Her teeth jarred.

Her palms scraped along the rough stones, scraping skin, breaking fingernails as she scrambled for the damned gun.

Her legs tangled in the lacy folds of the wretched wedding dress, and she looked up to see Devota, breathing hard, eyes glittering with hatred in the faded light, a looming figure draped in black, struggling to her feet.

Like the monster in her dreams. More evil and callous and malicious than Sister Ignatia. The bloody knife dripping from her hand.

A murderer dressed as a nun . . .

Fear coiled through Val.

“It’s over,” Devota said, smiling with a crazy, off-kilter grin that stretched her lips thin, snakelike, over her teeth. “You’re nexxxt!”

Oh, God.

Horror curdled her blood as she kicked free of the yellowed folds of stained lace, her ankle and leg throbbing. “No, you stupid bitch,” she whispered, her voice just as deadly, her hands searching, grasping for the gun. One fingertip brushed something cold and metal. The pistol! “You are. You’re next!”

“Valerie!” Slade’s voice echoed through the tombs.

“Here!” she yelled desperately, her fingers stretching over the .38’s grip.

Too late.

With a scream of fury, Devota kicked the pistol away. It skittered across the floor. So incensed she nearly lost her balance as she dropped to her knees, she grabbed Sister Charity’s veil and yanked hard, pulling back her head, exposing the mother superior’s white throat. A tiny gold cross dangled and winked from a tiny chain around Charity’s neck, where blood was already running.

“Stop! Don’t!” Val yelled, horrified.

Sister Charity closed her eyes and started praying, her vulnerable throat working as she whispered, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

In the smokey blue light of the flashlight, Val watched in horror as Devota drew back her knife, then, with a quick stroke borne of hatred, sliced the soft tissue of Sister Charity’s throat.

“Oh, God, no!” Val cried.

Blood spurted from the reverend mother’s throat, showering Devota and spraying against the coffins and walls of the crypt, bloody drops hitting the fleshless corpse of Sister Lea.

The flashlight went rolling, its beam spinning crazily against the tombs. Val caught glimpses of the hollow-eyed skeleton and Sister Charity’s blinking, terrified face as she clutched her throat. Blood, dark and red, seeped through her old fingers, the silver wedding band on her finger disappearing in the ooze.

Their gazes met—mother and daughter. Val, her soul shredding as her mother bled, tried to stand, but her leg gave way and she fell, at the mercy of this beast. . . .

“Don’t,” Charity whispered, pleading with Devota. “Please don’t harm her . . .”

“Shut up!” Devota’s nostrils flared in outrage. “I’m done listening to you!” She kicked the mother superior away.

“Leave her alone,” Val said.