“Is going to be so ecstatic to see Belen, she’ll forget to be mad at you for being late,” Flea said.

True, but he hated to worry her again. Perhaps he could send a message. “Is anyone else in town?” he asked Mom.

“A few diehards that refuse to leave. Not what you’re looking for, dearie.” She shooed him. “Go. The sooner you leave, the faster you’ll return.”

* * *

Three days later, Kerrick and Flea neared the outskirts of Jaxton. During the trip, they’d spotted a few groups of refugees, heading west at a fast pace, but no one else. And no sign of Belen. Using his connection to the forest, Kerrick searched as far as his senses could stretch, which was only about two miles now, less than half as far as he could before this...lethargy. Frustration gripped him.

Within the distant he scanned, Belen was not in the woods. That meant one thing. He was in Jaxton, either hiding or as a prisoner of the Skeleton King.

They waited until nightfall. Kerrick planned to follow the glows from the campfires of the Skeleton King’s army to locate them. He didn’t expect the loud chanting and drumbeats that started at full dark. He instructed Flea to leave with Huxley at the first sign of trouble.

“Yeah, like that will happen,” Flea said.

“Could you at least pretend you’ll follow my orders?”

“I could.”

Kerrick waited.

“Oh, okay. I’ll run away like a bunny with a hound on his tail.” He saluted with two fingers.

“A simple ‘yes, sir’ would suffice.”

“But not be near as entertaining.”

Shaking his head, Kerrick planned to limit Flea’s time hanging out with the monkeys.

Kerrick circled to the east of town. Bright orange light pulsed near the edge of the forest. At first he thought it was a huge bonfire, but then he recognized the building—the apartment house. Where he’d first seen Avry. Flames engulfed the structure as smoke billowed into the sky.

Figures danced around the fire, pounding on drums. They wore white armor and elaborate headdresses made of...human skulls? Kerrick squinted, but the horrific image only clarified. And the white armor—bones.

Revulsion, deep and primal, bubbled up his throat, tasting bitter and feeling like ash in his mouth. The plague had killed millions in a short period of time. Unburied dead bodies had been one of the unfortunate ramifications of that time. But it was despicable to use their bones for armor.