Just outside Blys’s gates, Max and Scathach stood panting amid their fallen adversaries. Max’s senses were returning, coming into focus as his battle fury dimmed. Many of the nearest enemies had fallen; the others were falling back, fleeing in apparent terror from something behind him. The earth was shaking, groaning with tremors that toppled wains, staggered the living, and bounced the dead like broken mannequins. Max turned as a vast shadow fell over the river and bridges. Its gloom stretched across the battlefield, climbing the massive walls as the Fomorian approached. And all who felt that shadow—every soldier and spirit—fled before it.

Max and Scathach were no exception.

They scattered with the rest, thousands parting in a mad dash to escape the giant’s path before they were crushed. As he backed away, Max remembered the demons he’d seen on the giant’s beaches, those lifeless husks who thought they’d invade his isle. He understood the terror stamped upon their frozen features.

The giant did not even appear to notice the tiny beings scattering before him, fleeing for the mountains or over the bridges. Hundreds of feet he stood, so huge that he could almost peer over the walls and seize the dreadnoughts that had just withdrawn from the gates. His form was nearly solid now, his legs trailing billows of mist and vapor as he strode across the river and closed upon the city gates. Arrows and bullets peppered his flesh, mortars burst before his eyes, but the Fomorian did not slow or falter. He merely advanced, his eyes white-rimmed with rage as he chanted ancient spells of earth and iron, blood and breaking.

Max did not know what had triggered the giant’s appearance. Whether he had chosen to answer their plea, exact revenge against Prusias, or even to make up for the unkind words he’d said about David. Whatever the reason, the Fomorian was here and the game had changed.

Rearing back, the giant smashed his maul against the great gates as a man might take a sledgehammer to a door. The impact sent Max and Scathach flying, tumbling in a heap to rest by a fallen shedu. Scathach was yelling to him, but Max could not hear her. He could not hear anything but a dull, painful ringing. Glancing up, he saw that the gates were dented and smoking. Glowering, the Fomorian drew back his maul and prepared to strike another blow. Max covered his ears.

When the giant’s hammer fell, great cracks and fissures appeared in the surrounding stonework. Again and again, the Fomorian struck the gates and walls, hammering them, punishing them, tearing away huge chunks of masonry with his bare hands. That the gates would fall was no longer in question; the Fomorian seemed more intent on reaching the dreadnoughts.

He would soon have that chance. Moments later, the gates and much of the surrounding wall gave way. They crashed inward, a section some fifty yards wide, as massive clouds of dust and grit mingled with the swirling snow.

Blys was breached.

With a roar, the giant charged through the gap, disappearing behind the veil of fire and smoke to overtake the dreadnoughts and drive them to the side, away from the gates. Max glimpsed a dreadnought’s tentacle, saw the glint of the Fomorian’s maul rise up and descend with terrifying force. It was like witnessing a battle from another age, an age where old gods and monsters clashed for supremacy. But Max could not stop to watch; Blys was breached and there was no time to lose. He had to rally every Rowan and Raszna soldier who had the strength and will to follow.

Gripping the gae bolga, he pushed himself up. Prusias’s infantry were still in shock from the giant’s appearance. Many were fleeing over bridges or retreating en masse toward the mountains from which they had emerged. Those that remained resumed their heated fighting with Rowan and Raszna along the outer wall. Max had to put an end to these skirmishes; they were mere distractions from the main chance.

Seizing the reins of a riderless horse, Max swung himself into the saddle and cantered up and down the battlefield, shouting at all within earshot to follow him. Scathach did the same, shouting at all within earshot to get inside the city. Max was shining once again, burning as bright as a fallen star. And those who beheld him did not doubt or question, quibble or pause—they found heart and strength and purpose. They rallied by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, to answer his call.

