"What shall we do?"

It was a rhetorical question and Norman Mote was obviously angered when someone near the back called out, "Try and find out who done it, Brother Mote. That's my idea."

"Yes, yes, of course we'll try and find out who did it, Brother Thaxted. But there's more. Much more. How about the stickies suddenly appearing in our beloved vine? Talcing away those three good, good boys from our hearts. And now Azrael! Something is rotten, my friends. Rotten and bad and wicked. The demons are abroad in Snakefish!"

"Let me go and drop some gas bombs on them stickies from my plane," Layton Brennan shouted. "I could burn them out."

"We aren't sure where they come from, nephew," Baron Edgar said testily.

John Dern, the dealer in blasters, raised his voice. "Then let's all go after them. Do it 'fore the stickies come into the ville!"

This time the chorus of agreement was much louder and more positive.

Mote held his hands up for silence. "Peace be among us, my friends. What we must ask ourselves is who could have done this bloody thing? Who would have shot Azrael to pieces? Who would have blasters capable of that?"

The words were addressed to the balcony, and to the people ranged around the three walls of the temple. But Mote's eyes raked the pew where Ryan sat with the others. It couldn't have been more obvious where his suspicions lay if he'd thrown a bucket all over them.

The muttering and whispering that filled the sudden stillness confirmed that Mote was simply saying what others thought.

It wasn't time for a sitting on your hands and waiting for the stones to begin flying in your direction. Ryan stood.

"Hope you don't mind an outlander like me speaking out in your service, Reverend Mote." The man, looking surprised, nodded. "Thanks. I've been around plenty of frontier villes in my life. I know that trouble always gets laid at the doors of any outlanders. Way of the world. That's what could happen here if you aren't kind of careful about being fair. Know what I mean? Accusations sometimes bounce right on back against... well, the person who made them. We just heard about the death of your snake. Anyone got any proof we had something to do with it, Reverend? Nobody? I'm glad to hear it."

And he sat down again.

The whispering swelled for a moment, then faded away. Mote looked around at his wife, who waved her hand at him, as if to tell him to get on with the service.

"We're all pleased to hear from Ryan Cawdor that any suspicions... uh, what he said. But none of that changes anything. Three of the Last Heroes and Azrael. Only one thing to be done, brothers and sisters. Only one thing!"

Once again the preacher flashed his sweat-soaked armpits at the faithful.

"A feeding!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

In the bedlam that followed, the congregation was on its feet, yelling and clapping in a crazed fervor.

Right at the front, Ryan could make out the diminutive baron, facing the congregation-turned-mob, trying to shout something. Carla Petersen stood at his side, face pale and anguished. J.B. had pushed his way through the crowd, to take Carla by the arm, pulling her with him and towing Edgar Brennan in his wake, heading toward the main doors of the temple.

Ryan saw something else — the anger and hatred that was etched deep on the face of Marianne Mote.

By the time Ryan had led the others to their rooms, J.B. had calmed down the baron, who sat in the armchair, his legs not quite reaching the floor. Carla was perched on the bed, long legs folded under her, leaning back against the pillow.

Rick had become tired, and it had been a struggle to help him along the street, through the throng of Snakefish citizens that had poured out of the temple, their eyes alight as if they'd witnessed the coming of some great miracle. And the word that was on everyone's lips was "feeding."

"Want to go lie down, Rick?" Krysty asked, concerned.

"Yeah, but I'll stay if you don't mind. Looks like this could be some sort of council. I wouldn't want to miss out on that. But couldn't we move to a bigger room? Then I could lie on the bed and rest."

After a brief discussion they adjourned one door along the corridor to Doc and Lori's light and airy room.

Rick, forehead beaded with perspiration, lay back, unable to stifle a groan. He glanced around at the worried faces and managed a half smile. "Don't worry. I'm not going to invest in six feet of earth yet. It's just that my muscles ache and get real tired. But I'm fine now. Really."

The other friends ranged themselves around the room, finding somewhere to sit or lean. Jak squatted cross-legged with his back against the door, an ear listening for eavesdroppers. Carla stood with J.B., close by the open front window. Edgar Brennan had the wicker chair alongside the bed.

"So," Doc began. "They got their way. As easily as winking. One dead snake and they can swing most of the ville behind them."

Carla shook her head. "You don't understand. Outlanders often don't understand. If you argue against the Motes when it comes to a feeding, then it somehow seems that the fingers point at you. And it's you out there in the brush waiting for the forked tongue and the hollow tooth."

"It's true, my friends." Edgar Brennan sighed. "And I call you 'friends' because I see that you are not the hired mercies that we feared. The appearance of the stickies and that big pet of Norman and Marianne's being chilled... It's all rushed events too fast. I'd hoped that I could, somehow, persuade some of the decent folk of my ville to follow my lead and stand up against the Motes."

"It was impossible," Carla said ruefully. "I explained to John how the Motes rule through fear and through their backing of the bikers. Edgar was too kind for too long."

"So kind so long will ne'er rule long, 'tis said. Now you don't have a lot of choice," the freezie said, leaning up on one elbow.

"Nicely put, Richard," Doc observed, smiling appreciatively at Ginsberg. "By the three Kennedys! What is that towering inferno out back?"

Thick gray smoke had begun to billow around the back window, and they could all hear the crackling of flames.

Jak peered out. "Rainer burning garden shit. Big flames."

"And lots of smoke," Lori added, pushing the boy out of the way so that she could look out the open window.

"How does this feeding work, Baron?" J.B. asked. "How do they pick who gets... chilled?"

"The Motes do it. She throws a trance. Thrashes around and screams. Wriggles like a snake." Carla laughed bitterly. "Be double-funny if it wasn't all a way of removing opposition. Fat hag like her, pretending to be a snake! The one she picks gets driven out into the brush. Nowhere to go. No food or drink. Zombie and his brothers wait to make sure the chosen never comes back. Doesn't take those rattlers long to know when there's food to be had."

"Like stickies to an explosion or a fire," Ryan growled.

"When will the feeding be?" J.B. asked.

Carla answered him. "Probably around dusk tomorrow. It's a big production. They all shout and scream, and they light gas fires. See it for miles, lighting up the sky."

Edgar Brennan buried his head in his hands. "Perhaps if I was to leave Snakefish? I'm no use to anyone. I can't order anyone to do anything. Nobody listens to me anymore. They just want us to stop selling our gas so cheap. Everyone wants more jack. More power. It'll turn this little settlement into one of those villes with a gaudy house every block and a murder every night."

"You triple-feeb!" the Armorer exploded. "All you gotta do is borrow a blaster. Walk down the street and blow them away. We'll handle the Angels for you. But it's got to be you, Baron."

"John! Edgar can't..." Carla began, but J.B. turned on her.