“And that is why He will take you, too,” he says. “Your sacrifice of Steve Galant is in vain. Even he repented in the end. He embraced Him wholeheartedly. It will not be the same for you. Like Cortes. Like Alex Key. He knows what you did to Josie. He knows that they are not the only ones. Leave your anger, Reuben. You will suffer through the—”

Nobody expects the gunshot. Goatee slams against the wall, blood running down his face from the bullet-sized hole at the center of his forehead.

And yet—and yet—for a few moments Goatee remains upright. The shot should have killed him immediately, but it does not. Instead, his eyes meet the other man’s.

“You should have let me sleep, Reuben,” he says.

And then he falls.

“Christ, Hemslock,” one of the soldiers says. “You should have—he wasn’t acting hostile—”

“He’s been compromised,” Hemslock says brutally. “You saw the state Galant was in when he died. Stay on guard.”

“Sir—”

“If you think that’s bad, Kyle, look away like a coward because you’re not going to like what I’m about to do next.”

He takes out his knife and turns to Goatee’s body.

This time Hemslock is more certain of himself. He butchers with less hesitation. The others turn away, nauseated, until he is done with his grisly task.

Hemslock stands, Goatee’s heart in his hands. He turns toward the gigantic tree, presses the heart against the bark—and the heart sinks through like it was intangible.

Something crackles from inside. The roots unravel and open, revealing a hollow.

Hemslock gestures at one of the men, who shines his flashlight into its base.

Something lies within. It is a blackened husk, a mummified corpse. The roots of the tree tangle around it, like they have been binding it in place.

I see its face. Unlike the corpse tree in the sinkhole outside, this figure still has eyes, and they are wide open, staring. It is the only recognizable feature in that sunken, withered form.

Its chest has been torn open. Inside, a heart beats steadily against its ribs. I can see it through the translucent skin.

“Shit,” a soldier says.

Hemslock raises his hand, closes it into a fist. “Move,” he commands.

The corpse jerks up, and the others rear back. Hemslock moves his hand slowly back and forth.

The dead body copies his movements.

“Damnit, Hemslock,” one of soldiers says. “What are you—”

“It’s accepted two of my offerings,” Hemslock says. “Now we need one more to waken this Dreamer.”

The corpse blinks.

With a shrill scream, it lunges forward, toward Hemslock. A blast from one of the soldier’s guns flings it back inside the tree, and the other join in, firing haphazardly into the balete.

The corpse jerks, then staggers toward the opening once more.

Roots wrap around it unexpectedly, bind it against the ground. With a hiss, it struggles. Hemslock’s laugh is long and loud. “You don’t like me, little godling,” he says. “But that doesn’t matter now, does it?”