Someone landed lightly on the roof. Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the door as Amethyst pointed her gun at the ceiling.

“Who’s there?” The sheriff’s question was a command.

A dark, grinning figure dropped down in front of the door. Adrian blinked and shifted his grip on his sword.

Francis tapped on the window. “Can I come in?” he asked in his own voice. Silver glinted at his throat.

Adrian looked back at Amethyst, who nodded, lips tense. He opened the door.

Francis walked in as if he’d never used a wheelchair.

Adrian sucked in a sharp breath. Amethyst’s eyes widened.

“Francis…”

“What did you do?”

Francis gave another sharklike grin. “I spent the past six days rewiring my spinal column and hardwiring my neural net against seizures,” he said. “It’ll probably last until the next thunderstorm rolls in, so let’s get this sonuvabitch already.”

Adrian was already watching the alleys again, waiting for the shooter to move. Amethyst looked Francis over, and nodded.

The madman aimed the gun. Kathleen unsheathed her knives and prepared to jump at him.

A thin stream of white-hot flames shot past her ear, roasting the madman before he could squeeze off a shot. Kathleen blinked and turned.

Dr. Cain stood behind her, coughing slightly. He clicked his tongue, then said, “What no one tells you is that your mouth tastes like a charcoal briquette for hours afterwards.” He coughed again.

Kathleen stared, then dug around in her pocket and wordlessly handed him a peppermint.

Detective Jones stuck her head out of the car’s window. “I don’t want to know how you know what a charcoal briquette tastes like.”

Cain stuck his tongue out at her, popped the mint in his mouth, and walked off, hands in his pockets and nose in the air.