Charlie knelt. “We’ve got to get him before he fires that thing.” From her backpack she removed the weapon she had used on the stile, but this time, she dropped a wasp-like missile down its throat. She settled it in her grip, peered through the scope, and squeezed the trigger. The missile hissed through a narrow gap in the trees, struck the porch’s underpinning, blew the entire structure to smithereens.

White was thrown off his feet, tumbling through the air. He fell against the shattered balustrade of what had once been the stairs. Preach turned, watching the action unfolding in front of him. For the moment, Lucy was forgotten.

White, clearly stunned, shook his head as if to clear it. Then he rose, trained his altered shotgun at the trees where Whitman and Charlie were hiding.

“Incoming!” Whitman said, just before the blast set the trees around them aflame.

They withdrew, moving quickly to the right of the area of burning trees. White was striding toward them, blood streaming down one side of his face, his clothes blackened and singed. He was about to fire the second barrel into the trees when Billy, the lone Mobius Project subject left alive, emerged from the Well. With hollowed-out eyes, he looked first to Preach, and it was clear, at least to Whitman, that Preach was controlling him. The man nodded, then sprinted toward White with alarming speed.

White became aware of him just in time. He whirled on his heel, fired the second barrel directly into the human missile’s chest. The man’s torso burst into flame. He took a step backward, then staggered forward, kept coming even while he was burning alive. Reversing the shotgun, White began to club him over the head, again and again, until Whitman, breaking cover, shot White dead.

Billy turned his dead eyes on Whitman. He appeared totally unconcerned that his body was being consumed by flames. Kneeling, Whitman shot him in the throat. The upward trajectory of the bullet shattered the spinal column at the base of the man’s neck, instantly severing the preternatural connection Preach had created. The man’s eyes turned white as he collapsed. Instants later, the flames consumed him completely.

Whitman turned his attention to Preach then. Behind him, much to Whitman’s surprise and consternation, stood a beautiful young woman whose large, dark eyes and aggressive nose he recognized from the photo Flix had shown him in the hospital: Lucy Orteño. Briefly, he wondered what the hell she was doing here at the Well. He was about to voice his confusion to Charlie, but she was off and running toward a small man who had avoided injury in the blast by his proximity to the doorway. It was Trey Hartwell, an adder among the serpents, and Whitman shouted to warn her. Hartwell appeared harmless, but he was probably the most dangerous of the Alchemists. He was certainly the most brilliantly devious.