Cooper turned to Agent Varga. “Do you see anything, Peter? Any hidden surprises?”

Varga was leaning on his cane, looking out the windshield with a look of immense concentration. He shook his head. “I see nothing.”

They watched in silence as the engineer slowed the train to a halt. The smell of burning plastic and fuel filled the car. Hazel leaned close to the engineer.

“Thank you for the ride,” she murmured. “When we have gone, you will awake and see to your colleague. Now you will open the doors so the passengers can depart.”

The man nodded, reaching absently for a button. There was a buzzing sound and Max saw the first of many passengers hurry off the train, making for large glass doors that were cracked and riddled with bullet holes. No security intercepted them. When the last stragglers disappeared, Cooper looked at Varga.

“Any sense of where Prusias might be?”

“He’s here,” said Varga quietly. “I’m sure of that. But I can’t see where. I’m not getting specific clues to his location.”

“We make for the nearest control room,” said Cooper, studying a handheld device. “There’s one five levels up.”

Filing out of the driver’s car, the group stepped off the train and onto a platform hazy with smoke. Max could hear the fires now along with the sounds of breaking glass and goblins gleefully looting the burning trains. A hand suddenly seized his arm.

“Come with me,” pleaded Madam Petra. “The dormitories. That’s where Katarina will be. I know the way!”

Cooper yanked her hand away. “We have other business.”

The smuggler glared at him before breaking away, running down the platform and out the terminal. Once she was out of sight, Cooper turned to Toby the finch. “Follow her. She might lead us to Prusias.”

“If she does, how will I find you again?” asked the smee.

Rubbing her forefinger and thumb together, Hazel kneeled next to Toby and touched his finch’s wing. A faint green thread appeared before fading from view. “This is a pixie tether,” she explained. “Only you can see it. You can follow it back to me.”

“Can I use it now?” squeaked Toby anxiously.

“Be brave,” said Hazel gently. “Today, we must all be heroes.”

“Very good,” sighed Toby. “But if I don’t come back, I expect you to write my memoirs. Tallyho!” Puffing out his chest, the finch became a housefly that buzzed once around their heads before zooming off.

Max and the others pressed on. They walked with swift purpose, stepping through the bullet-riddled doors to find a vast, empty atrium. The room pulsed with red emergency lights. Ahead were several pod tubes. The nearest was half melted and appeared unusable. Several bodies lay at its base, charred beyond recognition. Overhead, a toneless female voice droned from hidden loudspeakers.

“Welcome to the Frankfurt Workshop. Have a productive day.”

Reaching up, Max unsheathed the gae bolga and attached the scabbard to his baldric. The blade hummed, as though tasting the air and liking what it found. Varga promptly stepped away from it. Ahead, Hazel inspected an undamaged pod tube and waved a hand before its sensor. Moments later, a pod arrived, rising like a silver bubble to hover before them. Once aboard, Cooper entered their destination on the pod’s control panel.

“There’s a control room on S-Five,” he explained. “Its operators might know the location of Prusias’s bunker. If they don’t, we’ll access its surveillance cameras to search the Workshop. One way or another, we’ll find him.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Scathach turned about, studying the pod, the magnetic tube, and the flashing emergency lights at every level. To someone who had lived many centuries earlier, it must have seemed utterly alien. “People really live down here?” she said, amazed. “Humans?”

Varga nodded. “Some have never been to the surface.”

The Sidh maiden grimaced. “I couldn’t stand it. Give me blue skies. A place where I can feel the wind and hear the sea.”

“They probably have those things,” said Varga, smiling. “It’s just artificial. And you visited the Raszna. Arcanum’s deep underground, is it not?”

“It felt nothing like this,” said Scathach uneasily. “This feels like a tomb of metal and machinery.”

With frictionless ease, the pod slowed and stopped at the desired floor. Stepping out, the group followed Cooper down the dim, red-pulsing corridors. Announcements continued to drone, but Max could also hear faint shouts and the report of automatic weapons. Now and again, the floor shivered with tremors that made the lights flicker.

They were not the first to reach the control room. Its smoldering door stood open. Looking within, Max saw that its operators had been slain. Three bodies were heaped upon the floor; two more were sprawled across broken instrument panels. The room’s many monitors had been shattered; computers were a hissing tangle of severed wires and circuit boards.

“I can’t believe the engineers would do this to one another,” said Hazel, breathing through a handkerchief.

Her husband turned one of the bodies over and shook his head. The man had not been shot, but cleaved from shoulder to sternum. “This was malakhim.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Scathach.

Cooper nodded at the door. Near the door’s handle, a crude symbol had been traced into the metal as though it were soft clay. It looked like a sword or inverted cross set within a circle. “They left their mark.”

The malakhim were Prusias’s honor guard, fallen spirits who wore black robes and obsidian masks. The fiends never spoke; their masks betrayed no emotion when carrying out their master’s will. They were silent sentinels and killers, indifferent to threats, pleas, or bribery.

“Well,” said Varga, “if malakhim are here, then Prusias is, too.”

“Why would he send them after these people?” asked Hazel.

“I’m not sure,” said Cooper, closing the dead man’s eyes. “Maybe he doesn’t want anyone in the control rooms to see what he’s doing. Let’s get moving. This room’s useless.”

Hurrying back to the tube, they summoned another pod, which soon had them hurtling up toward another control room Cooper had located on his device. Ten seconds later, Max saw a familiar sight—the soaring, open spaces that housed living redwoods near the Workshop’s main gate. As they continued ascending, Max saw that the entire area was swarming with activity as groups of engineers were exchanging fire, using upended tables as barricades while others fled for cover behind the towering trees. Dozens of bodies lay amid the wreckage. A lone figure caught Max’s eye—a man fleeing several determined pursuers. He zigzagged through the chaos, stumbling and staggering as his pursuers closed the gap. His pursuers were noticeably smaller, perhaps even children …

Max smacked the glass. “Stop! We need to go down there.”

