"This is taking too long," Father Paul said. The local authorities would soon respond to the commotion. He touched his throat microphone. "Gather up the strays and meet back at the ranch. One minute."

"Hold on a second." Finnegan held the blue pill close to his eyes. "This is an Aleve."

"No, it's not," the fanatic said.

"The hell it isn't. I take them for my knees. It's an Aleve with the writing scratched off."

"It's a suicide pill. We've sworn not to be taken alive."

Finnegan grabbed the fanatic's face, squeezed until his mouth popped open, then shoved the pill inside. The fanatic squirmed, tried to spit it out, but the Irishman clapped a hand over his mouth. "Swallow it."

The fanatic swallowed it, and Finnegan removed his hand.

"You son of a bitch!" the fanatic shouted. "You've poisoned me."

"It's not poison, idiot. It'll probably make your leg feel better."

"That's enough," Father Paul said. "Finnegan, throw him over your shoulder. We'll fix his leg in the van. Let's move."

Somehow Father Paul would have to find the Cabbot boy. He was out there roaming Prague by night without the faintest notion of what was about to happen to him.

SEVENTEEN

A my held his hand tight, pulling him along so fast that Allen almost tripped and fell flat on his face a dozen times. The ra-ta-ta-tat of distant machine-gun fire still followed them. Her blond braids streamed behind her. Allen huffed and went red in the face, a large quantity of pilsner sloshing in his stomach.

"I've got to stop," Allen said.

"Not yet. Keep running."

They ran through the residential area to a small park at the foot of a hill. Allen jerked his hand away from hers and threw himself on the first park bench they passed.

"Got to... stop, okay?" He gasped for breath. "I'm going to... puke."

She took his hand in both of hers and tried to pull him off the bench. "Come on! We can rest later. We've got to get under cover."

"Just one minute. I'm not kidding. I'm going to spew beer all over this fucking bench."

She sat next to him, put her hand on his forehead. Her palm was soft and cool. She smelled like cinnamon.

Both their heads jerked up at the sound of the sirens.

They saw the lights washing through the street a split second before the two police cars came into view, driving fast. Amy threw her arms around Allen and kissed him hard as the police cars sped past.

"What was that for?" A faint strawberry flavor lingered in his mouth from the kiss.

"Haven't you ever seen them do that in the movies?" she asked. "A man and woman trying to look inconspicuous when the cops go by?"

"I don't think it was necessary. They were probably too worried about the gunfight to care about a couple of people sitting on a park bench," Allen said. "Not that I minded."

She stood, grabbed his hand again. "Come on."

They headed for a narrow path on the other side of the park bench. It led uphill.

Allen groaned. "Can't we escape downhill?"

"We don't have to run," Amy said. "Just keep moving."

The narrow path zigzagged uphill and joined a wider path. It was steep enough going to wind Allen after five minutes. He got sweaty, puffed for air. The path led into a road, which they took to the top of the hill. A blocky gray building sat at the top.

"This is Zizkov Hill, isn't it?" Allen recalled the description in The Rogue's Guide. "The Monument."

"The National Monument, yes. We're approaching it from the back."

It looked like a big, squat concrete bunker. They circled around the side, then ducked into a breezeway that ran through the middle of the structure. The whole place was lit poorly by scattered streetlights. Amy stopped in front of a large, dark set of wood doors chained together with a thick brass padlock. She fished into her shirt and brought out a small key on a string, then unlocked the padlock and opened one of the doors just wide enough for both of them to slip inside. She closed it again, padlocked it on the inside.

The room was bare, gray stone, with a single Soviet-looking lightbulb sticking out of a utilitarian fixture. A gray block humped up from the center of the floor-the tomb of the unknown soldier, which The Rogue's Guide said was now empty. There was nothing else in the chamber, and Allen was forced to wonder what they were doing here.

