They’d come straight down the catwalk.

It was a melee. There was no other word. Three more Watchers had been killed before the pod had been repelled: Gar Phillips and Aidan Strauss and Kip Darrell, the runner who had first reported the massing pod at the fireline. A fourth, Sunny Greenberg, who had left her post at the lockup to join the fight, was unaccounted for and presumed lost. Also among the missing-and here Ian paused with a deeply troubled look-was Old Chou. Constance had awakened in the early-morning hours to find him gone; nobody had seen him since. So it seemed likely, though there was no direct evidence of this, that he had left his house in the dead of night to go to the Wall, where among the others he’d been taken. No virals had been killed at all.

That’s all, Ian said. That’s what we know.

Something was happening, Peter thought; the crowd could feel it too. Never had anybody witnessed an attack like this, its tactical quality. The closest analogue was Dark Night itself, but even then, the virals had given no evidence of presenting an organized assault. When the lights had gone out, Peter had run with Alicia from the trailer park to the Wall to fight with everyone else, but Ian had ordered them both to the Sanctuary, which in the confusion had been left undefended. So what they’d seen and heard had been both softened by distance and made worse because of it. He should have been there, he knew. He should have been on the Wall.

A voice cut through the murmuring of the crowd: “What about the power station?”

The speaker was Milo Darrell. He was holding his wife, Penny, to his side.

“As far as we know, it’s still secure, Milo,” Ian said. “Michael says there’s current still flowing.”

“But you said there was a power surge! Somebody should be going down there to check it out. And where the hell is Sanjay?”

Ian hesitated. “I was coming to that, Milo. Sanjay has taken sick. For now, Walter here is serving as Head.”

“Walter? You can’t be serious.”

Walter seemed to regain focus, stiffening in his seat to lift his bleary face toward the assembly. “Wait just a damn minute-”

But Milo cut back in. “Walter’s a drunk,” he said, his voice rising, becoming bolder. “A drunk and a cheat. Everybody knows it. Who’s really in charge here, Ian? Is it you? Because as far as I can tell, nobody is. I say open the Armory, let everybody stand the Wall who wants to. And let’s get somebody down to the station right now.”

A buzz of acknowledgment shivered the crowd. What was Milo trying to do? Peter thought. Start a riot? He glanced at Alicia; she was staring intently at Milo, her body in a posture of alert, arms held from her sides. All eyes.

“I’m sorry about your boy,” Ian said, “but this isn’t the time to go off half-cocked. Let the Watch handle this.”

But Milo paid him no attention. He swept his gaze over the assembly. “You heard him. Ian said they were organized. Well, maybe we need to be organized, too. If the Watch won’t do anything, I say we should.”

“Flyers, Milo. Calm down. People are scared, you’re not helping.”

It was Sam Chou, stepping forward, who spoke next: “They should be scared. Caleb let that girl in here, and now, what, eleven people are dead? She’s the reason they’re here!”

“We don’t know that, Sam.”

“I know it. And so does everybody else. Caleb and that girl, that’s where this all started. I say let it end with them, too.”

Peter heard it then, voices rising here and there: the girl, the girl, people were saying. He’s right. It was the girl.

“Just what do you want us to do about it?”

“What do I want you to do?” Sam said. “What you should have done already. They should be put out.” He swiveled to face the crowd. “Everyone, listen to me! The Watch won’t say it, but I will. Crosses can’t protect us, not against this. I say we put them out now!”

And with that, the first echoing voice rose from the crowd, then another and another, gathering into a chorus:

Put them out! Put them out! Put them out!

It was, Peter thought, as if a lifetime of worry had come suddenly un-dammed. Up front, Ian was waving his arms, bellowing for silence. The scene seemed poised on the verge of violence, some terrible act. There was nothing to stop it; the pretense of order had been stripped away.

He knew it then: he had to get the girl out of here. Caleb too, whose fate was now bound up with hers. But where could they go? What place would be safe?

He turned to Alicia, but she was gone.

Then Peter saw her. She had barged her way through the roiling mass of people. With an agile hop she mounted the table and spun to face the assembly.

“Everybody!” she cried. “Listen to me!”

Peter felt the crowd tense around him. A fresh dread bored through his veins. Lish, he thought, what are you doing?

“She’s not the reason they’re here,” Alicia said. “I am.”

Sam hurled his voice toward her: “Get down, Lish! This isn’t up to you!”

“All of you. This is my fault. It’s not the girl they want, it’s me. I was the one who torched the library. That’s what started this. It was a nest, and I led them all right back here. If you’re going to put anybody out, I should be the one. I’m the reason those people are dead.”

It was Milo Darrell who made the first move, lunging toward the table. Whether or not he was trying to get to Alicia, or Ian, or even Walter was unclear; but with this provocation a force of violence was suddenly unleashed in a wave of pushing and shoving, the crowd surging forward, a vaguely coordinated mass propelled only by itself. The table was overrun; Peter saw Alicia tumbling backward, enveloped by the mob. People were screaming, shouting. Those with children seemed to be trying to move away, while others wanted only to get to the front. The only thought in Peter’s mind was to reach Alicia. But as he labored to move forward, he, too, was caught in the crush of bodies. He felt his feet snarling up below him-he sensed that he was stepping on someone-and as he tumbled forward he saw who this person was: Jacob Curtis. The boy had dropped to his knees and was holding his hands protectively over his head against the rain of trampling feet. They impacted with a mutual grunt, Peter somersaulting over the boy’s broad back; he scrabbled to his knees and launched forward again, rising through a mass of arms and legs, propelling himself like a swimmer through a sea of people, flinging bodies aside. Something struck him then-a blow to the back of the head that felt like a punch-and as his vision flared he turned, swinging, his fist connecting solidly with a bearded, heavy-browed face that only later did he realize belonged to Hodd Greenberg, Sunny’s father. He had by this moment neared the front of the crowd; Alicia was on the ground, fleetingly visible through the throng that surrounded her. Like Jacob, she had drawn her hands up over her head, curling her body into a ball as a pummeling storm of hands and feet fell down upon her.

It wasn’t even a question. Peter drew his blade.

What might have happened next, Peter never learned. From the direction of the gate came a second rush of figures: the Watch. Ben and Galen, holding crosses. Dale Levine and Vivian Chou and Hollis Wilson and the others. Weapons drawn, they quickly formed a battle line between the table and the crowd, their presence immediately sending everyone scurrying back.

“Go to your homes!” Ian shouted. Blood was soaking his hair, running down the side of his face into the neck of his jersey. His cheeks were crimson with anger; spit was soaring in bright specks from his lips. He swept his cross across the crowd, as if unable to decide whom to fire on first. “The Household is suspended! I am declaring a state of martial law! An immediate curfew is in effect!”

Everything seemed held in a brittle silence. The mob had separated around Alicia, leaving her exposed. As Peter dropped to his knees beside her, she pivoted her dirt-streaked face toward him, the whites of her eyes enormous in their urgency.