Through the breach, through the smoke and dust and fire they raced: humans and vyes, centaurs and Cheshirewulfs, aged Mystics and teenaged refugees. They poured into Blys, giving the embattled Fomorian and dreadnoughts a wide berth. Max and Scathach rode at the fore with several Raszna war chiefs. Beneath great stone arches they stampeded, sweeping past abandoned markets and bazaars, crossing the burning slums and ghettos as they made for the city’s upper tiers and the districts reserved for Blys’s elite. They needed to make a push for the palace.

There were no gargoyles to hinder them, no troop formations or organized defenses as they ascended the city. But the streets were littered with the bodies of Prusias’s troops, dead workers, and the remains of shattered barricades. Max could see the mob ahead. Cooper had done his job; they had passed into Tiers 2 and 3 by the tens of thousands. Ahead was a sea of teeming, raging humans and vyes, pulling down statues and setting fire to anything that would burn in the vast square whose three gates sealed off the city’s upper tiers reserved for nobility.

Coming to a halt, Max turned and told Scathach and the war chiefs to keep Rowan’s forces and the Raszna back. The mob was in a destructive frenzy and liable to attack any group they saw. Max rode toward them alone.

Thousands turned as Max approached, his aura visible even to the humans. They gazed upon him as the Raszna had done, with a mixture of fear and awe that drove them into obedient silence. Men and women, vyes and goblins began to bow, to kneel and prostrate themselves on the frozen cobbles.

“Get up,” Max shouted. “This is your day, and it’s not finished. The fighting will be harder near the palace. Strike down any who resist. Give quarter to those who surrender.”

“Why?” cried a teenaged girl, her face badly singed. “They’d never give it to us!”

“Which is why you’re better than them,” Max answered. “You’re not animals. You’re not slaves. You’re not thieves or vandals. You’re free people with hearts and souls and honor.” He raised the gae bolga in a grim salute. “Sol Invictus.”

Their roar shook the square. “Sol Invictus!”

The workers closed behind Max as he rode toward the central and largest gate. Cooper had hoped to get these open as well, but Max suspected the Workshop’s people had by now shut down or incapacitated the control room he, Hazel, and Toby had infiltrated.

Now that Max was here, it would not matter. The doors were covered with gold leaf and elaborately engraved, but beneath this ornamentation was thick steel plating. The gae bolga sank through it without the slightest quiver or resistance. The blade might have been cutting foam. When he’d carved out the contours of an opening some twenty feet wide, Max moved aside so the workers could push against it. A cheer went up as the door crashed inward. Hundreds upon hundreds started rushing through, dashing through the gap to renew their long, laborious ascent toward the palace.

Max knew the way would not be easy. These districts were home to the king’s nobles, to greater demons with wealth and status, private security and many servants. David had assured Max and the Raszna that he would take steps to minimize resistance once Rowan’s forces reached the upper tiers, but he hadn’t revealed what form this help would take. But Max knew better than to doubt his friend. If David said he had a plan, then a plan he had.

Max’s plan was to create more openings. The one was a start, but it would take too long for everyone to funnel through it. Speed was of the essence and thus Max guided his mount against the tide of streaming workers, pushing through them so he could carve openings through the other two gates. He had just finished the third when he heard a woman’s voice, hoarse and panicked, yelling his name.

Madam Petra stood twenty feet behind him. Scathach had the smuggler gripped firmly by the hair, her poignard at her throat.

“Please!” cried Madam Petra, struggling in vain. “I must speak with you!”

The smuggler’s appearance was almost absurd—rich clothes and furs muddied and tattered. She wore one diamond earring, but the other had been ripped from an ear that had bled onto her white stole. Her face was almost as pale as she stamped with a frantic desperation.

“Please!” she cried. “You must help me!”

Max looked past her as a shuddering crash sounded far below where the Fomorian was battling the dreadnoughts. All of Blys was a battleground. He didn’t have time for a person who had profited when Rowan was attacked and who had abandoned it for a life of luxury among the demons. She’d made her bed. He gestured for Scathach to turn her loose. “Let her go. She can’t hurt us.”

