That wasn’t a migraine.

Simon opened his eyes, admitting to himself that this was not the darkness of his bedroom. This was . . . this was too dark. It had weight, this darkness. Substance. It pressed against him, threatened to smother him because he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. And not a sliver of light showed anywhere.

He tried to move again, cautiously this time. He could move his legs a bit, but his ankles were pressed together. Tied together. And his arms were . . . his hands were behind his back, he thought, and numb; he tried to move his fingers and couldn’t. Because his hands were tied together too.

He was lying on his side; he knew that. But not in a bed. He was lying on something hard.

Simon lay there for some amount of time that felt like forever. Or a few seconds. Trying not to listen to the voice in his head that was louder now and telling him he was in trouble, bad trouble. The voice that was edging past panic and into something that felt like terror.

Swallowing, he tried to call out, “Hello?” and heard his own voice sounding both hoarse and oddly muffled.

When he tried to move his legs more, his knees bumped against something hard. He managed to move his aching head back, and felt a flash of new pain when he pressed against something hard behind him. He wanted to turn over onto his back, and tried, but when he moved his heavy legs his knees again bumped against something hard.

Above him.

He could hear himself breathing in short, jerky pants, and he imagined it was getting even harder to breathe. Surely that was his imagination. It had to be. His heart was slamming against his ribs, and his head was still pounding sickly, and he knew he was shaking. Maybe that was why it seemed harder to breathe.

Maybe that was why.

The darkness wasn’t getting any lighter even though his eyes were wide-open. And suddenly the voice in his head was too insistent to ignore, even though listening to it terrified Simon.

You’re in some kind of a box. A small box. You never got home, Simon. Somebody hit you. Aylia Blackwood said a monster was hunting in Salem, hunting the Five.

The monster’s got you.

And he’s buried you alive.

That was when Simon Cavendish began to scream.

FOURTEEN

Bishop said, “As far as I’ve been able to tell, there are no real telltale physical characteristics identifying any member of the Five as being from the specific families. Coloring, build, height, that sort of thing.”

Finn shook his head. “No, there’s all the variety within each family you’d expect to find within most any family. Among the adults of the Five, blonds, brunettes, redheads, and fair skin are the rule.”

Quentin said, “Yeah, figures.”

Steadily, Finn said, “If he kills again, and if he leaves his next victim the way he left this one, knowing what anybody looks like isn’t going to help us identify them.” He looked at Bishop steadily. “How sure are you that the remains found at the other site are those of Megan?”