The mall was empty. The levels were cleared, and the plans of the robed ones were proceeding excellently. The Scions had been incapacitated, their powers locked away. One of them number had escaped, and in their arrogance, the cultists of the Black One, Surtr, had ignored him. It was to be their gravest, and last mistake.
Guards were deployed near the exits, armed with sub-machineguns. The local police force had been subdued, the Magos of the cult assuming the form of the Chief, and mindwashing the rest of the enforcers, thus bolstering the ranks of the cult with capable warriors and a considerable arsenal of conventional firearms.
But this was not enough to stop him, and they knew.
The Band had been broken. Locked in a magical stasis, the blood-mages' vitae were fuelling a spell potent enough to drive the Scions into a deep slumber. They wanted to keep them alive. The souls of the god-children would be a delicacy to the great Titan.
Their preparations were complete. The ritual circles