I forgot my bad leg for a second, crossed the room to Butters, and seized him by the front of his shirt. I hauled up until his heels lifted off of the floor. "Listen to me," I snarled. "We are not going to die."

Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?"

"No. And do you know why?"

He shook his head.

"Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die."

He blinked.

"Polka will never die!" I shouted at him. "Say it!"

He swallowed. "Polka will never die?"

"Again!"

"P-p-polka will never die," he stammered.

I shook him a little. "Louder!"

"Polka will never die!" he shrieked.

"We're going to make it!" I shouted.

"Polka will never die!" Butters screamed.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Thomas muttered.

I shot my half brother a warning look, released Butters, and said, "Get ready to open the door."

Then the window just over Butters's head exploded into shards of broken glass. I felt a hot, stinging sensation on my nose. I stumbled, my wounded leg gave out, and I fell.

Butters shrieked.

I looked up in time to see dead grey fingers clutching the little guy by the hair. They hauled him off of his feet, and two more zombie hands latched onto him and pulled him up through the broken window and out of the apartment. It happened so fast, before I could get my good leg under me, before Thomas could draw his saber.

There was a terrified scream from outside. It ended abruptly.

"Oh, God," I whispered. "Butters."

Chapter Twenty-three

I stood staring up at the broken window in stunned silence for a second. "Harry," Thomas said, quiet urgency in his voice, "we need to go."

"No," I said. "I'm not leaving him."

"He's probably dead already."

"If he is," I said. "It won't protect him from Grevane. I won't leave him there."

"Do we have a chance in a fight?"

I shook my head with a grimace. "Help me up."

He did. I limped over to the window and shouted, "Grevane!"

"Good evening," Grevane said, the rich, cultured tones of his voice a marked contrast to the dull, steady pounding at my front door. "My compliments to your contractor. That door is really quite sturdy."

"I like my privacy," I called back. "Is the mortician alive?"

"That's a somewhat fluid term in my experience," Grevane said. "But he is well enough for the time being."