“Why?” said Cooper.

Max pointed down. “That’s Jesper Rasmussen.”

Hazel peered down. “Dear Lord. Are those the haglings?”

Max nodded. “Rasmussen might know where Prusias is. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll know how to use the Workshop’s systems better than we can.”

Cooper hit a button. Instantly, they began a swift, smooth descent. Crack! A stray bullet struck the surrounding tube, cracking its glass as they set down.

“Hazel, take care of the engineers,” said Cooper impatiently. “I don’t need another bullet.”

“I’ll go,” said Max, squeezing past Varga.

“No,” said Cooper. “We need you for Prusias. No unnecessary risks until we find him.”

“But—”

“That’s a direct order,” said Cooper tersely. As the pod door slid open, he darted out, running with Amplified speed toward the fleeing engineer.

“Solas!” hissed Hazel, spreading her fingers. A blinding flash of light filled the vast hall, triggering shouts of dismay. Furrowing her brow, she extended an arm at the distant combatants, spread her fingers, and then made a tight fist. Weapons flew from their grasp, skittering and tumbling over the floor as though drawn by a powerful magnet.

Meanwhile, Cooper had Dr. Rasmussen slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain as he ran back toward the pod. The engineer was shrieking incoherently, twisting about to keep an eye on his determined assailants. The haglings had not given up the chase. They raced after their quarry, clutching cleavers and hatchets, topknots bobbing as they bellowed haggish invective.

Despite their fury, the haglings’ speed was no match for Cooper’s. The Agent slipped back within the pod, dumping Rasmussen on the floor. The haglings halted as the pod began to rise, their beady eyes following its ascent. Slamming down her cleaver, Callastrophe Shrope shook her fist as the pod disappeared through a hole in the artificial sky.

Rasmussen gasped for air. “They were waiting for me! Waiting near my door when the order came to return to quarters.” His dignity forgotten, the man rolled onto his back and clapped a hand over his eyes. “I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since that hag disappeared from the museum. I knew those monsters were behind it. I … I told my colleagues, but they only laughed at me. And then to discover the creatures lurking—grinning!—behind my ficus!” The engineer moaned.

Max nudged him with his boot. “That’s the second time we’ve saved you from the Shropes. You might say thank you.”

The thin, totally hairless Dr. Rasmussen paused. Removing his hand, his eyes traveled clockwise about the pod, registering each Rowan face with mounting humiliation. Scrambling to his feet, he straightened his uniform. “What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded.

Cooper jabbed a finger in his chest. “Looking for Prusias. You’re going to help us.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Rasmussen. “He isn’t here! He’s defending his city.”

Cooper’s voice became ominously quiet. “No, mate. He’s here. Every snake has its hidey-hole and this is his. Where is it?”

Rasmussen sniffed. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Cooper stopped the pod just before it passed through the roof. “Lie again, and it’s back to the hags.” His finger hovered over the control pad.

“No!” cried Rasmussen. “Truly, I don’t know! I heard whispers of a project, but it was classified and I have less access than I used to. Dr. Tressel was in charge.”

“Where’s Tressel?”

“In her quarters, most likely,” said Rasmussen. “Unless she’s joined the insurrectionists. A revolt’s under way. Some of our best people have been killed.”

“Ours too,” said Cooper tightly. “Which is why you’re going to come with us to Dr. Tressel’s quarters.”

“But—”

“Now.”

“Level Twenty, Pod Bank C,” sighed Rasmussen, nodding at the control panel.

Cooper input the destination and the pod zoomed up the tube, banked sharply, and accelerated sideways until it reached another tube and shot upward. Other pods raced past like passing subway cars, some empty and bullet-riddled, others packed with men and women wearing body armor. They stared at Max and the rest. One woman appeared to shout and raise a fist in a gesture that might have meant solidarity or defiance.

“What is going on?” asked Varga. “Who is in revolt?”

“Dr. Kim’s people,” replied Rasmussen. “He runs mechanical engineering. Some never wanted to serve Prusias and disapproved of certain projects, particularly those involving genetics. But leadership has been too frightened to say no to anything the king asks of them—it’s virtual suicide. When it got out that Rowan had broken through Prusias’s gates, Kim’s followers saw their chance. They raided the armory and are trying to take over key locations. A surprising number have joined them.”

“Where do you stand, Dr. Rasmussen?” asked Hazel pointedly.

The man gave a weary, almost despondent laugh. “Honestly, I don’t even know. I sympathize with what Kim’s trying to do, but if Prusias stays in power, the consequences to those who took part in the rebellion will be unimaginable. Have you heard about the king’s Grand Inquisitor?”

The pod slowed as they reached Level 20. Smoke greeted them as the door opened, a greasy black haze as though oil was burning. With Cooper gripping Rasmussen’s wrist, the group followed the scientist down several corridors as shouts and bursts of gunfire sounded in the distance. When they reached a pair of double doors at the end of a hallway, Dr. Rasmussen rang its bell and knocked sharply.

When no one answered, Max sheared through the door’s locks with the gae bolga. As the doors opened, the group slipped inside to find a large suite with several well-appointed rooms, but no Dr. Tressel. Cooper showed his handheld device to Dr. Rasmussen.

“Any way this can track down her current location?”

The scientist shook his head. “You’d need a control room for that information.”

“Where’s the nearest?” asked Cooper.

“This floor. By Pod Bank A.”

