Too much bickering and internecine warfare had eroded his confidence in the solidarity, the oneness, of the group. He had the electronic keys to their accounts. Those and the alkaloid serum were all he required of them now. Time to move on to another set of people whose cruelty and greed could be used against them. Not that he was going to destroy the Alchemists himself. There was no need.

At that moment, Lucy emerged from the entrance to the Well, crossed to the building housing the kitchens. Preach put his shot glass on the wooden railing, stood up, hands jammed into the back pockets of his dusty jeans.

“Huh,” he said.

White rose to stand beside him. “Something troubling you?”

Preach smiled. “Just admiring Lucy Orteño.”

“You know her? Luther recruited her.”

“Well, whataya know.” Preach gave a hoot so close to that of a screech owl it was startling. “Life is just chock-full of ironies.”

White leaned closer. “Come again?”

Preach watched Lucy enter the building across the sloping expanse of lawn. “St. Vincent’s dead.”

“What?”

Preach turned to White. “You haven’t heard? Well, that’s unsurprising, I suppose. Hemingway was involved.”

“What happened?”

“Shot to death. That’s all Crow showed me. That’s all I needed to know. You, too, I imagine.”

“Unless Hemingway is coming after us.”

“Hemingway knows nothing about either the Alchemists or the Well. Rest easy on that score.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” White said. “Now tell me how you know Lucy Orteño.”

“She was a guest of mine some time ago.”

White knew all about Preach’s “guests.” He said, “How was it that you let her leave?”

“An oversight,” Preach said with his eyes half-closed, “that can now be rectified.”

Chapter 48

48

Lucy was eating a hot fudge sundae with peanut brittle crumbled on top, which the chef had whipped up especially for her, when Preach entered the commissary. He slid into the chair next to her, folded his arms on the table perilously close to her.

“How you doing, Lucy?”

“How d’you think I’m doing?” She took a spoonful of the sundae, savoring the melding of sweet flavors.

“Looks to me like you’re doing all right for yourself, but I gotta tell you your patron, Luther St. Vincent, is dead.”

“Fuck him.” Lucy continued eating, never missing a beat. “You want to talk, Preach?”

“I do. You know I do.”

“Then put Crow away.”

He paused. “Okay, he’s gone.”

“Bullshit. I can still feel the shadow he casts.” Her eyes met his. “How d’you think I got away from you?”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

His eyes rolled up for a moment, and Lucy felt the shadow lift off her. She breathed deeply. “Chef makes great sundaes here. Want one?”

“I don’t eat sugar.”

“You don’t eat anything, so far as I remember.”

He smiled faintly. “That isn’t quite correct.”