It was just the two of them in the corridor of bones, but still Dan didn’t struggle. Where would he go? He would trip and flail back through the tunnel behind them, only to meet thirty or so assailants hungry to fall on him.

Dan never should have mentioned the warden to Finnoway. He would gladly take his chances in court, or even a lifetime in prison, over this. How many times did he have to learn that things could always get worse?

His steps slowed. Everything felt hopeless. Just putting one foot in front of the next felt like too much to ask.

“You’re weak. We’ll get you some food and water,” Finnoway said, pushing Dan farther down the corridor.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’ll eat what you’re given.”

Dan shook his head, leaning forward into his heavy steps. “I know what happens to people who eat food in the underworld. They can’t leave.”

Finnoway smiled darkly. “I was still thinking about Hansel and Gretel, but that’s good. I’ll use that.”

On the other side of the door, they came into a huge, vaulted space with floodlights and scaffolding. The tunnel must have connected them to another building. It reminded Dan of an archeological dig, with shelves balanced against the outer walls and crates littering the floor and some of the scaffolding flats. Straw stuck out of some of the crates and packing peanuts spilled out of others. Dan smelled and tasted gritty dust on the air.

An enormous fabric flag hung from the center of the ceiling, aged white with black paint lettering across it.

THESE WERE THE RULES AS THEY WERE FIRST PUT DOWN:

First, that the Artist should choose an Object dear to the deceased.

Second, that the Artist feel neither guilt nor remorse in the taking.

Third, and most important, that the Object would not hold power until blooded. And that the more innocent the blood for the blooding, the more powerful the result.

Dan wondered if that was an actual code of conduct or just more legendary nonsense to keep the populace afraid of the mere possibility of the Bone Artists existing. But they were beyond possibility now, and judging by the number of skulls Dan had seen on the way in, these people were not about idle threats.

The shelves along the walls were overflowing with deep plastic buckets, each one marked with a name in huge, black block letters. Dan scanned the names. Most of them were unfamiliar, but others he recognized.

CRAWFORD, M.

BERKLEY, E.

BERKLEY, R.

BONHEUR, M.

He couldn’t take his eyes away from the box marked with his father’s name. His body felt hollowed out, all of his will and fight gone.

A bin labeled BERKLEY, O. was still on the ground, open and empty. It occurred to him that he should warn Oliver that they were coming for him next, but that was ridiculous. He’d never leave there alive.

And now Dan would have a bin of his own, and parts of him would be transformed and sold, and his doomed bloodlines could make life miserable for someone else.

Maybe he could warn Oliver as a ghost, the way Micah had tried to warn him.

He wasn’t a ghost yet, his hand reminded him helpfully, stinging beneath the bandages. A dozen or so Bone Artists were here, too, wandering the vault, their masks removed and clipped to their waistbands or belts. There was no uniformity among them that Dan could detect. Some were young, some were old, all races and genders represented.

“Get him something to eat,” Finnoway was saying, snapping his fingers at a man who nodded and scampered down an adjoining hall. A few low archways went off in different directions, but there was no telling where they led.

“So is this where you make the talismans, or just where you organize everything to ship?” Dan asked, casting his eyes around the huge expanse of the vault. Finnoway didn’t try to stop him from wandering around the outer wall. He looked almost pleased, noting the impressed look on Dan’s face.

“I’d rather not give you a lengthy explanation of the process,” he replied. “It would be a waste of breath, considering how soon you’ll be dead.”

Dan gulped.

“What if I had something more valuable for you? Something I could offer.”

“That doesn’t work twice,” Finnoway said. “You already traded up. The trick somewhat loses its effect the more you do it.”

Dan stopped at one of the messy tables, on which several cardboard boxes sat open, revealing alphabetized labels. Inside the boxes were hundreds upon hundreds of folders, not unlike the ones Dan had found back in the funeral home. In fact, these might have been the same folders, transported in stacks—Dan could see what looked like the Ash folder now; it was right on top with its silly pen doodle on the cover.

With the feeling that he had nothing much to lose, Dan lifted the folder with his left hand and opened it.