The group hurried out of Dr. Tressel’s apartment, plunging through the smoke as Rasmussen and Cooper led them toward a main corridor. They followed it several hundred yards before turning down a side hallway. Cooper paused as gunfire sounded, a short burst from somewhere close. There were shouts, a strangled cry, and the sound of retreating footsteps.

Cooper crept forward, motioning for the others to follow at a distance. Kris in hand, he crouched and sprang upward, clinging to the ceiling like a gangling spider that scuttled swiftly around the corner. Max and the others followed, pressing close to the walls.

Peering around a corner, Max saw three malakhim wearing hooded black robes and obsidian masks. The fiends had no idea Cooper was directly above them. They paid no heed to the engineer dying at their feet. The trio’s attention was fixed upon the reinforced door identical to that of the gutted control room they’d seen earlier. From within, Max could hear panicked pleas in German for the malakhim to let them be. While two of the spirits waited with their heavy swords, the third traced their unholy sigil upon the door. Metal groaned as the door began to glow orange and smoke. Within the room, the engineers began to scream.

A shadow slipped past Max. He could barely discern Scathach’s lithe form closing upon the malakhim. Above the fiends, Cooper slipped a flask from his belt and silently unscrewed the cap. To Max’s surprise, Cooper let the cap fall to the floor. In unison, the malakhim looked down at the rattling cap. When they looked up, Cooper splashed the flask’s contents in their faces.

The demons staggered back from the door, clutching their masks as red smoke billowed through the eye and nose slits. Cooper dropped to the ground, ducking as the malakhim swung their swords in wild, lethal arcs. Before they could swing again, Scathach impaled one with her spear just as Cooper thrust his kris through another’s mask. The third, which had received the bulk of the flask’s contents, dropped its sword and dissolved into a pool of smoldering red liquid.

Max and the others joined them by the door as Scathach shifted out of shadow form. Her lip curled as she gazed at the malakhim she’d slain. Its robes were collapsing, its mask bubbling like melting wax. “Unclean things,” she muttered, wiping her spear upon its robes.

Rasmussen stared at the dead engineer and then at Cooper.

“What was in that flask?”

“Blood petals,” said Cooper, kicking the cooling door. “Open up. It’s safe.”

“Who are you?” asked a frightened voice from beyond the door.

Rasmussen tore his eyes away from the body of the dead engineer. “Juergen, it’s Jesper Rasmussen. Open the door.”

A pause. “Yes … yes, we see you on the monitor. Are you part of this revolt?”

Rasmussen looked to be somewhat at a loss. “No, I’m not involved with Kim’s people. Open the door, Juergen.”

Moments later, an electromagnetic lock released and a thin, stricken-looking man peered out the door at them. His shaking hand held a pistol.

“Put that away,” said Cooper, brushing past the man as the rest filed in after him. The room was square, perhaps twenty feet to a side with glowing blue instrument panels and surveillance screens lining three of the walls. Aside from Juergen, there were two other engineers—a thirtyish woman with protruding eyes and her long brown hair in a ponytail and a spare young man with brown skin and a shaved head. They were seated at two of the six available workstations and clutching tranquilizer guns. The woman’s was pointed at Rasmussen.

“If this is a trick, Jesper …”

Rasmussen almost collapsed into an empty chair. “No trick, Olga. I feel as frightened and helpless as you do.”

“What do you want?” asked Juergen.

Cooper rounded on him. “Where’s Prusias?”

“I … I don’t know,” said the man, quailing under the Agent’s gaze. Over his shoulder, a yellow light started flashing on a control panel.

Cooper’s eyes darted to it. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” said Olga. “A train has arrived in the terminal.”

Rasmussen cleared his throat. “Agent Cooper, if I don’t know the location of Prusias’s bunker, it’s unlikely these people will. Dr. Tressel is the person you want.”

Juergen looked mortified. “I think she was in the armory when Kim’s people revolted. Lots of casualties there.”

“Is there a way to know if she’s alive?” asked Cooper.

“Her file will have biometric data,” said the young male engineer.

“What’s your name?” asked Cooper.

“Dr. Rios, sir.”

“Pull up her file.”

Dr. Rios typed quickly and the face of a woman in her early fifties appeared onscreen, along with a slew of data, such as her rank, sector, serial number, and recent work assignments. Dr. Rios pointed glumly at a flashing indicator.

“Deceased.”

Cooper frowned. “Rios, who’s the most senior person that reports to Dr. Tressel?”

The man scrolled to another screen. “George Whitner, materials specialist. Dr. Whitner invented the—”

Cooper cut him off. “Is Dr. Whitner alive?”

More keystrokes brought up the image of an intense-looking man with glasses, short gray hair, and piercing blue eyes. “Yes, sir,” said Dr. Rios. “Dr. Whitner is alive, has a steady heart rate, and is located on Level Sixteen.”

“That’s the man I want,” said Cooper, squinting at the screen and then inputting some data into his handheld device.

“Where did you get that?” asked an incredulous Juergen.

“Been sneaking ’round here for months,” muttered Cooper, now studying a map. “Your toys are right handy.” Pocketing the device, he turned to his companions. “I’m going to find this Dr. Whitner and see if I can get the bunker’s location from him. You stay here and see what you can find using surveillance cameras. If you come across malakhim or areas where cameras are disabled, they could mean Prusias is close. I’m sure our new friends will be happy to help you.”

“How long should we give you?” asked Max.

Cooper looked sharply at him. “An hour. If I’m not back, send Scathach or Peter after me. Not you. Save your energy for Prusias when we find him.”

Hazel loudly cleared her throat.

“And not you,” said Cooper. “Scathach and Peter are Agents and neither is six months pregnant. Besides, there’s no guarantee Dr. Whitner will know where Prusias is. I’d rather you focus on using the resources in here. You might locate him before I do. Lock the door—it looks like malakhim are seeking out control rooms.”

