The Lobby of Lost Things

The rain in Echo Point didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. Valerian Cross stood before the revolving brass doors of the Blackwood Hotel, the water running off the brim of his fedora in a steady, gray curtain.

Police tape fluttered in the wind, marking the perimeter where the air shimmered with the distinct, oily taste of necrotic magic. The Blackwood had been a jewel of the Art Deco era. Now, it was a tomb.

"You have two hours, Cross," the precinct captain had said, handing him the heavy iron key. "After that, the containment wards collapse and we nuke the block with heavy salt."

Val didn't check his watch. Time was a luxury for the mortal, a nuisance for him. He adjusted his coat, checking the enchanted revolver at his hip—useless against the building itself, but comforting nonetheless—and pushed through the doors.

The transition was instant. The sound of the city rain cut out, replaced by a suffocating silence. The air inside the lobby was cold enough to crack teeth. The grand chandelier lay shattered on the marble floor, its crystals pulsing with a faint, violet rhythm.

Val stepped over the debris. His skin prickled. The ambient magic here was caustic; he could feel the outer layer of his epidermis blistering and knitting back together in a cycle of microscopic agony. He ignored it. He was used to the burn.

A scuff of movement behind the reception desk made him draw his weapon.

"Come out," Val rasped. His voice was rusty from disuse.

A head popped up. Not a monster, but a woman. She wore oversized spectacles that reflected the violet light, and her hands were trembling as she clutched a copper spectrometer.

"You’re real," she whispered. "The readings said you were a construct."

Val holstered the gun. "I’m real. And you’re trespassing in a Class-5 kill zone."

"I was investigating the initial surge," she said, standing up. She was slight, pale, looking as if a stiff wind could snap her in two. "My name is Lyra. Lyra Vance. I... I got trapped when the doors sealed."

Val looked back at the entrance. The brass doors were gone, replaced by a smooth, seamless wall of obsidian.

"Well, Lyra Vance," Val said, walking toward her. "You picked a bad day for field work."

He reached for her arm to guide her, but she flinched. "Don't touch me! The static charge on your skin—it’ll short out my pacemaker."

Val froze. He looked at his hand, then at her chest. He could hear it now—the faint, mechanical whir of a device keeping her heart in rhythm. He was a tank; she was made of glass.

"Great," Val muttered. "The hotel is eating itself, and I'm stuck with a walking antique shop."

"I can hear you," Lyra snapped, adjusting her glasses. "And for your information, this hotel isn't eating itself. It’s feeding. There’s an anchor on the Penthouse floor. If we don’t break it, the quarantine fails, and whatever is in here gets out."

Val looked up at the spiraling staircase. Ten floors.

"Stay close," Val commanded, stepping in front of her. "And if anything comes at us, hide behind me. I don’t break."

"Everyone breaks, Mr. Cross," she murmured, gathering her equipment. "It’s just a matter of applied force."