It was the footsteps that had Leena jumping forcefully.

  All three of them instantly halted.

  There was no mistaking it—footsteps not far behind them.

  St. Silas hissed for both of them to extinguish their lamps, keeping only his lit. For a wild moment, Leena thought it was the creature coming back to fulfill its purpose with her, but no. As she listened closely, the footsteps sounded human. Rhythmic and heavy.

  They ran.

  Struggling to keep their own footsteps quiet, St. Silas led them farther through the maze of passages. The sound of oncoming steps was farther away now, but still present, the stone walls echoing them as if they were coming from all directions.

  Ahead of her, St. Silas swerved around tight corners, across identical paths, and down a flight of stairs. Not once did he waver in his direction. Behind her, she heard Rami stumble.

  “Don’t turn back,” Rami warned as he picked himself up, abandoning his lamp.

  St. Silas finally halted in front of a doorway. Leena could not control her own raspy intake of air as they stopped behind him. Unlike the other wooden or metal doors they had passed, this one was carved from pale limestone—the same material used for the entirety of Weavingshaw’s exterior. The Avon crest was carved into the center. A wolf. A Deathgrip. And, between them, a circle and a cross.

  I complete what is mine.

  “We’ve arrived.” In spite of their sprint, St. Silas’s breathing remained even. “Welcome to the Avon family graveyard.”

  He rammed the door open with his shoulder. The lock must’ve been broken years ago, for it gave way easily. The expansive chamber was made of the same limestone, spanning the floor and vaulted ceiling. Only the tombs were made of dark stone, and there were at least eighty of them dotted across the room, safeguarding the decomposing bodies of the nobility.

  They were eerie in their stillness.

  Grim statues of old Avon lords watched them, their faces frozen in expressions of disinterest and old-blood superiority, spider’s webs collecting across their bodies. A silver shield carrying the family crest gathered rust by Leena’s feet.

  “We bury our dead in the ground, wrapped only in sheets.” Rami looked around in distaste. “We see it as a homecoming.”

  Leena understood what he meant. The word for death in Algaraan also meant return. This place felt unnatural, a stalling of time. It was as if the aristos thought they could curb the decay of death by enclosing their corpses in marble. In her peripheral vision, she saw St. Silas’s head turn searchingly as he took in the chamber, his chest rising and falling.

  Leena also searched for spirits, but it was oddly barren for a place full of the dead. At the far end of the chamber, she spotted a pianoforte, the black and white keys gleaming in the dimness. Why was there a piano in a crypt?

  She squinted…Yes, she could see a sitting figure playing it, but no sound emerged from the instrument.

  Finally, a spirit.

  She could never mistake the distinctive features of Moira—not after the events of the possession.

  The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Either the footsteps were following them, or they had the same destination. It didn’t matter which at this moment; the priority was to remain undiscovered.

  “We have nowhere else to go.” Rami reached for the hilt of his sword, looking at the closed limestone door in apprehension. “Could we hide behind the tombs?”

  St. Silas pulled out his pistol, also aiming at the door. “They’ve come with lanterns. Our shadows will reveal us.”

  Leena turned frantically to Moira. “Help us.”

  Both men looked at her in surprise, but she ignored them, her entire attention focused on the spirit.

  Moira regarded her for a long moment as if debating her request. Then she tilted her head toward St. Silas.

  “I will owe you a debt. Please help us,” Leena pleaded.

  Slowly, Moira nodded. Then the spirit walked toward one of the gray tombs near the entrance, her hand banging soundlessly on a stone cover.

  Leena understood.

  “The tomb,” she gasped. “We can hide in there.”

  St. Silas remained rooted to the spot even as Rami ran toward the tomb. “No,” he ground out.

  The approaching footsteps, accompanied by a glow of bright light, were more distinct now, directly behind the door.

  “Help me lift the cover.” Leena threw her entire weight on the heavy lid. A leak in the chamber ceiling had damaged the outer facade of the tomb, making the deceased’s name impossible to read. It could not have been Lord Avon’s tomb because, when they managed to slide it open, the interior was empty.

  Still St. Silas stood motionless where he was, pistol clenched tightly in his hand. “I’d much rather fight.”

  Leena threw him a sharp glance, but there was no time to ask any questions. “What are you doing?” She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him toward the tomb, but he would not budge. “St. Silas!”

  “…the tomb—” His voice was strangled.

  “Will be our final resting place if we don’t move now.” Leena spoke between her teeth, pulling at his hand with all her strength. “Don’t force your haunting on me.”

  At this, he startled and stared down at her. Swallowing harshly, he nodded. Leena wasted no time in following him, squeezing herself into the tight space, wondering how they’d manage to fit all three of them in.

  “Come on, Rami,” she urged, her breathing harsh.

  Rami shook his head even as he started to move the cover above them. “Someone has to push the lid over you.”

  “No—”

  “I owe you both, for that night with the Black Coats.”

  “Rami—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, with the glint of a feral grin. “I’ll find somewhere to hide.”

