If the katana hadn't fallen from Winnipeg's hand in flight, it must be near the atrium entrance. But the entire area was awash in a puddle of glutinous oil, from which a few frozen imps extended motionless arms like tar pit dinosaurs. She lingered a moment to search the pool in more detail and the worm came crashing at her, slamming a body segment against her. She flew forward, hit a cabinet or something, and skidded to a halt in a bed of jagged stones, her jacket and her skin a crisscrossing tableau of scrapes and gashes.

She pulled herself up, disoriented. The ceiling and floor and walls and tunnels swirled around her. Out of the visual melange emerged the worm, fangs bared and ready to devour.

(Chapter 6)