Scathach disagreed. “She could be working with the Atropos. We know they’re close.”

While it was true a Raszna outrider had spied the clones eight days ago, Max could not worry about the Atropos in the midst of a battle. Still, Madam Petra’s eyes had widened at hearing the name.

“I know about the Atropos!” she blurted. “I know where Prusias is! I … I can help you, but only if you help me!”

Only if you help me was practically the woman’s mantra. Still, Madam Petra did have a talent for acquiring useful information. Max moved away from the opened gate, away from the inrushing tide of workers and soldiers, so that he and Scathach could hear what the smuggler had to say. Scathach dragged the woman over, her blade still pressed to her neck.

“You have ten seconds,” said Max. “Prusias first. Where is he?”

“I won’t tell you,” gasped Madam Petra. “Not unless you promise to help me.”

Max shook his head. “Tell me what you know or go on your way. I’m not bargaining with you.”

Tears shone in the smuggler’s eyes. “B-but you must!”

“Five seconds.”

Madam Petra bit her lip, her eyes darting here and there as her mind cast about for angles and opportunities. Max snapped his fingers beneath her nose.

“At Piter’s Folly, you said you liked nothing better than a desperate seller,” he reminded her. “You’re the desperate seller, Petra, and you’re running out of time. What do you know?”

“The Atropos are close!” she hissed. “The assassins have been tracking you since you were at Enlyll. I heard their representative talking with Prusias.”

He shrugged. This wasn’t news.

“What else? Where’s Prusias?”

“Not in the palace.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Max impatiently.

“A Prusias is in the great hall, but not the Prusias. I saw the king slip away with Mr. Bonn and some malakhim. An imposter is ordering the palace’s defense.”

“Where did he go?”

She gave a knowing smile. “Into his private elevator. An elevator that leads to the underground trains.”

“He’s fleeing to the Workshop?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Max fell silent, weighing Petra’s information. He was dimly aware that fires were burning now in the city above them, wild infernos spitting gouts of black smoke into the crimson evening. Far below, Blys’s lower districts were almost wholly obscured in a flickering fog of devastation. Everywhere was noise and confusion, torrents of Rowan and Raszna fighters streaming through the gates. A cry sounded behind them. Max turned to see a pair of leaping Cheshirewulfs drag a fleeing oni from his charger. The demon landed heavily on his back, the animals worrying at his throat.

What to do with Petra’s information? The woman could be lying, of course. There was nothing she wouldn’t say or do if it suited her. Still, unless Max was badly mistaken, her desperation was genuine. And if the king really had fled, they needed to hunt him down. Getting their hands on Prusias—whether dead or alive—was crucial to declaring victory. Max turned to Scathach.

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s playing a game,” said Scathach coolly. “She wants something and needs you to get it for her. Perhaps it’s something to do with that bruise around her neck. Where’s Max’s torque, Madam Petra? Did someone ‘borrow’ it?”

The smuggler scowled. “Prusias took it—stole it like a common thief! I hope it chokes him. But that’s not what I want. I just want my daughter. I want Katarina!”

“Where is she?” Max asked.

“The Workshop! Prusias keeps children hostage to ensure their parents’ cooperation. Take me there! Our roads lie together!”

Max frowned. If he and Scathach made for the Workshop, they would leave the battle at a pivotal moment. Madam Petra was untrustworthy and had her own agenda. The entire scenario could be a trap, a wild-goose chase, or simply a mother’s frantic scheme to enlist powerful allies. Even if Petra was speaking the truth, there was no guarantee Prusias would be at the Workshop. After all, the smuggler had only seen the king slip onto an elevator. The rest was speculation. He had to speak with David.

