Some of the guards in the room above the cells had been summoned to the battlements—she’d heard them being called, then the scrape of chairs and heavy footsteps pounding away. Constance guessed a couple had been left to attend to the prisoners, but she couldn’t be sure. She stood up, paced her cell, and wondered for the hundredth time whether to use her powers to escape. Could she break through the spelled bars of her cell and fight her way out without a weapon, winning against two or three armed men at full strength? Probably not. She wished she had her cane—and her mask … but for now she had to pick her moment.

Even so, a smile reached her lips as she spun on her heels.

Sounds from below the prison floor stopped her in her tracks.

The steps from the dungeons, hidden behind a rotten wooden door, led down into blackness so deep that she could feel it—even though she couldn’t see it. She looked at the door. A waft of stale air from underneath it flicked a strand of hair across her face. She heard the tinkle of metal on stone. Jewelry or coins falling from rotted flesh, from disintegrated clothing. The scrape of bone on bone—and footsteps. Slow, unsteady footsteps on the old, worn steps.

Not now. Please, not now.

But the noises were insistent and distinct. The spell had reached its final stage of development, no longer fumbling in the dark but surging toward the misted light. And she had no doubt that it hungered for fresh lives to feed its strength. She set her jaw and tried to stop herself from screaming in frustration.

The gods give with one hand and take away with the other.

Dr. Thorn had sat up. His cell was the closest to the door to the crypts; Xander’s was close too, on the opposite side. Constance braced herself as another waft of stale, cold air rustled her hair, and the door opened.

A skeletal figure stood in the doorway, dressed in prison rags, a filthy, rusted shackle encircling its neck. Its remaining flesh was blackened and dry, clinging to white bones like limpets to the hull of a ship. Shadows stared from empty eye sockets. The hair alone remained untouched—brown and matted—while the teeth were bared by decay into a terrifying yellowish grin. The body held something that might once have been a length of chain but was spoiled and rusted nearly beyond recognition.

The figure appeared to be startled by the dim daylight and stood quite still.