“What if it isn’t?” Beau snorted, shaking his head, but stopped short with a yawn. He spoke around it. “It’s a church, and our faces are plastered all over Belterra. Even a country priest will recognize us.”

“Fine.” Her tired voice held less bite than she probably intended. “Sleep outside with the dog.”

As one, we turned to look at the spectral white dog that followed us. He’d shown up outside Cesarine, just before we’d agreed to travel the coast instead of the road. We’d all seen enough of La Fôret des Yeux to last a lifetime. For days, he’d trailed behind us, never coming near enough to touch. Wary, confused, the matagots had vanished shortly after his appearance. They hadn’t returned. Perhaps the dog was a restless spirit himself—a new type of matagot. Perhaps he was merely an ill omen. Perhaps that was why Lou hadn’t yet named him.

The creature watched us now, his eyes a phantom touch on my face. I gripped Lou’s hand tighter. “We’ve been walking all night. No one will look for us inside a church. It’s as good a place as any to hide. If it isn’t abandoned”—I spoke over Beau, who started to interrupt—“we’ll leave before anyone sees us. Agreed?”

Lou grinned at Beau, her mouth wide. So wide I could nearly count all her teeth. “Are you afraid?”

He shot her a dubious look. “After the tunnels, you should be too.”

Her grin vanished, and Coco visibly stiffened, looking away. Tension straightened my own spine. Lou said nothing more, however, instead dropping my hand to stalk toward the door. She twisted the handle. “Unlocked.”

Without a word, Coco and I followed her over the threshold. Beau joined us in the vestibule a moment later, eyeing the darkened room with unconcealed suspicion. A thick layer of dust coated the candelabra. Wax had dripped to the wooden floor, hardening among the dead leaves and debris. A draft swept through from the sanctuary beyond. It tasted of brine. Of decay.

“This place is haunted as shit,” Beau whispered.

“Language.” Scowling at him, I stepped into the sanctuary. My chest tightened at the dilapidated pews. At the loose hymnal pages collecting in the corner to rot. “This was once a holy place.”

“It isn’t haunted.” Lou’s voice echoed in the silence. She stilled behind me to stare up at a stained-glass window. The smooth face of Saint Magdaleine gazed back at her. The youngest saint in Belterra, Magdaleine had been venerated by the Church for gifting a man a blessed ring. With it, his negligent wife had fallen back in love with him, refusing to leave his side—even after he’d embarked on a perilous journey at sea. She’d followed him into the waves and drowned. Only Magdaleine’s tears had revived her. “Spirits can’t inhabit consecrated ground.”