Two days earlier, David Menlo had given the Rowan and Raszna commanders small mirrors that could be used to communicate with his pavilion. They were to be used only in true emergencies, a point David had stressed repeatedly. While he would not be participating directly in the fighting, Rowan’s Director would be consumed—his word—with his own initiatives. Unless the issue was of major strategic importance, David Menlo was not to be disturbed. Max thought this qualified.

Ducking into an empty doorway, Max produced the mirror, clicked open its clasp, and spoke the password. The mirror clouded, its surface swimming with a pearly vapors until Max found himself staring at Cynthia Gilley’s round, blinking face.

“Max!” she exclaimed. “What do you need?” Cynthia’s voice was anxious but hushed, as though she didn’t want to disturb nearby proceedings.

“To speak with David.”

“He’s very busy. Is it urgent?”

“Yes.”

Setting down the mirror, Cynthia disappeared from view. She’d left the mirror propped up, however, allowing a glimpse inside the pavilion. Max caught his breath.

The tent was filled with demons.

Squinting, Max held the mirror close. He couldn’t make out any summoning circles, but the demons appeared to be imprisoned, trapped within shimmering columns of energy. Among them, Max recognized some from Prusias’s inner court, including several influential braymas. This must have been what David meant by minimizing resistance in the upper tiers—he was summoning away its most powerful residents! Toward the back, he spied someone walking among them—a woman, very tall and trailing a red gown. She turned so that Max beheld her profile.

Lilith!

He had not seen the demoness during any of the siege planning. She must have held talks with David in secret. Now it appeared the Queen of Zenuvia was helping the Director to summon these enemies and keep them captive throughout the siege. Someone picked up the other mirror. The Director’s pale, preoccupied face came into view. “Yes?”

Max relayed Madam Petra’s information. He did not go into his fears or misgivings—David would already know the risks. The Director listened intently, his expression distant and thoughtful. Once Max was finished, David excused himself for several moments. When he returned, he was with Peter Varga, a member of the Red Branch whose spectral eye granted a hazy, sporadic prescience.

“Max,” said David. “Your report echoes impressions that Agent Varga’s been getting. It’s worth pursuing. Where are you in the city?”

“Felljinn’s Square, by the gates to Tier Four.”

David nodded. “Go down to the third tier. In the northeast corner, you’ll find stairs that lead down to the station. Cooper’s already near that location. Look for him and Hazel on the platforms. Peter will meet you there. Your objective is to find and capture Prusias.”

Max’s disappointment must have been readily transparent. “Capture,” David repeated. “We need him alive, Max. I can’t explain right now, but trust me.”

“Understood.”

“Sol Invictus.”

Max replied in kind before returning to Scathach and Petra. Pocketing the mirror, he glanced down at the anxious smuggler.

“It’s your lucky day, Petra. Don’t fall behind.”

They made for the third tier, winding down the broad avenues and switchbacks. Max dimmed his aura entirely as they hurried past burning buildings where Raszna and Rowan soldiers were busy rounding up or subduing those who had tried to hide or resist. These appeared to be in the minority; most of Blys’s residents were either kneeling in surrender or busy fleeing by whatever exit or means they could. No one attacked or challenged the running trio, not even the ogres and ettins that were busily looting shops. From the worker districts below, there was a deafening roar. Peering down into the haze, Max saw a dreadnought toppling, its tentacles wrapped tightly about the Fomorian’s neck. Max wanted to go to the giant, to help him battle the dreadnoughts, but that wouldn’t get them any closer to Prusias.

“There it is!” Scathach cried. She pointed to a vast, columned portico built into the dark mountainside. Despite the smoke pouring from its entrance, dozens of people were rushing in. Most wore the gray uniforms of Workshop personnel.

To the station they ran, dashing up its broad steps and then into a hazy chaos of warm steam, acrid smoke, and a press of human and goblin bodies pushing and jostling in a mad race down to the trains. Some squeezed onto pod tubes while others raced down escalators and stairwells, stepping over or trampling those who had fallen.