Giving his unsmiling spouse a peck on the cheek, Cooper slipped out the door. When the door’s lock sealed, Hazel stood and clasped her hands behind her back. Max almost pitied the engineers.

“You heard him,” she said tartly. “Juergen, you and Dr. Rios are going to initiate a systematic scan of the Workshop, starting with the sublevels. Any sign of Prusias, imps, malakhim, or disabled cameras, I want to know. Olga?”

“Dr. Medved,” said the woman stiffly.

Hazel inclined her head. “Dr. Medved, I want a report on all personnel assigned to Dr. Tressel in the last six months. If she can’t help us, I want to know who else might be able to.”

A tremor shook the control room, showering them with bits of rubble and debris. Several instrument lights flashed and one of the screens went dark.

“A blown energy converter,” muttered Juergen, pulling up a holographic map of the Workshop pyramid and zooming in on a flashing red dot. “That’s bad.”

Hazel snapped her fingers. “Then you had better hurry!”

Sheathing the gae bolga, Max leaned it against a wall and sat at one of the empty workstations. He felt like he was being shunted to the side until the pivotal moment. He understood the logic of it, but he also found it irritating. His eyes flicked to Dr. Medved, who was glancing frequently in his direction. Max glowered.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just … you’re him.”

She swiveled in her chair to stare at him with unabashed curiosity. There was nothing lurid in her gaze; it was one of remote admiration. Her tone was reverent.

“You’re the Original. I almost feel like I know you. You’ve grown up so much!”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Max.

The scientist beamed. “I worked on your project. My team tried to duplicate your DNA. You gave us more than a few headaches.”

“Dr. Medved, that’s enough,” barked Rasmussen.

“No,” said Max. “I want to hear. You worked on the clones?”

“Alpha, mostly,” said Dr. Medved proudly. “He was my baby. I nearly cried when we sold him. We all knew Omega had to go—too wild—but I really hoped Alpha would work out. He was magnificent.”

Rasmussen squirmed. “This is not the time or place, Dr. Medved. Do you have the reports on Dr. Tressel’s subordinates?”

“Just sent them to Juergen,” she answered. While Juergen and Dr. Rios were busy scanning surveillance feeds to eliminate or highlight possible bunker locations on the hologram, Dr. Medved’s attention remained riveted on Max. “How tall are you?” she asked.

“Six-five.”

She gave a satisfied smile. “Just as we predicted. What beautiful genes. Human perfection right in our hands but its deepest mysteries eluded us. How I’d love another go.” The woman’s tone was wistful.

Scathach’s knuckles whitened around her spear. “So you’re responsible for those animals.”

The scientist almost seemed oblivious to Scathach’s tone. “Omega was an animal,” she conceded readily. “But that was by design. Not Alpha. Up until the chip, we really thought we’d done it.”

“What chip?” asked Max.

Thus far Peter Varga had been sitting quietly, his cane resting across his knees. He now tapped it gently on Max’s chair leg. “I think you should leave this for now,” he said. “It is upsetting you.”

Max glared at him. “These clones work for the Atropos. Every minute of every day, they’re trying to end my life. This woman is going to tell me everything she knows. Isn’t that right, Dr. Medved?”

The scientist smiled. “You’re the Original. I can do better than tell you. I can show you.”

“Max,” said Hazel. “We have another task at hand.”

“Am I interfering with it?” he replied. “My orders were to sit here.”

Pursing her lips, Hazel turned back to study the changing feeds from surveillance cameras. Whenever a screen came up black, Dr. Rios entered the camera’s position on a three-dimensional map of the Workshop.

Max pulled his chair next to Dr. Medved as she accessed a different database. The screen went black before three simple words appeared:

Deus ex Machina

“ ‘God from a Machine,’ ” she translated, before entering a password and placing her thumb on a sensor. “A little joke for the project name. But that was our goal, after all—to create a god in the lab. And we got so close!”

Menus and files appeared on the screen. Dr. Medved selected one and Max found himself staring at three human embryos. The scientist tapped the screen from left to right. “Alpha, Zeta, and Omega.”

“The three clones,” breathed Max.

“Technically speaking, they’re not clones,” Dr. Medved corrected. “We could not replicate you, not entirely. Some of your sequences could not be duplicated. Nevertheless, they share over ninety-nine percent of your genetic material. To complete the sequence, we used alternate sources of DNA. Alpha’s was synthetic. Zeta’s was from superior human stock. Omega’s came from more primitive samples. Zeta was the most like you.”

“Zeta was Myrmidon,” said Max, recalling his final match in Prusias’s Arena. He would never forget his feelings of grief and horror when he’d removed his opponent’s helmet only to discover a younger version of himself.

“Correct,” said Dr. Medved. “Prusias demanded proof of concept and so we accelerated Zeta ahead of the others. Myrmidon performed most admirably in the Arena until he met you. A pity he died, but there are lessons in every failure. We applied them to Alpha and Omega.”

She tapped a key and the embryos were replaced with two newborns floating in separate tanks filled with a gelatinous substance. One was noticeably larger and fast asleep. The other was emaciated and shivering, its tiny hands tugging in vain with tubes that protruded from its arms, head, and chest. A sequence of lights flashed from a nearby machine. The sickly child promptly stiffened and began bawling. Immediately, a nurse arrived to stroke and feed its larger neighbor. No one comforted the baby that was screaming; the cameras simply kept recording.

Max felt sick. “Why doesn’t someone help him?”

Dr. Medved merely shrugged. “It wasn’t part of his protocol.”

“But you’re feeding the other one.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Alpha was rewarded whenever his brother suffered. It reinforced his sense of superiority. When Omega was shocked, Alpha was caressed. When Omega was starved, Alpha was fed. One received only negative feedback, the other only positive. The outcomes were remarkable.”

