carried a hundred rounds, which seemed adequate to bring down the creature. It was not an accurate weapon, better at spraying bullets at close range than hitting anything distant.
She waited. The monster was making long, low circles over the city, dipping down and killing as it went — getting closer to her with each turn. Now and then, she could see the impact of bullets against it; they dimpled the chitinous exterior, and occasionally penetrated it, but none appeared to do serious damage.
She raised the weapon, brought the notch and post of the sights into alignment, and watched it, waiting. It approached and banked, exposing its underbelly — and she fired a burst. The submachine gun bucked in her hands, the rounds rattling around inside the drum. She saw her fire was dropping too early and she corrected. With her second burst, she saw shimmering gouts of blue stitching their way along the thing’s underbelly, and she knew she’d connected.
With an unearthly screech the creature veered around and came arrowing straight for her, its leathery wings cutting through the air. As it approached, she stood her ground, firing short bursts. Although most of the rounds hit home, and they had clearly done some damage, their main effect seemed to be enraging it further.
Still it came on, screeching, directly at her. Constance held her ground, firing. At that moment she heard a whoosh and a tongue of smoke like a tracer bullet spiraled toward the creature, striking one wing with a massive explosion, spraying phosphorescent flesh and blood. The creature squealed and dove away.
Frost was standing at the other end of the balcony, bazooka on her shoulder, its business end resting on the parapet.
“I thought you said that was too dangerous to use,” Constance called out.
“Less dangerous than that hell-spawn,” Frost replied.
It was rising up into view again, shrieking its desire for revenge, compound eyes shining like ghastly reflectors. There was now a small, ragged tear in one wing, caused perhaps by the bazooka. Constance aimed, let off the final burst from her magazine.
And then, suddenly, Constance was knocked down by an explosion, the Thompson skittering away and off the edge of the balcony. She sat up, her ears ringing, as a roiling cloud of smoke rose up, revealing Frost, lying crumpled near blown-out French doors. The bazooka lay across her, its tube petaled and afire.
It was all too obvious what had happened.
The beast had veered off. Constance took the opportunity and rushed over, scooped up Frost, carried her inside, and placed her on a sofa. The old woman’s crimson Japanese nightgown was now soaked with blood. There came a shuddering crash from outside as the creature rammed the building, all the windows shattering and throwing glass across the carpets, the entire structure shaking.
At the noise, Frost’s eyes fluttered open. They came into focus, swiveled toward Constance. And then the mortally wounded woman raised one arm and — with a faint crook of the index finger — beckoned her nearer.
The creature rammed the building a second time, plaster falling and cracks running across the walls and ceiling. A chandelier fell with a crash.
Constance knelt. The woman gripped her forearm with surprising strength, staring into her eyes. Her lips moved, but no sound came.
“How,” Constance asked, “can we kill it? It seems almost impervious.”
“It must be... super...”
“What?”
“Superposition,” she gasped. “It... exists in both worlds. But it can be harmed... far more easily in its own.”
The old woman’s hand went limp and slid off hers, falling to the floor.
Constance heard the creature’s scream of rage and saw it heading once again for the balcony. She sprinted for the door as another crash sounded, this one massive, apocalyptic: the beast was beating its wings against the building, clawing at it, shaking it to its foundations. Constance flung open the door to the staircase and fled down it as another blow came; there was a crackle of splintering wood and grinding brick; and then, with a roar of collapse, everything came down around her and there was only darkness.
68
Cursing, Coldmoon followed Pendergast up the outside pitch of the steeple, grasping one rung after another. He wasn’t normally afraid of heights, but the ladder was badly corroded and he could feel it shifting and groaning under their combined weight. Everything looked so tiny below: the people like ants, their screams faraway... except here, at eye level, the monster itself was enormous, terrifying: flapping and gliding, its bug eyes rotating, that horrible mouth tube sucking in and out. As it passed by, it left in its wake a foul reek of burnt rubber, its talons dripping with gore and tattered clothing.