Herod Preston stood at his Tribeca penthouse windows, studying three monitors displaying data from the Phoenix Grid's first section. The screens cast an eerie blue glow across the dimly lit room.

"It doesn't make sense," he muttered, bourbon untouched in his hand.

Rose entered, wrapped in a silk robe the color of blood, her hair damp from the shower. She moved toward him with predatory grace.

"What doesn't make sense?" she asked, ...