Things were even more frenzied on the platforms. There were twelve tracks but only three trains, and these were already brimming with passengers desperate to be under way. Fistfights were breaking out as more and more people tried to squeeze and crowd aboard the trains, which connected the capital to the Workshop and to other major cities throughout the kingdom. Max heard gunshots, saw one of the trains lurch in an abortive attempt to depart.

Amid all the chaos, Cooper was strangely conspicuous. The Agent slipped effortlessly through the crowd of engineers, expending little energy and no emotion. Catching sight of Max, he gestured toward the farthest platform, a platform whose tracks were empty. Max bulled a path down the steps. In characteristic fashion, Cooper didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Any sign of Peter?” he asked, nodding to Scathach and sparing Petra only a passing glance as he continued to scan the stairways.

“No,” said Max. “David just said he’s on his way.”

With a frown, Cooper glanced down at a Workshop device he held in a bandaged hand. There was another bandage about his neck, dark with clotted blood.

“You’re hurt,” said Max.

The man waved off his concern. “I’m fine, mate. Lucky shot. Missed the artery. Peter better hurry, though. Our train’s ready.”

“What train?”

Cooper hooked a thumb at the empty track behind them. “The one this mob can’t see. We commandeered it before it could leave. Hazel and Toby are already aboard. She’s got the conductor bewitched, and he’s keeping the train hidden. Who’s the spare?”

“This is Petra Kosa,” said Max. “She’s—”

“I know that name,” Cooper muttered. He fixed the smuggler with an icy stare. “You’re Prusias’s concubine.” There was no accusation in the Agent’s tone. William Cooper had done enough terrible things in his life that he wasn’t much interested in judgment. He was interested in facts. Madam Petra reddened.

“I’m no such thing!”

Cooper shook his head. “You’re lying. Don’t ever lie to me. I’ll know it before you do. You’re His Majesty’s concubine. You leading us into a trap?”

Tears pooled in the smuggler’s eyes. “No traps,” she said, looking away. “No schemes. I just want my daughter.”

Cooper appeared unmoved. His attention flicked away from the smuggler as one of the trains departed. Steam shot from its exhaust valves and its horn blared as it accelerated smoothly down the tracks. Goblins and even some engineers clambered down the platform and ran after it, frantically trying to catch hold of something, anything before the train disappeared into a tunnel.

“There he is,” said Cooper, nodding as Peter Varga’s unmistakable face appeared at the top of the staircase. The Agent hobbled swiftly down the steps. People moved abruptly out of his path, as though thrust aside by invisible hands.

“I take it that’s ours,” Varga panted, nodding at the invisible train behind them. Max wondered if the Agent’s ghostly, prescient eye could see through illusions.

Cooper nodded. “Hazel’s already aboard. Come on.”

As they hurried down the platform, the sleek, glossy white train seemed to materialize. Its illuminated blue windows revealed cars packed tight with Workshop personnel staring anxiously at the crowds mobbing the other trains. Many were agitated, shouting ahead at the driver, anxious to be away before their own train was swarmed.

Frightened eyes fell on Max and his companions as they boarded the last car. Cooper led the way, moving people aside as they pushed their way forward. No one checked him or protested. They were met with little more than sullen stares as they moved to the driver’s compartment. Cooper smacked its metal door.

“It’s me.”

There was a sound of mechanized bolts unlocking. The door opened outward to reveal Hazel Cooper, standing aside so they could slip within the driver’s cab. Max entered last. As he squeezed into the compartment, he noticed one unconscious engineer slumped against the wall while the driver was awake but clearly under a spell. The man sat upright, his hands resting on a throttle and a blinking instrument panel of chrome and glass as though awaiting instructions. While his posture was alert and attentive, the face Max saw reflected in the windshield was slack and vacant. The cab was cool and humming quietly, its interior bathed in blue light from the instrument panel. Reaching past Max, Cooper pulled the door shut.

“Let’s go.”

