“I don’t think so, Claude.” Billos held both hands out like a priest welcoming his flock. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think . . .” He snapped his fingers. Cold steel filled both palms. Twin guns in addition to the one on his hip.

A bolt of adrenaline ripped down his spine, and in that single brief moment, Billos knew that he had found his calling. He regretted having ditched the black coat and hat, because in truth he was nothing less than the magic man, Marsuvees Black himself.

The. Chosen. One.

The thoughts crashed through his mind in the space of half a heartbeat, and then he was moving, faster than lightning. He dove to his right and sent two bullets, one from each gun, while he was in the air.

They struck each mark in the forehead, two of the snakes with long guns next to Claude. The long guns first, then the handguns.

Both warriors dropped like lifeless dolls, dead by Billos.

He landed on his shoulder and was twisting back for the four throaters behind him when the first bullets smacked into the dirt near his head, spraying his cheek.

Moving like a viper, he whipped around with both guns and sent the suhupow—the bullets—boom, boom, boom, boom!

The four throaters had their guns out, firing, running full tilt toward him, zigzagging to spoil his aim, but Billos made the appropriate adjustments on the fly. The power from his hands smashed into their foreheads and knocked them clean off their feet.

Watching it, Billos knew he was a god. Slayer of throaters. Chosen by Black to kick . . .

Something tugged at his arm. He’d been hit?

But this didn’t slow Billos down. He was rolling like a log, feeling the ground around his body thump with bullets from the mob. Rolling toward the corner of the building to his right. Having eliminated the throaters, Billos had no concern of a rear attack. All he had to do was reach cover and he would win this first round.

A second tug smarted him, this one on his left leg. Then he spun past the corner, chased by the staccato beats of bullets smacking into the wood.

Billos leapt to his feet and glanced at his leg to see a flesh wound that added no concern. They’d struck him twice, but both hits were superficial. And he’d slain six of the snakes.

Thirty to go. Roughly.

“Round the back!” Claude’s voice snarled. “Split up, and make sure he doesn’t—”

Billos moved then before they could possibly expect a second attack. He jumped back into the open, firing as he cleared the corner, pulling the levers as fast as he could move his fingers. Faster than he could have imagined. The guns thundered in rapid succession, rolling bolts of lightning. Like drumsticks beating the low-hung clouds.