Amy reached around the side of the tomb, depressed a small square of stone. The tomb rumbled; the squeal and clink of chains, the hum of machinery. The top of the tomb slid halfway back. Allen stepped forward, looked inside.

A metal ladder descended into a tunnel below.

"We can lie low down here," Amy said. "Follow me."

She swung her leg over and into the tomb, went down the ladder.

Allen hesitated, then followed.

The bottom of the ladder let them off in an old service tunnel, where water pipes and other conduits ran along the floor and ceiling. The stone tunnel was barely four feet wide and less than six feet tall, again lit by low-watt bare bulbs every twenty feet. Allen had to bow his head slightly as he followed Amy.

Abruptly they came upon a man-sized hole in the side of the tunnel. They ducked inside.

The chamber, a large area full of pipes and valves, stretched ten feet high. The room was obviously some sort of central crossroads for all the plumbing and electrical wiring for the Monument and other buildings on the hill.

But the room had been recently altered.

Three double beds with matching pillows and comforters spread around the room. Beads and tapestries had been hung in an attempt to make the chamber seem livable. There was a desk with a computer. An easy chair with a lamp standing next to it. A few books on a footstool. A table set up with kitchen stuff, hot plate and microwave.

The Harry Potter poster over one of the beds just looked... wrong.

The girl on the bed with the camouflage comforter and matching pillowcases sat up, startled, setting aside a book she was reading. "What are you doing here? What's he doing here?"

It was one of the other girls from the Globe. The tough-looking one with black spiky hair and the heavy, dark eye makeup. She'd kicked off the combat boots and had put on torn jeans and a Clash T-shirt. The Clash? Was that some honest bit of retro or some kind of put-on? Allen's mother had listened to the Clash.

"Basil is dead, Clover," Amy said.

The Tough one-Clover-went blank, then her face slowly softened and her shoulders slumped. "Shit."

"I think they got the others too," Amy said. "I don't know what to do. Can we handle this, just the three of us?"

"To hell with that," Clover said. "I say we call for reinforcements. Get everyone in here, guns blazing, and put a lid on this fucking shit pronto."

"That would be rash."

Allen jumped at the new voice behind him. He stepped aside as she entered the room, the third one from the Globe. In the crowded caf¨¦, Allen had only seen her sitting. Now he could see how tall she was-at least an inch taller than Allen, with a broad back, short hair, and tightly muscled arms, making her look like a cross between a phys ed teacher and a Navy SEAL. Her voice was deep and flinty.

"Sam!" Amy put a gentle hand on her arm. "Basil is dead."

"I know," Sam said. "I just came from there. The place is crawling with local fuzz."

Amy's eyes went glassy, on the verge of tears. "What do we do now?"

"Counterstrike," Clover said.

"That doesn't get us anywhere." Sam looked at Allen. "How far did Basil get with him?"

Amy opened her mouth, but Allen said, "Ask me, why don't you? I'm standing right here."

"Okay, sport. What did Basil tell you?"

"He didn't get very far," Allen said. "He started talking about alchemists."

"Did he tell you what Evergreen is doing?"

"No."

Sam nibbled her bottom lip in contemplation. "We need to call for help. They need to know back home what's happened to Basil."

"What about Allen?" asked Amy.

Clover scooted to the front of the bed, grabbed her combat boots, and jammed her feet into them. "Tie him up. Try the mind probe on him."

One of Allen's eyebrows went up. "Mind probe?"

"Do we have to? Allen's on our side now." Amy grabbed his arm. "Tell them, Allen."

"I'm not on anybody's side. I don't know what the hell is going on. I don't know who you are!"

"I'm Amy."

"This is ridiculous."

"We are The Three," Sam told him. "And we're members of the Society, an ancient order dedicated to preserving and protecting the balance of magic. The balance that Dr. Evergreen is about to throw completely out of whack."

Allen frowned.

"See how easy that was to explain?" Clover stuck a cigarette in her mouth. "Magic balance out of whack. Aren't you glad you asked?"

