What army did the officer belong to? What army did Yankev belong to? These were indispensably important questions.

But it is impossible to think clearly when your nerves are ablaze.

“Move!” roared the fox-eyed officer. “On the double!” And Pasternak began to scramble up toward the muster point beyond the ridge.

In this way, Yankev Pasternak was absorbed into the Magog Regiment of the 779th Division of the Army of the Dead, under the command of Lord High General Dumah, Whose Name Means Silence.

And it was in this capacity that, years and years after his death, Pasternak would emerge from the gates of the cemetery of Zubinsk, still wearing the tawny overcoat and black spiked helmet in which he had died, the wound that had killed him still leaking turbid brown blood.

Beside Pasternak were two other dead soldiers—a small detachment of scouts with very specific orders:

To find, and at all costs to obtain, the girl named Bluma.

Chapter Eleven: Onward and Inward

Unless you were looking very closely, you wouldn’t have seen her.

The cat had come to rest at the very peak of the roof, her ragged gray coat blending in with the dull sheet of heavy cloud above. She would not normally have allowed herself to sit out in the open like this, but everyone’s eyes were cast low this morning.

There was an atmosphere of despair weighing on the heads of the Zubinskers. No one would be looking to the rooftops today.

It did not precisely please her, this despairing; that would not have been right to say. After all, last night’s events had been nearly as disastrous for the Lileen as they’d been for the Hasidim. But there was something she appreciated in seeing the shock on the faces of the living.

They were always so surprised when things didn’t go their way.

She’d had to get used to that feeling long, long ago.

The cat tightened her crouched legs, preparing to jump—Bluma was moving fast—and she leapt down from the roof, landing lightly in the snowy street below. She was bounding quickly, determined to keep sight of Bluma as she made her way around a corner, when the darkness fell.

Immediately her claws were bared, and she yowled and spat, her teeth lashing out in whatever direction they could, but the heavy burlap sack was cinched tight.

She’d been caught.

Presently, a voice spoke, and she stilled her thrashing rage just long enough to listen.

“Now, now,” said the voice. “Don’t worry. All we want is a little information, and then we’ll happily send you back to Aunty Lilith.”

With a scream, the cat bit out at the hand that held the burlap, and she fell awkwardly, dropped hard onto the frozen ground.