I caught up with the Crusader at the end of the road, where the trees parted, bordering a large clearing. A massive, forbidding structure of red brick and concrete stood before us. An eight-foot-tall concrete wall secured the building and only the three upper stories were visible. I looked around. Overgrown and unkempt, the clearing showed signs of past landscaping, and a straight streak of pavement, half-choked by weeds, led to the gap in the wall, where heavy metal gates stood partially ajar, offering a glimpse of the inner yard. The bobcat thing bounded up the walkway and dove between the gates.

There was something familiar about the building. It was simple, almost crude in construction, just a blocky box of about four stories with narrow windows blocked by metal grates, yet the sight of it filled me with dread.

Curran came around the bend in the road, running at an easy pace. No sweat marked his face.

“Red Point,” he said grimly, stopping beside me. “It had to be Red Point.”

Nick looked at me.

“A local prison,” I told him. “The left wing inmates kept complaining that ghosts were trying to kill them. Nobody paid attention until the walls came to life during a strong magic fluctuation and swallowed the prisoners. They found partially entombed bodies.”

“Prisoners half-buried in brick,” Curran said darkly. “Most were still alive and screaming.”

I shifted in the saddle. What I took to be a pile of debris to the left of the main building now took on a definite shape of a decrepit guard tower. How the hell did the trees grow so fast? They looked decades old.

“I thought MSDU leveled this place years ago,” I muttered.

“No.” Curran shook his head. “They just condemned it when the walls wouldn’t stop bleeding. They don’t kill it unless they know they can’t use it.”

I reached out, feeling for the power, and recoiled. Thick dire magic clothed the prison. It permeated the walls, drowning the building, flowing from it like an invisible octopus spreading its tentacles out in search of its prey. I quested again and found a tangle of necro-tainted threads within the thickness of the magic. Something fed on the power of the prison, digesting it to fuel itself. Something undead and enormously powerful.

“A zombie?” I whispered.

“Smells like one.” Curran grimaced, upper lip quivering lightly to reveal his teeth.

The metal gates stood partially ajar, inviting us in. I didn’t want to go. A crazy thought popped into my head—I could just ride away. I could turn my horse around and ride away, far away and never look back.

I don’t have to enter.

I dismounted and tied Wind to a tree. It wasn’t fair to take him into that place. Reaching for Slayer, I freed it from the back sheath.

“Ever twist your elbow doing that?” Curran asked.

“No. I’ve had a lot of practice.”