Leaning over the driver, Hazel spoke to him in a soothing voice. With an unblinking nod, the man pushed the throttle. The train began to move, gliding smoothly over magnetic rails. Looking through a side window, Max saw hordes of people racing after them. The illusion must have been dispelled when they started moving.

But the mob would not catch this train. It was accelerating safely and smoothly into a bright tunnel that would bring it to the Workshop. Beside Max, Madam Petra exhaled and shivered, wiping soot and sweat from her brow. Her auburn hair hung dank and limp about a beautiful face now lined with worry.

“What is she doing here?” demanded Toby from where he stood upon the co-driver’s dashboard in a finch’s guise. The bird eyed Madam Petra with sharp disapproval.

“Looking for Katarina,” Max replied, sheathing the gae bolga’s blade and leaning the spear against a bulwark. “She’s just along for the ride. She’s got nothing to do with our mission.”

“And, er, what is our mission?” inquired the smee. “I hope it involves a proper meal. I’m fairly famished. What’s on the menu?”

“A Great Red Dragon,” said Scathach, taking a drink from the canteen of water Cooper was passing around.

“Prusias?” The smee shivered. “Heavens!”

Cooper nodded. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got six hundred miles or about two hours until we reach the Workshop. Rest up while you can. Once we’re there, we’ve got one objective: to take Prusias alive.”

“Why alive?” asked Scathach.

“I don’t know,” Cooper replied. “But the Director says it’s crucial. Perhaps Peter can enlighten us. I’m guessing that’s why he’s here.”

Agent Varga eased gingerly into the empty seat beside the driver. He’d only recently regained the ability to walk, much less scramble through a chaotic train terminal. Swearing softly in Hungarian, he massaged his knee.

“I don’t know why David wants him alive. My task is to recover my soul. Mine and many others.”

When Astaroth had given Prusias his kingdom, the latter offered lands and titles to mehrùn in exchange for their souls. A surprising number took the demon up on his offer—sacrificing the next life for land and luxury in this one. When a young Connor Lynch sought to take the demon up on his offer, Peter Varga substituted his own soul for Connor’s.

“Does Prusias have many?” asked Scathach.

The prescient nodded. “My soul is but one of thousands in the demon’s keeping. Each is locked within a jewel, imprisoned until its human dies and it can be devoured. Wherever Prusias has fled, these jewels will be close, for his kind values souls above all else—they fuel koukerros. The Director has tasked me with recovering them. He hopes my own stake in the matter will trigger visions of the demon’s location.”

“Anything so far?” asked Hazel.

Peter gave a wan smile. “I’m having visions, but not the one I desire.”

“You can see the future?” asked Toby excitedly.

“At times.”

The finch cocked his small head. “What are you seeing now?”

Varga shrugged. “If you must know, I’ve just seen my death.”

Hopping closer, the smee spoke in a hushed, fascinated tone. “Do you die at the Workshop?”

“Toby!” exclaimed Hazel, shooing at him.

Varga only chuckled. The smee’s frank curiosity seemed to amuse him. “Indeed, I do.”

The smee was floored. “You know exactly when and where you’ll die?” he asked, simultaneously appalled and delighted.

Varga shook his head and gazed ahead at the hypnotic blur of tunnel lights. “My visions suggest possibilities, no more. I’ve seen myself die countless times and in countless ways. One gets used to it. Tomorrow is promised to no one.”

“So, how might you die?” pressed Toby eagerly.

Varga sighed. “In this vision, I’m crushed. In others I’ve drowned, burned in fires … even died from a horse’s kick on my grandfather’s farm.”

Toby hopped even closer. “You know, a man with your talents could make a fortune in horse racing, roulette, cards … the possibilities are endless! But you’d need a partner. An amiable chap whose expertise spans turf and baize—”

Hazel pinched his beak shut. “What’s our plan when we reach the Workshop?”

Cooper scratched his patchy blond stubble. “If Varga can’t locate Prusias, we’ll have to find him ourselves.”

