The flame flared. Smoke billowed up, making Maria cough. In the center of the flame was a dark spot with a strange shape. It grew longer, higher. It was too dim to make out the features, but the shape looked almost like the outline of a human face.

Brandon.

The flame was going to form Brandon’s face. She knew it.

Sweat dripped down Maria’s forehead. She didn’t know if it was the fire or the fear.

She couldn’t stand to look at him again.

“Altagracia? Are you here?” Maria looked back in the direction she’d come. She couldn’t see more than a few feet away, despite the light from the flame.

Surely she could find her way if she needed to. Climb back up that ladder. Hoist herself into the church.

But it didn’t matter. Maria took a long, deep breath. That thing, the flame, these voices, Brandon—none of them could touch her. She was alive. She was stronger than the dead.

“I demand to speak with Altagracia!” Maria hoped she sounded bold. Like she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The next voice she heard was a woman’s, but it wasn’t Altagracia.

This voice moaned low, the same sounds over and over. At first Maria didn’t think she was speaking actual words. After a minute, the moans became clearer.

“Please.” The woman’s voice was fragile, like she might break at any moment. “Please. Please don’t.”

“Listen to me!” Maria shouted. Somewhere in this mess was Altagracia. Maria couldn’t let the others scare her away before she got her answers. “Tell me what I want to know!”

More voices came.

Men. Women. Children. All speaking at once. They were talking fast, racing over each other, some in English, some in Spanish, some in other languages. Their words were too garbled for her to understand.

The voices multiplied until Maria couldn’t tell them apart. There must have been hundreds. She couldn’t tell if Brandon was among them.

Panic stirred in her. She’d never faced more than one spirit at a time.

It was too much. There were too many.

Maria turned to run.

Another flame shot up from the ground, blocking her path back to the church. The sweat was pouring down her face.

“Let me go!” she shouted.

The flames shot up toward the ceiling.

Fire.

That was why it was so hot. Why the smoky smell still lingered.

The fire three hundred years ago—it had started in this tunnel.

The Siwards. Their slaves.

Hundreds had died here.

The pebbles under her feet—that was what was left of them.

Maria stumbled at the realization, at the crunch of crumbled bones under her feet. She turned to run the other way. She couldn’t stay here, not with—

The fragments under her feet were moving.

Maria scrambled backward until she felt heat at her back.