With a few clicks, she played many clips on several screens. Max watched in silent horror as the clones were aged in accelerant tanks, subjected to unconscionable experiments, and plugged into combat simulations. They grew before his eyes. Alpha became a larger version of Max, while Omega was neglected and tormented until he was as sly and feral as a jackal.

Scenes from the clones’ combat scenarios flickered like pages from a flipbook. Hundreds of scenes, thousands of scenes. Alpha was a juggernaut who dominated his opponents with brute strength and relentless, overpowering offensives. Omega was craftier. He darted in, feinting and retreating, always seeking attacks of opportunity. Whereas Alpha favored sword and spear, Omega preferred knives and teeth.

“Study their patterns,” said Scathach, touching Max’s shoulder. He nodded. Although the clones were exceedingly skilled and made few mistakes, some tendencies were inevitable. Even Omega betrayed some.

Max watched in morbid fascination as Workshop surgeons injected a pubescent Alpha with nanocompounds to enhance his musculature. When a captive witch carved wards and spells into Omega’s flesh, the youth did not flinch or cry out. He merely stared up at the camera, his eyes as dead as a doll’s.

What the hell did they do to you? Max had asked this of Omega the first time they’d met. The reply chilled him to this day. Everything, everything, EVERYTHING!

Max stared at the floor. They certainly had.

He wanted to be angry, to be shocked and outraged by what he’d seen. Instead, he felt a profound and puzzling sorrow. He turned to Dr. Rasmussen, who’d been stealing covert glances throughout Dr. Medved’s explanations. “How could you let this happen?” Max asked him quietly. “What was the point?”

Dr. Rasmussen opened his mouth to answer but could not find the words. His colleague spoke up instead.

“We wanted perfection,” said Dr. Medved impassively. “But we wanted perfection that we could control. We needed to ensure the clones would obey and that’s where we encountered problems.”

Rasmussen rubbed his temples. “Please, Olga. Enough.”

Max swiveled back to her. “What went wrong?”

The scientist’s eyes wandered over his face with an abstracted expression that reminded Max of David. “You did. Your DNA is wildly unstable. All DNA can mutate and cause changes in an organism, but yours does so more radically and spontaneously than anything we’ve ever seen. This is confined largely to the sequence we couldn’t replicate, but the change is dramatic. It’s like you become a different order of being. The closest comparison is daemonic koukerros, but the triggers of koukerros are well known. We could never predict how or when your DNA might change. The clones also have this trait, although it’s not as pronounced.”

“So the clones … mutated?”

Olga nodded grimly. “Simultaneously. Since we’d only observed mutations in the DNA sequence we could not replicate, we did not think the clones were capable of spontaneous change. As it turned out, we were mistaken.”

She clicked a file. On the screen, Max saw Alpha and Omega lying on a pair of operating tables while a team of surgeons finished cutting a small, circular hole in their skulls. A number of Workshop officials were in attendance, observing from an elevated gallery. Max saw Dr. Rasmussen among them, grinning at something his colleague whispered, while surgeons implanted what looked like small microchips into the clones’ brains. Once these were installed, the surgeons repaired the skulls and sewed their scalps into place.

“As they got older, Alpha and Omega were becoming too willful, too independent,” explained Dr. Medved. “Dr. Wagner developed these chips to moderate the functions of their frontal lobes and make them more compliant. However, when we tried to override their brain functions, the clones mutated as some sort of defense mechanism. We lost control entirely.”

The recording now showed one of the surgeons, presumably Dr. Wagner, addressing the gallery. When they applauded, he nodded to a technician sitting at a nearby computer. The man pressed a button.

The clones awoke instantly. In a blink, Omega sprang from his table onto the technician, snapping the man’s neck and smashing his computer. Meanwhile, Alpha seized hold of Dr. Wagner. The scientist struggled in vain as the muscular clone eased off the table. While his colleagues fled, Dr. Wagner was pinned, kicking and screaming, onto his own operating table. When Omega handed Alpha a trepanning saw, Olga stopped the video.

“You get the idea,” she sighed. “We had to secure and gas the room. The sedatives required would have killed ten elephants. The tests we ran revealed a dramatic change in their physiology and capabilities. Alpha was twice as strong as before, Omega twice as quick. We removed the microchips hoping they would somehow revert to their previous state, but they did not and were deemed too dangerous to keep. Given how expensive the program had been, we sought to recoup our losses rather than terminate them.”

“So you sold them,” Max muttered. “To the Atropos.”

The scientist was unapologetic. “Of course. They offered more than anyone else, even the wealthier braymas.”

“If you couldn’t control them, how do the Atropos?” asked Scathach.

“I can’t say precisely,” replied the scientist. “We taped the transfer, but the recording was corrupted somehow. Our technicians believe it was due to some trick or devilry by the guild’s representative. Portions are legible, but the audio is useless.”

“Let me see it,” said Max.

“As you wish,” said Dr. Medved, clicking a file.

The footage came from a mounted camera positioned in the corner of a spartan holding cell. Opposite the cell’s reinforced door, Alpha and Omega sat impassively in anchored steel chairs with computerized restraints about their necks, wrists, and ankles. As soon as the door opened, the picture scrambled momentarily and a high-pitched buzzing began. As the image steadied, Max could just make out a dark figure entering the room. It wore hooded robes and bowed low to the clones before.

“That’s the Atropos buyer?” asked Max.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Medved.

The image scrambled once again. “Go back,” said Max.

She did as he ordered, pausing the video at a moment of relative clarity. Leaning forward, Max stared hard at the screen. “Zoom in on him.”