Max turned to Madam Petra. “What did you hear about his bunker?”

“Nothing much,” the smuggler confessed. “Mr. Bonn only mentioned it this morning. He talked about a ‘plan B’ involving a bunker and a body double. He didn’t say anything more specific.”

Cooper glanced sharply at her. “You’re sure the double stayed in Blys?”

“Positive,” she replied. “I saw him barking orders at the Imperial Guard right after Prusias disappeared into an elevator.”

The Agent nodded as though convinced she was telling the truth. “All right. Back to tracking down Prusias once we get to the Workshop.”

“How big is it?” asked Scathach.

“Huge,” replied Cooper wearily. “It’s a pyramid, miles wide at the lowest sublevels. It’d take weeks to search it.”

“We don’t have weeks,” said Hazel matter-of-factly. “If we don’t know where he is, let’s eliminate where he isn’t. I think it’s reasonable to assume a secret bunker won’t be in a busy area. I imagine it would be rather small and tucked away.”

Cooper nodded. “If we can access a control center, we could scan the Workshop using surveillance cameras.”

“They won’t have cameras near the bunker,” said Varga.

“Agreed,” said Cooper. “Areas blacked out to surveillance become a priority.”

Toby gave an anxious shiver. “Let’s say we actually find him. How are we supposed to take him, eh? I’ve seen Prusias when he changes form. He’s enormous!”

“If the bunker’s small, he won’t be able to transform,” said Scathach.

“I don’t think Prusias would accept that,” said Varga. “If he’s cornered, he’ll want to fight. And he’s far more dangerous in his serpent form.”

“It doesn’t matter what form he takes,” Petra whispered. “He’s still the Great Red Dragon.” She was studying her hands, the rings and bracelets that adorned them. “He can’t be appeased. He’ll take and corrupt and devour everything. It’s what he does.” Her eyes darted to Max and the gae bolga. “You must kill him! Slay him with the only weapon he fears.”

Cooper shook his head. “The Director wants him alive.”

Petra looked down. “Then you will be devoured.”

“She has a point,” reflected Hazel. “Prusias is ancient. Very few weapons or spells will work against a spirit that powerful. How are we to subdue him?”

“Well, what did Mina do?” wondered Toby. “She handled him readily enough. Shook her little fist and sent him squealing over the sea.”

“Mina cast him out,” Hazel replied. “But remember that Prusias was invading sacred soil. Settings can play a powerful part in mystics and it’s possible Mina tapped Rowan’s magic to strengthen her own. I can’t say for certain—sorcerers play by their own rules. But Mina’s not here. And our task is not to banish a powerful demon from Rowan but to capture him in his own lair. The circumstances are rather different.”

“It has to be the Hound,” said Varga, gazing at Max. “He’s the only one strong enough.”

“Peter,” said Hazel impatiently. “If we’re to take Prusias alive, Max can’t use the gae bolga. How then is he supposed to subdue Prusias? By sheer brute force? Forgive me, but that’s beyond even Max’s capabilities.”

Scathach almost laughed. “Do you pretend to know what those are?”

Hazel’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Folding her arms, she glanced at Cooper. “Are you in charge of this mission?”

“I am.”

“What’s your position, then? Do you agree with Peter?”

“Perhaps we should ask Max,” said Cooper. “He’s fought Prusias before. He knows the demon’s power better than we do.” The Agent turned to Max. “What do you think, Max? Are you up to this task?”

Max gazed at the floor. The truth was that he had always been afraid of Prusias, and not just a little. On various occasions, the demon had charmed, bullied, and dominated him. When Max had been a captive in Blys, Prusias had ordered him to assassinate a rival. When a terrified Max refused, the demon had exploded in rage—seizing him by the throat and dashing him unconscious. The moment’s pain and helplessness were seared into Max’s memory. And Prusias had not needed to take his true shape …

“I don’t know,” said Max. “Prusias is very strong. There was a time when he made me feel helpless, but I was younger then. I don’t think he fears me, but he does fear this.” Max nodded at the Morrígan’s blade atop his spear haft. “If we find him, he’ll assume we’ve come to kill him. He doesn’t know we intend to take him captive. And Prusias is different from other demons—he’s much more human. Maybe that’s something we can exploit.”

