“A few ground rules, if you don’t mind.” Jack’s voice was a razor, slicing across the crashing of the waves. “The villagers who live in the shadow of the Drowned Gods are pleasant folk, but they have strange appetites, and stranger ideas about hospitality. Accept nothing they offer. Assume that any pleasantry comes with attached strings, and ask yourself how many fingers you need before you return it in kind. They won’t harm you if not given permission, but they may take simple courtesy as permission, and they are always, always hungry. Mind you”—amusement crept into her tone—“the one time a group of them came to meet with Dr. Bleak in the village, I heard their leader giving much the same warning about those who live in the shadow of a vampire lord, so it’s entirely possible there’s no strangeness here at all, merely a few small cultural differences and a great whopping dash of xenophobia.”

“Don’t you mean racism?” asked Christopher.

“’S’not the same thing,” said Sumi.

“Much of the population of the Moors is made up of the descendants of travelers whose doors opened all over the world. In this case, I mean xenophobia,” said Jack, voice surprisingly pleasant. “Were we attempting to parlay with the gargoyle kings, who detest and fear anyone not made at least partially of stone, I would mean racism. Regardless, I must ask you to be on your best behavior, at least until we reach the abbey. If you wish to offend them, do so with my blessing. I’ll be standing at a safe remove, watching to see how far the entrails fly. Do we have an understanding, or must I provide details?”

“We understand,” said Christopher hurriedly. “Please don’t provide details.”

“Excellent.” Jack gave the reins a snap. The horses slowed. “We’re here.”

The others turned and beheld a wall that looked high enough to scrape against the omnipresent moon. It was made entirely of blackened timbers, barnacles and dried-out clams clinging to their sides, like they had been harvested from the greatest shipwreck the world had ever known. Slowly, the vast gates swung open, and with another flick of the reins, Jack drove them through, into the dubious safety of the town.

The gates slammed shut behind them with remarkable speed, and everything was quiet, and Christopher knew, with absolute certainty, that not all of them were going to make it home.

PART  III

WHERE THE DROWNED GODS GO

10 WHERE THE SHADOW MEETS THE SEA

BUT WE MUST go backward, briefly: we must go back to a girl running, running, running across the vast sprawl of the Moors with her heart in her throat and her lungs achingly full of unfamiliar air. Air has never been her harbor, never been her home, and this air is less hers than most. This air burns. And still she keeps running, racing toward the shadow of the sea.