A cold hand cups my face. My mouth tastes like dust. “Wake up.” The sound of snapping. A splash of tepid water, then a sharp, cold slap.

I suck in a startled breath, my eyes flashing open as I struggle to sit up.

Someone holds me upright. Someone else presses a water bottle to my lips. I swat at the arms around me, my left triceps stretching painfully as I shield my eyes from the bright light of a torch. “Get that thing out of my face!”

The torch makes a whooshing sound as Marie wedges it into a hole in the rough stone wall. Stalactites drip from the ceiling, each plink bouncing off the high cavern walls. I’m sitting on a stone slab . . . some kind of raised coffin, by the look of it. Rows of them surround me, and more of them are carved into columns in the rock. A giant iron stove—an incinerator with a huge iron door and a tall silver vent—takes up the center of one wall, disappearing into the ceiling above it.

We’re in the catacombs.

“What time is it?” I ask, my thoughts becoming frantic. I reach across my chest, fingertips prickling over coarse stitches just below my left shoulder. “How long was I out?”

“Drink.” Poppy holds a water bottle in front of me. “The bullet just grazed you, but you lost a ton of blood. You need to hydrate.” I open my mouth to argue, but she silences me with a finger. “Drink!”

I take the bottle, scowling around a few cautious sips. Once I’m sure the water won’t come back up, I greedily drink the whole thing down. My head spins as I tip my head to get the last few drops, and I lose my balance, slipping off the coffin.

Amber grabs me around the waist, her cold fingers gripping me in place. She lets out a low whistle as she prods my abs. “Holy crap, Jack! When did you get so ripped?”

I shake her off.

“Seriously, Sommers,” Julio says. “You’ve put on a few pounds since I last saw you.” He leans shirtless against the rough stone walls, gnawing on a piece of bread. The shredded, bloody remains of his turquoise button-down are still tied around my arm.

“Free weights.” I work the knot loose on the tourniquet and shake out my numb fingers.

“Finally got off your ass and stopped feeling sorry for yourself, or were you just tired of suffering by comparison?” he teases.