“Why have you summoned me?” But of course he knew. He had created the knowing. Acceleration was the name of the game now. Lindstrom had to die in order for Trey Hartwell to use his book, the Peranomicon, to “summon” Preach. That was a joke in and of itself. Preach had created the book. What fun it had been to write it with a Persian scholar of a contact’s acquaintance! He had discovered that ancient shamanism around the world was remarkably similar, so much so that he now believed the underlying principles must have originated in one place, with one people. Not the Old Ones, of course, but perhaps folk like them.

After they had finished, he had a talented forger in his employ create the cuneiform pages as an ancient tome. He had shipped it overseas. He had made painstakingly sure Hartwell believed in the book’s ethos, rites, and rituals. It served his purpose to have the Alchemists believe that he was under their control instead of the other way around. It made manipulating them so much easier.

“The Mobius Project.”

“Do tell.” Preach made a face. Sometimes knowing everything could be a bore. “You have a—what do you call him—a scientific researcher working on that.”

“He’s dead.”

“My condolences.” Preach shrugged. “But life must continue.”

“The man discovered an alkaloid distilled from Papaver laciniatum. Now he’s dead, we want you to take over creating the soldiers.”

Preach threw a sideways glance in White’s direction. “I’m at your service, Albin, always have been.”

White pushed open the door to the Well, and they went through into the dim, noxious interior. “We’re in a bind. The serum works, but has … undesirable side effects.” He led Preach around another of a seemingly endless number of corners. “Ah, here we are.”

He unlocked an iron door, and they stepped into one of the Well’s vertiginous rooms, the curving walls seeming about to cave in from the top.

“You really do have a fucked-up sense of humor, Albin.”

“What sense of humor I once had was burned out of me long ago.” White pointed to a man kneeling on the floor. He was hooded and his wrists were bound at the small of his back. “We kept this one for you. He’s already been injected with Lindstrom’s serum, but it’s too early for any side effects to be presenting.”

“I wouldn’t worry about side effects now.” Preach crossed to where the man knelt, took out a switchblade, and cut through the plastic that bound his wrists. Then he helped the man to his feet, drew off his hood. The man blinked, trembling from hours in the same agonizing position.

“Hello, my friend. My name is Preach. What’s yours?”

“Billy.”

Preach smiled somewhat sadly. “What did this sorry excuse for a human being do to you, Billy?”

“Some of them,” White said, “have tried to claw their faces off.”