The gobbos come fast. But not fast enough to catch what suddenly erupts out of her. Her body twitches like it’s being shot. Skelly hears the wet pops and sees the silhouettes of things wrenching free from her body. The scream is cut to a gagging sound. The shadows of grubs fall from her armpits. From between her legs. From up and out of her mouth. Plop, plop, plop.

A splashing sound. Then a chorus of high-pitched squealing, like someone trying to drown a litter of piglets in a washtub.

The gobbos come. Take away the grubs. It calls to mind ants carrying larvae.

As for the woman’s body? It collapses onto the pile. Utterly still.

Just one more for the mix.

Skelly bites her hand. Stifles her own cry. Can’t stop shaking.

“That happens,” Walt says. Then, sadder, more distant, “That’s what’s gonna happen to me.”

Not me, Skelly thinks.

“Don’t think about it. Here, look. Those pipes there on that map,” Walt says. “Those are water tunnels. The city’s water comes from upstate. Reservoirs. Two tunnels are done, but the third’s being dug. You can see the third ends at the funny-looking symbol there. Don’t know what that is.”

Her first thought: I need to tell Mookie.

Her second thought: And then he needs to come down here and burn this place to the ground.

But that means she has to leave. Has to find a way out – through the bones and bodies, through the dozens of goblins crawling all over this place.

She feels at her side. Her knife is gone. She feels a tiny stab of remorse at that – the knife was a custom job. Cost her a pretty penny. Though now she’s not so sure the skull fetish is one she wants to keep.

On her other hip is a surprise.

Her skates. They’re still there. Laced to her belt loop.

“I’m going to get out of here,” she says, untying her skates. As she does, the heel of one skate knocks loose the jawbone of what might be a deer skull. The bone bounces down the heap, rattling against every other bone as it falls.

Oh, no.

Gobbos – some just shadows, some lit against the flickering green fire – stop. And turn. They start jabbering, grunting. Picking up weapons.

Then they start moving toward the bone heap.

Candlefly tries to remain calm. But he knows his rankled irritation is showing. Even as he speaks he hears it bleed through.

“What was that, exactly? You reap what you sow?” He takes a few steps closer to the thug’s troublesome daughter. “Some kind of code phrase, perhaps? I have a great deal riding on this–”

Nora frowns. “Please. We don’t have code phrases. We’re not close.”

“Then what was it? Please. Do tell.”