Quentin waited. The thing’s face was immobile, unreadable. Its dried lips didn’t cover its teeth completely. It wasn’t pretty to look at, but for some reason Quentin didn’t feel angry at it. Why were they fighting again? For a second Quentin really couldn’t remember. He wondered if he’d gotten too far ahead of the others. But no, this was on him. He’d started it. And this was the boss fight.

The corpse came to convulsive life again and whipped a throwing knife at him with one skinny, loose-jointed marionette arm. Quentin ducked, purely out of instinct, but it was a wild throw, nowhere near him. It went through the open door behind him and skittered on the flagstones.

“All right,” it said. “Now I’m really done.”

The corpse might have sighed.

“Where’s the key?” Quentin said. “You have one, don’t you?” For a terrible second he worried that it might not.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” the corpse said wheezily. It pushed a small wooden box toward him with one shriveled hand. The skin had worn off some of the knuckles, like the leather off the arms of an old chair. “It used to be my daughter’s.”

“Your daughter’s,” Quentin repeated. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know the story?” It sighed again. It seemed much more resigned to its fate than Quentin expected. He didn’t know if it had to breathe anymore, but apparently it could still suck air in and out of its leathery chest like a bellows when it wanted to. “I thought everybody knew it.”

Now that he’d stopped moving he realized he was covered with sweat. It was cold in the nighttime island air.

“Wait. You’re not going to tell me you’re him. The man from the fairy tale. The Seven Golden Keys.”

“Is that what they’re calling it? A fairy tale?” Air hissed between its teeth. Was that laughter? “I suppose it’s a little late to quibble about things like that.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you were one of the good guys.”

“We can’t all be heroes. Then who would the heroes fight? It’s a matter of numbers really. Just work out the sums.”

“But isn’t this the key your daughter gave you?” Quentin had a terrible feeling he’d grasped the wrong end of something. “That’s what the story said. You set her free, from the witch, and she didn’t remember you, but she gave you the key.”