“How so?” asked Hazel.

“I’ve seen demons commit ahülmm,” Max reflected. “I watched Mad’raast end his own life rather than risk dishonor. I can’t imagine Prusias doing anything like that—he finds life endlessly intriguing. I don’t think he’ll risk his own destruction if there’s an alternative. If we can corner him, bluff him into thinking I mean to end his existence, he might surrender.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Hazel.

“Then I kill him.”

“But the Director—” said Hazel, ever mindful of protocol.

“Will have to change his plans,” finished Max. “I’m not risking your lives so Prusias can keep his.”

Three beeps sounded from the control panel where a light was flashing red. A message scrolled across the display screen, accompanied by a calm, computerized voice speaking German. Varga translated.

“It’s an emergency broadcast,” he reported. “Workshop’s in lockdown. All nonsecurity personnel are ordered to their quarters until further notice. Compliance may result in pardons. Noncompliance may result in arrest and termination.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow. “A revolt?”

“Sounds like it,” said Cooper. “If the entire Workshop’s on lockdown and they’re threatening to terminate people, it isn’t small.”

Madam Petra chewed her lip. “My God,” she whispered. “If the Workshop’s in revolt, what will Prusias’s people do to the hostages?” Rising, she lurched at the acceleration throttle. Cooper intercepted her.

“But my daughter,” she gasped. “We have to hurry!”

“Think,” said Cooper calmly. “Someone’s trying to reassert control, nip a situation before it escalates. For Prusias’s henchmen to sacrifice hostages at this stage would only make things worse. Katarina’s not in immediate danger. Do you understand?”

Nodding slowly, she stepped back and stared ahead at the tunnel. “How much farther?”

“Ninety-six minutes,” said Varga, tapping a map screen.

“Listen,” said Cooper, surveying them. “We don’t know what’ll be waiting for us when we arrive. Riots. Troops. We just don’t know. We’ll let the passengers off first and see what happens. Once we get off, follow my lead. Until then, try to get some rest.”

With that, the Agent proceeded to methodically examine his gear and weapons. Each boot, buckle, strap, and sheath was tested to ensure they didn’t fail him at a critical moment. The rest followed his example. As Max knelt to check the dagger strapped to his boot, he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

“Where’s your brooch?” Scathach hissed.

Max tapped his right boot. “I put it away before the fighting.”

Scathach’s brow furrowed. “Let me see it.”

He retrieved it, polishing the ivory so the Celtic sun gleamed. When he stood, Scathach plucked it from his hand and began fastening it to his baldric. “You know who made this,” she whispered pointedly. “And you know its purpose. Wear it near your heart. Always.”

Max didn’t argue. Scathach was profoundly superstitious, particularly when it came to anything from the Sidh. She might have been exiled, but she remained touchingly loyal to the realm, its rulers, and its customs. Satisfied that the brooch was back in its proper place, she sat in the cramped compartment’s entry. Max sat beside her, closing his eyes and trying to get some sleep. Even thirty minutes would be a godsend. To help him nod off, he focused on the compartment’s subtle vibrations, the steady humming of the mechanicals …

Cooper’s voice jolted him awake.

“We’re here.”

Opening his eyes, Max rose to see the bewitched engineer was pulling back the throttle as they rounded a curve and headed toward a vast terminal lit by artificial daylight. A dozen trains were sitting idle on its tracks. Two were on fire; Max could make out the small figures of Spindlefingers crawling about the smoking cars. Aside from the busy goblins, the terminal appeared to be empty.