  “Rami—”

  It was too late. He pushed his weight against the stone lid, plunging them into darkness save for a tiny slit for air. Rami extinguished the last remaining lamp, then came the sound of scattered footsteps running.

  Silence.

  Leena counted her own wild heartbeats.

  One. Two. Three—

  Sudden brilliant light speared the space between coffin and lid.

  Voices.

  Leena prayed furiously that Rami was hidden.

  She was aware that she was pressed closely against St. Silas as the tomb seemed smaller than average, designed to fit a small person—a child?

  St. Silas took up most of that space. Her cheek lay against his hard chest while she continued to count with the rhythm of his breathing. He was warm, in a way that made Leena want to tunnel closer to him until he had suffused her entirely. Without realizing it, her hands were gripping his shirt as if her body was afraid to be torn from his, and she had to consciously unlatch her fingers.

  Seven. Eight. Nine—

  Leena was not expecting the distinctly rough voice that echoed in the chamber to be that of Mr. Martin, followed closely by Lord Kilworth’s. She stifled her gasp against St. Silas’s shoulder.

  “…Orley offers the best guarantee. I won’t go over his head for some harebrained scheme of yours.”

  A cultured accent, slippery as oil. Kilworth. “Why go through a middleman? Why sell the Tar to the Black Coats when it was your boat that took the risk to smuggle it, and it was my capital that bought it in the first place?”

  Leena’s brows shot up. Tar? They were smuggling drugs?

  Martin snorted. “Can you package that Tar and convert it from powder to liquid? Bribe the soldiers to look the other way? Will it be yourself who is selling it on the streets?” He cleared his throat—a loud wet sound that echoed. “Stick to hunting, Kilworth. Do not overextend yourself.”

  A tense silence.

  “That’s Lord Kilworth, Martin,” His Lordship corrected disdainfully.

  A pause, then Martin’s reluctant apology.

  “Show me the supply,” Lord Kilworth interrupted. His footsteps sounded very near their tomb. Leena held her breath, wondering where in this vast chamber Rami was hiding, and whether it was good enough to keep him out of trouble.

  A scuttle. A harsh grunt. Then the sound of stone grating against stone—the lid of a tomb being pushed open.

  “It’s all here, and it’ll fetch a good price.” Martin’s voice was low, but Leena didn’t miss the admiration in it. “I know it would’ve saved us some time had we kept the supply in the smugglers’ caves as you requested, my lord, but the low oxygen in the vaults will keep the Tar exceptionally pure.”

  Leena looked at St. Silas.

  She expected him to be listening with his usual predatory intent; what she didn’t expect was the change that had overtaken him. Even within the thin slash of light creeping through the slit, Leena saw that his face was stripped of color and his body was as rigid as a corpse.

  She remembered his uncharacteristic reluctance earlier when she had pointed to the tomb, so at odds with his usual decisive manner.

  Was he afraid of enclosed spaces?

  Leena nearly banished the thought; the dreaded Saint of Silence was not afraid of anything. Still, when his eyes met hers, there was a wildness in his gaze.

  Deliberately, she reached through the dark to find his hand. She heard his sharp intake of breath, then his fingers tightened around hers crushingly.

  Outside, she heard a smattering of piano keys, then a tune being played. Lord Kilworth cursed a few times when he hit the wrong note.

  “Aye, I’ll send for the Black Coats to retrieve this delivery soon,” Martin said over the din. “A shipment this large should pay off both of our debts by the end of the month.”

  “By the by, how much money did you lose betting against that cripple?” Kilworth asked casually.

  Leena clenched her teeth. She hated that word.

  “Enough. Coupled with the collapse of most of the mines I’ve invested in, as well as the end of the Algaraan civil war and any arms deals I had pending, my coffers have run desperately dry of late. I must gain it all back to remain the master of Weavingshaw.”

  The music abruptly stopped. “Oh my. You have not been investing very wisely these days, Martin.” Kilworth had a smirk in his voice.

  “I would say the same for you, my lord.”

  The loathing between the two was exceeded only by their need for each other.

  The sound of the lid being pushed back over the tomb was grating. Both Martin and Kilworth could be heard making their way back toward the entrance of the chamber, their voices fading.

  Then they were gone.

  St. Silas and Leena lay in darkness, neither of them moving to untangle their hands. St. Silas’s breathing had slowed, but the fierce grip of his fingers didn’t relax.

  “Are you frightened of enclosed spaces?” she whispered to him.

  His hand reluctantly let go of hers just as the lid above them was suddenly slid back by Rami. “No. Not small spaces.”

  Leena blinked into the light of the lamp that Rami had relit.

  “Are you both well?” he asked, helping Leena out of the tomb.

  She nodded.

  “Where did you hide?” she asked him.

  “They kept the door open,” he replied. “I hid behind it.”

  “Clever,” she remarked, looking back to see that St. Silas had already climbed out. He stood forlornly beside the tomb, keeping his back to them.

  Her heart ached a little for him. She didn’t know the reason for his paralyzing fear, but fear like that was not a stranger to her.

  Then come seek me.

  It was the first vow he had given her without demanding anything in return—to tether her to this world when she had every fear of leaving it.