The Atropos buyer grew larger until his face filled the screen. The upper half was largely shadowed and there was intricate skinscrolling, but the smile was unmistakable. It remained unchanged from when Max had seen it as a Rowan First Year. It was composed and pitiless, the smirk of one who enjoyed inflicting or witnessing pain.

“You know him,” said Scathach, looking closely at Max.

“I think I do,” said Max. “His name is—or was—Alex Muñoz. He used to be a Rowan student. He tortured Connor Lynch and Ms. Richter when Astaroth conquered Rowan.”

Hazel hurried over to peer at the screen, her eyes narrowing to angry slits. “If Alex serves the Atropos, he’s the reason William was possessed and sent hunting after you like a mad dog. I’m going to wring his neck.”

“Get in line behind Connor,” said Max grimly. “Alex is why Connor left Rowan for Blys. I’m not surprised he joined the Atropos. The guild’s perfect for someone who enjoys frightening others and causing pain. I’ll bet Alex entered my name in their Grey Book himself.”

“But how could he control the clones?” asked Scathach.

Max had no answer until Dr. Medved continued the video. The remainder was garbled until the very end. Just before the clones were released from their bonds, Alex produced something from his robes and showed it to Alpha and Omega. A closer view revealed a golden object almost like a pocket watch.

“Do you know what that is?” asked Dr. Medved. “We saw it but could not determine why the object would hold any special significance for the clones.”

“That’s David’s compass,” said Max heavily. “The Atropos took it from Cooper when he was possessed. Its needle doesn’t point north. It always points toward me.”

Agent Varga addressed Dr. Medved. “Did the clones already hate Max?”

“Of course,” she replied. “He’s the Original. When clones learn they’re only a copy, it triggers a profound identity crisis that causes most to despise the Original.”

“But lots of your people are clones,” said Max.

“Yes,” said Dr. Medved. “But they’re not clones of a superior person who had his own identity and history and deeds. They’re simply a combination of desirable traits engineered in a lab. They don’t come from any one person.”

“So that’s why they obey,” said Varga quietly. “The Atropos gave them an identity other than trying to be a copy of an Original. In addition, they gave them the tool and even a mandate to destroy the Original they’d come to hate.”

Max did not know what to make of Varga’s theory. He did not even know what to make of the clones. He felt more pity than hatred. From the moment of their inception, Alpha and Omega had been slaves, experiments corrupted by twisted science. Someone had taken babies and turned them into monsters.

“Turn it off,” said Max disgustedly. “I’ve seen enough.” He turned to Hazel. “How long has Cooper been gone?”

“Twenty-seven minutes.”

“Should it be taking this long?” Max asked Rasmussen.

The man considered. “Who can say while things are in such a state? Agent Cooper may have encountered enemies or been forced to go on foot. Perhaps Dr. Whitner fled from him. He’s hardly a comforting sight.”

“Can we get a visual on Dr. Whitner’s quarters?” asked Max.

Hazel shook her head and gestured at the holographic model of the Workshop. It showed a blue three-dimensional pyramid divided into a slew of stories. Throughout the Workshop, substantial sections had been highlighted red where surveillance was disabled. “Dr. Whitner’s quarters are here,” she said, pointing to a sizable red section. “That entire area is a blackout.”

“And no sign of Prusias,” said Dr. Rios. “No large congregations of malakhim. And over thirty percent of the surveillance feeds aren’t working.”

“No,” the teacher sighed. “It’s hard to pinpoint possible locations when we can’t see. Almost a third of the map is dark.”

Rasmussen sat up as though a thought had just occurred to him. “That’s true,” he said. “But we could cross-reference additional data to narrow the possibilities.”

“What data?” said Hazel.

“Dr. Tressel’s,” he replied. “All Workshop personnel wear badges that mark their position relative to broadcast beacons. We could take the last few months of her location data and project it against this map. It would show us where she was spending her time.”

“How long will that take?” asked Hazel.

“Five minutes,” said Juergen. “Maybe ten. I just have to write a special script.”

“Get going,” said Hazel. “Meanwhile, let’s keep scanning. I want to know where my husband is.”

There were over forty working screens in the control room. Each displayed a camera feed for ten seconds before switching to another. The camera’s location was indicated by serial numbers at the bottom of the screen. Max scanned the glowing screens, looking for Cooper and any evidence of Prusias and his malakhim. Many screens were black or revealed empty corridors and laboratories. Others showed people running or fighting throughout the Workshop.

“Go back!” blurted Scathach, pointing at a screen along the top row. Dr. Rios hit a button and an empty corridor was replaced by an aerial view of an enormous, high-ceilinged room filled with exhibits. At once, Max recognized it as the Workshop’s museum, where they displayed exotic creatures. Some members of the permanent collection were long dead; others (such as Cousin Gertie) had been frozen in a state of suspended animation. Fire was spreading across the museum floor while some of the exhibit cases had been shattered.

“The exhibits,” said Dr. Medved uneasily. “Some must be loose!”

“Move the picture left,” said Scathach urgently.

The camera panned as Scathach ordered, revealing a dozen people backed into a corner alcove by a creature with a squatty, reptilian body akin to a komodo dragon. But this creature was far larger and boasted six legs and a forked, whiplike tail that swished back and forth. Its serpentine head was adorned with horns whose circular arrangement resembled a crown. The only thing keeping the monster at bay was the long piece of metal one of the people was jabbing and swinging every time the creature advanced.

“I think that’s the basilisk,” said Dr. Rios.

“Well, I’m positive that’s Madam Petra,” said Scathach. “Zoom in.”

Dr. Medved obeyed. As the image grew larger, Max saw that it was indeed the smuggler. Apparently, she’d succeeded in rescuing her daughter and some ten other children from the dormitories. Now she was all that stood between them and an escaped museum exhibit.

