Solomon Birch’s muscles burned from exertion, but only for a moment: the time it took for him to remind himself it was only a mental flaw. There was no lactic acid in him to scream about fatigue, only blood. He leapt over a wall with new lightness as soon as he remembered he was no man, but Longinus’ passion given flesh. The fallback point was another block and, as he expected, Crone witches were there, casting carved bones to wrest knowledge from their wretched, false gods. “The Brood’s on their way,” he said, breaking their meditations. “Five of them are the usual: insane, disposable cultists. But two of them…” “Oh, we know,” said the Chorus’ head. “We asked Her, using the names you provided. There were visions. The number four figured prominently.” “Thank God demons know their own. The fourth rite is the efficacious one, then.” Birch raised a hand to summon his student. She was already shuffling through vellum to find the invocation. “Call Her what you like,” said the Acolyte. “If She’s a demon, you’ve compromised your faith for expedience in a time of war. Quite a coup for us, considering who you are.” He said nothing, but opened one wrist over the proper thurible. Before he committed his mind to the rite, he thought upon doctrines that could never be spoken of; how the Lord creates evil to battle evil, in squabbling armies that fulfill His design. Solomon Birch was comforted, and then he sang.