Allen could not think of anything he was glad about.

"Don't smoke," Amy said. "I hate it when you smoke."

Sam unwrapped a thin cigar, put it in her mouth, and lit it.

"You're doing that on purpose to irritate me. You know the smoke bothers my eyes."

"Clover's right." Sam inhaled, held it, then blew a long gray stream toward the ceiling. "We can't let you run to Evergreen and tip him off."

"It was the priests that broke in on us," Amy said. "They killed Basil. They tried to kill us. Allen saw them. He wouldn't be on their side. Not now. Would you, Allen?"

Allen opened his mouth. Shut it again. Amy had a point. It had been Father Paul. With a machine gun. Allen had seen his face clearly. On the other hand, Amy and this Basil guy had shoved him in the trunk of a car, had questioned him at gunpoint.

"Look, I don't know what to think. All I know is I don't want any trouble."

"Well, trouble is what you got," Clover sneered. "You're in this up to your ass, so deal with it."

"Leave him alone," Amy said. "He's overwhelmed."

"Boo-fucking-hoo."

"Enough." Sam puffed the cigar. "Let me think."

Allen pointed at the easy chair. "Can I sit there? I feel like I'm going to fall over."

Sam puffed the cigar, nodded.

"I'll get you a drink," Amy said. "Some water."

Allen collapsed into the chair. How long since he'd slept?

"Take this." Amy handed him a glass of water.

He drank, realized how parched he was, gulped it all down.

Sam stood next to his chair and placed a warm, calloused hand on his forehead. Blurry syllables spilled out of her mouth, too fast and strange to understand.

He blinked up at her. "What?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep if you're tired."

He put his head back. Maybe he'd close his eyes. Just for a minute. Just a... quick... forty... winks.

"Allllleeeeeen."

Somebody was calling his name through the fog.

Cobblestones under his feet. Allen wore boots, high, hard, and black. Gray breeches and a ruffled, cream-colored shirt. Some kind of period costume.

Oh, hell. I'm in a Brontë novel.

The sound of rushing water came through the fog. Allen wasn't on a road. It was a bridge. He looked over the side, saw the Vltava flowing beneath him. He glanced back over his shoulder where Prague Castle would be on the hill, watching over the city below, but the thick fog obscured everything, blotted out the stars.

He jogged along the bridge, but it stretched on and on with no end in sight. The voice in the fog called his name again. "Allen. Alllleeeeeen."

"Who's there?"

She floated out of the fog like a ghost. Red velvet dress dragging the cobblestones, tight bodice pushing up white breasts. A black cloak with the hood thrown back revealed luxurious waves of dark hair.

"Allen."

Allen gulped. "Mrs. Evergreen?"

"This is a dream, Allen."

"I know."

"It's a dream, but it's real. I really am here in your mind. I'm inside you, Allen."

"Uh... thank you?"

"I'm calling to you, Allen."

"I'm flattered, but I'd like to wake up now."

She moved toward him, seeming to glide, as if there had been unseen roller skates beneath the billowing dress. She circled him as she spoke, trailing a delicate finger along his shoulders and back.

"My husband needs your help, Allen. He's been looking for you. Waiting for you."

"I was delayed." Allen felt guilty, ashamed. Like he'd disappointed her. "I've had some trouble with-"

"I know that you're with the witches," she said.

Witches?

Allen said, "There's a priest, too."

She hissed and stepped back from him. "How many?"

"I don't know."

She was suddenly in front of him again, blue eyes locked onto his. Allen stood paralyzed, a chill all over his body, a feeling like cold, stone hands holding his heart. He wanted to flee, yet he could not stand the idea of being away from her. He had to serve her. Please her.

"Tell me of this priest," she said.

Allen told her everything he knew. He reached into his ruffled shirt, pulled out the crucifix. "He gave me this."

Cassandra Evergreen flinched, took a step back. "It's not important. Put it away."

He put it away.