Max’s knowledge of basilisks was confined to what he’d read in Rowan compendiums. Their crowns caused some to call them the “king of serpents” but their real notoriety stemmed from a gaze so dreadful it was said to kill anyone who met it. Apparently Madam Petra knew what she faced, for the children looked away while the smuggler studied the basilisk’s shadow. Just as it reared back to strike, something small and furry leaped upon its back.

“Is that a mongoose?” exclaimed Juergen, frowning.

Rasmussen scoffed. “What would a mongoose be doing in the Exotics wing?”

Hazel cursed softly. “That’s not a mongoose. It’s a smee we sent to spy on that woman. A silly, heroic smee who’s going to get himself killed …”

Scathach snatched up her spear. “How do I get there?”

“I’ll go with you,” said Max, rising.

“No,” said Hazel firmly. “William said you’re to remain here.”

“She’s not going alone,” said Max.

Scathach almost laughed as she unbolted the door. “I’m not afraid of a basilisk. I slew one on Skye. And I’ll not stand by to see Toby or those children hurt—even if it means saving that vile woman.”

Rasmussen pointed at a map on his handheld device. “The museum’s almost directly beneath us on Eighteen. Go left out the door. A pod tube’s no more than sixty meters away.”

“What if it’s broken?”

“There’s an emergency stairwell just past it.”

Gripping her spear, Scathach hurried out the door as Juergen opened it. As Rasmussen locked it behind her, an anxious Max turned back to the screens. Toby was no longer a mongoose, but a python coiled about the basilisk’s plated neck. The beast paid him little heed, however. Its focus was squarely upon the cornered children as it tried to get around the irksome human in its way. Petra was making a valiant stand, but Max could see that she was tiring. Every swing was a little slower, a little less effectual than the one before it.

Come on, Scathach. Hurry.

“Damn,” said Juergen, staring fixedly at his computer.

“What’s the matter?” snapped a pacing Hazel.

“There’s no location data for Dr. Tressel,” he said. “Not for weeks. Whatever she was working on, it was top secret. Data exemptions are rare.”

“Which would seemingly reinforce the idea that Tressel’s project was, indeed, the creation of Prusias’s bunker,” said Hazel.

“What about her team?” asked Varga. “If exemptions are rare, perhaps there’s data for her subordinates. Overlay their movements on the map. If the bunker was Tressel’s project, if many of them are going to one place, it’s likely to be the bunker’s location. Can you get that information for the people on Dr. Medved’s list?”

“Let’s see,” said Juergen, pulling up a list of names and entering several commands. Columns of data appeared by each name. “It looks like it’s here. I’ll need a minute to tweak the script.”

The situation in the museum was turning grim. Madam Petra was barely swinging the pole and visibly gasping as she tried to lure the basilisk away from the children. An exhausted Toby was no longer a python but lay curled in his native yamlike shape on the floor just beyond reach of the basilisk’s tail, which was swishing back and forth, like a playful cat’s. Suddenly, the monster struck. Petra leaped aside, dropping her weapon as the basilisk’s jaws snapped inches from her face. Pinning the smuggler with its foreclaw, the basilisk swayed up for the kill.

An explosion of light filled the screen. When the image returned, Max saw Scathach driving the monster back with swift jabs and slashes of her spear. The basilisk recoiled from this new attacker, backpedaling on stubby legs while black blood poured from a wound at its throat. It spilled upon the floor, sending up gouts of smoke as the substance corroded the pale marble. Scathach stepped lightly around it, her attention fixed on the monster’s shadow. In one hand she gripped her spear, the other her slender poignard.

When the monster struck, she just leaped beyond its reach while unleashing a vicious counterattack. Scathach’s anticipation and footwork were flawless, her counters perfectly aimed and executed. After four or five of these exchanges, the basilisk writhed backward in retreat, leaving a trail of smoking slime upon the tiles.

“She’s got him,” said Varga. “What a fighter!”

Max grinned. As Scathach positioned herself between the basilisk and the alcove, she pointed Petra and the children toward something, presumably an exit. Struggling to her feet, the smuggler grabbed the hand of a blond girl, perhaps twelve years old. Katarina hardly resembled the cold and haughty girl he’d met in Piter’s Folly; she had grown thinner and she looked frightened and dazed. Holding hands, the two led the other children in the direction Scathach had pointed.

“Scathach probably told them how to come here,” reflected Hazel. She turned to Juergen. “How’s that script coming?”

“Finished,” said Juergen proudly.

Max glanced over to see some twenty blinking dots appear within the Workshop model. Some were stationary, but others were moving slowly in corridors or traveling smoothly in pod tubes. It was like watching a high-tech ant farm.

“Every dot is someone who reported to Dr. Tressel recently,” Juergen explained. “This is what they were doing at eight in the morning six weeks ago.”

“Can you speed it up?” inquired Hazel impatiently. “I want to see patterns, not watch someone cut their fingernails.”

“You didn’t ask for time lapse,” grumbled Juergen, swiveling back to his terminal. Hazel sighed.

Max returned to Scathach’s screen where the unmoving basilisk now lay in a pool of its own blood and venom. Scathach was staring coolly in the direction of the doorway where she had sent Madam Petra and the children. Scores of Workshop people were running past her, fleeing something beyond the camera’s view. Hefting her spear, Scathach advanced toward the unseen danger. Max glanced impatiently at nearby screens to see if they gave any indication of what else was happening in the museum.

To his annoyance, one screen still displayed footage from the clones project. In this clip, they were standing beside one another, smiling grimly by a burning archway. Alpha carried his enormous spear while Omega bore a pair of slender knives. Max jabbed a finger at the screen.