  Silently, she returned that vow.

  She looked once more at the tomb’s lid, and this time she noticed that an old Saint was carved into the stone. A woman holding an olive tree. She squinted, trying to recall what that represented, but was unable to remember at this moment. She would mark the drawing in her notes to research later.

  To Leena’s relief, she could not find Moira near the piano or anywhere else in the crypt.

  Rami walked with a caged energy toward a tomb at the far end of the chamber. There was a type of madness on his face—the kind that wears the same face as anger but stretches further, coarser, as if desiring to set the whole world on fire.

  A sudden fear gripped Leena at Rami’s expression. “Don’t further tempt Martin’s wrath.”

  Rami spared her only one look—a look so full of bitterness that it sucked up all the air in the room. Rather than responding, he pushed all his weight into sliding the lid of the tomb aside, revealing rows and rows of tightly woven burlap bags inside.

  Rami whistled. “There is enough here to buy all of New Algaraa District and the people inside it.”

  Leena also stared. “You could buy all of Algaraa with this.”

  Before Leena realized Rami’s intent, it was too late. His hand was already at the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it in one fluid motion, and bringing the blade down against the sacks, spilling the white powder inside like an offering.

  “What are you doing?” Leena jumped at him, attempting to grasp his arm, but he wrenched away from her. “Martin is already suspicious of us. He will gladly see us hang for this!”

  Rami continued his slicing, tendons taut at the neck—up and down, up and down.

  St. Silas’s long strides cut across the crypt, but by the time he grabbed Rami by the collar and threw him to the ground, it was too late.

  White powder had spilled everywhere, like blood let on a battlefield. Humidity would render the drug useless. No buyer would touch it.

  “You’ve just signed your death warrant,” Leena exclaimed, bringing her fist down on Rami’s chest. He grunted, but dodged her next hit. He brushed at the powder that coated his jacket white.

  “Martin already wants me dead,” Rami responded. “At least now I’ve earned it.”

  St. Silas’s expression was grim, standing over the white powder like freshly fallen snow. “No, you’ve just condemned us all.”

  Rami halted, his brows tightening. “Martin won’t return to the crypts so soon. Very likely that trade with the Black Coats won’t occur until we are back in Golborne.”

  “For your sake—for all our sakes—let us hope so.” The somber foreboding didn’t lift from St. Silas’s eyes as he turned away. “Come. Let’s find Avon’s tomb.”

  Leena also swerved away from Rami, so furious she could barely see straight.

  “I am heartily sick of these caves,” she spat.

  They spent half an hour searching through the stones. Some of the tombs were so aged that she could no longer read the engravings.

  It was Rami who ended the search.

  “I found it,” he shouted.

  St. Silas was at the far end of the room, and it seemed as if he hadn’t heard. Unable to wait another moment, Leena and Rami pushed open the lid, heaving from the effort, and looked down at the mass of skeleton and dust. All that youthful vitality, that power that had emanated from Lord Avon, that golden handsomeness, was now but a crumpled heap of bones.

  Then she remembered the soft look in his eyes moments before he had strangled Moira, and she thought that decay was too good for him.

  Rami, clearly disturbed, turned away, so Leena was left alone with what used to be Lord Avon. She bent down, staring into the skull with gaping holes for eyes, and whispered, “Come find me. You have left the living in unrest, so come find me and settle your debts.”

  The corpse didn’t stir. Leena’s eyes raked through the rest of the tomb. It was empty.

  “It’s not here.” Bleakness broke Leena’s voice. “After all that, the diary isn’t here.”

  No one spoke as they traversed the passages from the Avon family resting place back toward the cellar. The mood was somber, and Leena could not stifle the horrible dejection she felt. They’d found nothing, and, what was worse, Leena was now in debt to Moira.

  Saints above—and that ruined Tar.

  Leena knew with dark clarity that the discovery of the spoiled drug would be fatal. She prayed that they were all back in Golborne before this could happen.

  They turned a sharp corner where the corridor forked in two directions. It was similar to the rest of the passages that St. Silas had led them through on their arrival, but this time he hesitated. He swung his light from the left to the right, observing each passage carefully, then shook his head.

  “Are we lost?” Leena asked.

  After a moment of deliberation, he started forward. “This way.”

  They took the left.

  The smell of still water and mildew began to emanate from the walls and the ceiling. Somewhere far off, the sound of falling water droplets echoed.

  Leena halted suddenly.

  A cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

  That creature was back, stalking them in the dark.

  She dropped her lantern to reach for her copper coins, striking the metal together once, twice, three times. Ahead of her, both St. Silas and Rami turned sharply at that now familiar sound.

  This time, the coins had no effect.

  Her shaking eyes became unfocused as the creature’s dark power intensified, swallowing her up. She clawed her nails down the flesh on her arm to keep herself conscious.

  If St. Silas or Rami was trying to speak to her, hold her, shake her, she had no awareness. All her focus was on the overwhelming energy scorching inside her.

  She finally understood that it was a demon and not a spirit that lurked in these halls, older and more powerful than Mrs. Van or Orley.