Dr. Thorn staggered to his feet and backed away from the bars, his face white with horror. He raised his ungloved hand, but as he tried to summon his magic—which Constance felt surging within him, even from across the floor—something in the glove jolted him, and he cried out in agony, doubling over. At this, the dead man regained his wits, and flung himself against the physician’s cell with surprising strength. Another was close behind, this one larger, broader, and less decayed.

Constance’s eyes shot to Xander, completely helpless on the filthy floor of the adjacent cell.

She didn’t hesitate. She rested her hands on the lock of her cell and focused, blocking out the sounds of the rising dead. She needled her magic into the red spell reinforcing the bars. The spell glittered to her magical senses, hard as sandstone against her careful touch. She persevered, frowning as she picked at its structure—clumsy, even though it was brutishly strong. At last, she found a point of weakness, tugged on a strand: the spell crumbled. Her head was pounding now—it would have been easier if she’d had her mask. She felt for the catch of the barred gate, turned it, and was out. The whole process had taken a matter of seconds.

“Help me!” Dr. Thorn’s attacker had been joined by two others, and together the three dead men were attempting to tear the prison bars from their rusted sockets in the wall. Purple magic flashed and sparked as Constance’s reinforcement spell was torn apart along with the cell’s structure. But it was Xander she was determined to save. Another two figures had emerged from beneath and were trying to force the door of his cell. Extending her hand, she flung a concentrated ball of magic at them. Already fragile with decay, they disintegrated into dust with a flash of purple light. Coughing, she hurried to the cell and unlocked it with trembling fingers.

Xander was deathly pale, but breathing, still breathing. She heaved his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him upright.

“Help!” Dr. Thorn shouted again. Constance turned her back and half supported, half dragged Xander toward the stairs, his eyelids fluttering.

Footsteps sounded above and she steeled herself for the arrival of a guard. But instead, Winton—longsword drawn, horror on his face—appeared at the bottom of the steps, his breath billowing in the cold. To her surprise, the Justice’s dog, Barbarus, was at his side. Under his free arm, Winton held a bundle, which he dropped quickly on the bottom step. With relief, Constance recognized the shape of her cane, wrapped up in an old cloak.

“Help!” Dr. Thorn’s voice was desperate—the three remaining Ancestors, working together, had pulled free the bars, and one was sliding through the gap toward the physician, who was cringing against the wall.