“No more recordings. I want to see more of what’s happening in the museum.”

Behind him, Hazel gave an exultant whoop. Max turned to see the little dots moving much more swiftly about the Workshop hologram. Despite minor variations, the general pattern was unmistakable: the dots were congregating in one of the deepest corners of the pyramid.

“What level is that?” asked Hazel.

“Sublevel Twenty-Two,” said Rasmussen, squinting at the map. “Of course. That’s the same level and location as—”

“There’s your husband,” interrupted Dr. Rios, pointing at a screen that showed Cooper running down a smoky corridor with a man slung over his shoulder.

“Thank heavens,” Hazel sighed. “Where is he?”

Dr. Rios gestured at the camera’s serial number. “Nineteenth level, southwest quadrant. He’s on foot, so I’d guess the nearest pods are malfunctioning.”

Hazel was visibly relieved. “Well, it doesn’t appear that he’s hurt. And he has Dr. Whitner. How long until he can reach us?”

“If he has to remain on foot, ten or fifteen minutes,” said Rasmussen.

“Well,” said Hazel, glancing at the holographic pyramid, “I believe we got the answer first. I’ll try not to gloat.”

Swiveling back, Max found Dr. Medved glued to Alpha and Omega’s screen. The pair walked out from the archway’s shadow and disappeared from view. Max waved a hand before her eyes.

“Switch to a live feed from the museum.”

The woman blinked as though jolted from a trance. She tapped the screen, her voice ripe with horror. “That is a live feed!”

Max’s blood turned to ice. He could not move; he could only stare at Scathach’s screen as she came to a halt amid the broken glass and dancing firelight. Two long shadows appeared before her, one of which seemed to be carrying a spear. The shadow with a spear stood fast; the other began to circle. Scathach’s expression never changed. Inclining her head, she offered the warrior’s salute and advanced.

Springing from his chair, Max snatched the gae bolga and scrambled to the exit. Based on Rasmussen’s earlier directions to Scathach, the museum was just two floors below them, a pod tube just sixty yards down the hall. He didn’t wait for the lock but wrenched the door half off its frame as Rasmussen scrambled out of the way. Turning left, Max raced down the hallway. He was scarcely aware of the blaring alarms. He barely registered Madam Petra and the Workshop children as he passed them in the corridor. His mind was fixed on Scathach and those terrible shadows.

The pod bank was in flames, a morass of bubbling glass and plastic. Max made for the emergency stairwell, flinging open the fire door and leaping down the steps.

When Max burst through the doors on Level 18, he could scarcely breathe. His body was numb with panic, the gae bolga lifeless and leaden, as it always was when the clones were near. Ahead was a grand archway—the very portal the clones had stood beneath. A great fire was burning just beyond, its brilliance dancing on the corridor wall.

Hurtling through the archway, Max entered the vast museum but saw no sign of Scathach or the clones. Distant shouts and screams echoed in its grand acoustics. Oily fires dotted the entire Exotics wing, as though combustible liquids were seeping through cracks in the floor.

Max looked wildly about, yelling Scathach’s name again and again. There was no answer, just the crackle of flames and the dull boom of distant explosions. Trotting forward, he turned in circles, searching frantically for any sign of Scathach or the clones. He yelled her name again, hurrying toward the basilisk when he glimpsed its glinting carcass.

Where was she? Was she even here? Had the clones taken her?

His eyes swept a row of alcoves and galleries. Something was lying there, pressed against the base of an exhibit. Not a thing, but a girl lying in a pool of blood. Max’s worst fears had been realized.

He was by her in an instant, kneeling as he took hold of her hand.

“Can you hear me?” he said.

Scathach’s eyes met his. Touching her wrist, he felt her life, faint and flickering but life all the same. Gazing up at Max, she tried to speak but only expelled a tiny breath of air, not even enough for a gasp. Glancing down, Max searched for the wound.

It was not hard to find: a spear thrust through the back that stopped just short of piercing the mail corselet above Scathach’s heart. She would not suffer long. Pressing her against him, Max trembled with grief and rage. He didn’t care if the clones were near. He brushed a thin black braid off her forehead and kissed her clammy, salty skin. He kissed her pale cheeks and graying lips. Scathach was crying, her tears mingled with his and it frightened Max, for he’d never seen her do such a thing. She was far too proud. But gazing down, Max saw that her gray eyes were shining with love, not pain or sorrow. If she could not speak her goodbyes, she would say them another way.

A sudden, wild hope seized him. He ripped the ivory brooch from where Scathach had pinned it to his baldric. “This can save you!” he exclaimed. “This can bring you back to the Sidh!”

Max ignored Scathach’s look of dismay. He did not know how the brooch was supposed to work, only that Lugh had made it to ferry him to the Sidh when he died. Pressing the brooch to Scathach’s chest, he spoke in an urgent hiss. “I give its power to her. I don’t want it. Bring her back instead!”

Nothing happened. Max repeated his pleas, his voice raw and ragged. His petitions had become mere sobs. Pressing the brooch against her chest, he rocked her gently in his arms.

I love you. I love you. I love you …

A moment later, Scathach gave the tiniest shudder imaginable. Pulling back, Max looked into that young, noble face just inches from his own. Its expression was peaceful, the gray eyes sightless.

With a howl, Max slammed Lugh’s brooch onto the marble floor. It cracked into pieces, fragile as a sand dollar. “Goddamn you,” he seethed. “Goddamn you! Goddamn you!”

At that instant, Max felt something shatter within him. Every bone and muscle, every nerve seemed to split apart, unleashing an inferno burning deep inside. The blaze tore through his being—burning him, choking him, consuming him—until the last scraps of his mortal self had been incinerated. When the firestorm had passed, all that remained was the god.