She let herself out onto the porch.

Darkness. Everywhere. Not a single light from the surrounding houses.

Someone a few doors down yelled in outrage, “Hey!”

Caine had reached the power plant. Sam had failed.

Astrid stifled a sob. If Sam was hurt . . . If . . .

Astrid felt fear like icy fingers reaching through her nightgown. She stumbled into the kitchen. She opened the junk drawer and found, after some searching, a flashlight. The light from it was faint and failed in seconds.

But in the few seconds of light she found a candle.

She tried to light it from the stove. But the gas ran unlit because it required electricity to fire.

Matches. A lighter. Surely there were some matches somewhere.

But there was no way to find them without light. She had a candle and no way to light it.

Astrid felt her way to the stairs and climbed to Little Pete’s room. The Game Boy was beside his bed, where he always left it. If he woke up and found it missing, he would go nuts. He would . . . there was no telling what he would do.

She carried the Game Boy down the stairs and used the light from the LED to search the junk drawer. No matches, but there was a yellow Bic lighter.

She struck a flame and lit the candle.

She had avoided thinking about Sam for the last few moments, intent on her search. But there was no escaping the fact that Sam had rushed off to stop Caine. And he had not succeeded. The only question now was: Had he survived?

A line from an old poem bubbled up from Astrid’s near-photographic memory. “The center cannot hold,” she whispered to the eerily lit kitchen. The verse played in her head.

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

“Things fall apart; the center cannot hold,” Astrid repeated.

The center, maybe. But surely, even here in the FAYZ, God listened and watched over His children.

“Please let Sam be okay,” she whispered to the candle.

She made the sign of the cross on her chest and knelt before the kitchen counter as if it were an altar.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

In the old days when she had said this prayer, the devil was a creature with horns and a tail. Now in her mind the devil had the same face as Caine. And when the prayer went on to speak of “the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls,” the picture in her mind’s eye was of a dead-eyed boy with a snake for an arm.

TWENTY-SIX

17 HOURS, 49 MINUTES

“WHAT IS IT you want, Caine?” Sam’s voice, calling from outside. He sounded angry, frustrated. Defeated.

Caine bowed his head. He savored the moment. Victory. Just four days had passed since he had regained some measure of control over himself. And now he had beaten Sam.

“Four days,” he said, just loudly enough for those in the room to hear. “That’s how long it took me to defeat Sam Temple.” Caine locked eyes with Drake. “Four days,” Caine sneered. “What did you accomplish in the three months I was sick?”

Drake met his gaze, then wavered, and looked down at the floor. There was red in his cheeks, a dangerous glitter in his eyes, but he could not meet Caine’s triumphant scowl.

“Remember this when you finally decide it’s time to take me on, Drake,” Caine whispered.

Caine turned to the others and beamed happiness at his crew. Jack, still at the computer, a sloppy, bloody mess, but so engaged in his work that he was barely aware of what was going on. Bug, drifting in and out of view. Diana pretending to be unimpressed. He winked at her, knowing she wouldn’t respond. Drake’s two soldiers, lounging.

“What do I want?” Caine yelled back through the charred hole in the wall. Then, carefully enunciating each word for emphasis. “What. Do. I. Want?”

And then, Caine drew a blank. For a moment, just a moment before he recovered, he couldn’t think of what he wanted. No one else heard the hesitation. But Caine felt it.

What did he want?

He searched for an answer and found one that would do. “You, Sam,” Caine purred. “I want you to walk in here all by yourself. That’s what I want.”

The hostages, Mickey and Mike, looked at each other in disbelief. Caine could guess what they were thinking: their big hero, Sam, had failed.

Sam’s voice was muffled but audible. “I would, Caine. To tell you the truth, it would probably be a relief.” He sounded weary. He sounded beaten. Luscious, wonderful sounds to Caine’s ears. “But we all know how you act when there’s no one there to stop you. So, no.”

Caine let out a loud, theatrical sigh. He smiled ear to ear. “Yeah, I thought you’d take that attitude, Sam. So I have an alternative. I have a trade in mind.”

“Trade? What for what?”

“Food for light,” Caine said. He put his hand to his ear as if listening. To Diana, he whispered, “Hear that? That’s the sound of my brother realizing he’s beaten. Realizing he just became my . . . what’s a good word? Servant? Slave?”

Sam yelled, “Looks to me like you’re the one in trouble, Caine.”

Caine blinked. A warning light was flashing in the back of his mind. He had just made a mistake. He didn’t know what, but he had made a mistake.