I wake up at my desk with a headache. Somehow I managed to fall asleep in my chair, at the desk. I remember reading some of Dad’s notes, and then trying to open the Book of Eight, and then — this doesn’t feel right. The Book sits in front of me, looking as innocent as it can. There’s a pair of scissors next to it. Something happened, I’m sure of that. I just don’t understand what. I try to open the Book’s clasps, but they’re fastened shut. I can’t feel the cold of the ghosts anywhere in the house, and I decide that I’ll try to pretend to be normal today.

I catch my usual bus.

The road to the school gates is dark from the night’s rain. The gutters are tiny rivers, frothing downhill into greedy sewer grates. I brush past a wall that’s coated in ivy, and the leaves stroke my shoulder like cold fingers. My head feels heavy, as if at any second it’ll snap off my neck and roll back down the hill. There are other kids walking the same route as me, younger students from Dunbarrow High. I swear I was never that short or high-pitched. They’re scuffling about, a mass of hair gel and sports bags, pushing one another and screaming.

I can see the school gates now, aging pillars of concrete set against dark fir trees. Kids are crowding through them, pointedly avoiding Elza Moss, who’s leaning against a wall, smoking. Her head is tilted upward, and she’s staring at me over the heads of the crowd. I meet her gaze.

I don’t know what this girl’s deal is. I’ve known her by sight since we were twelve, and she’s never shown the slightest bit of interest in me before this Tuesday. I’m tempted to keep the she’s-in-love-with-me hypothesis, but it isn’t ringing true. Like, what, I’m going to spend time with her and start seeing her inner beauty and then I’ll slow-dance with Elza at the prom and everyone will start to clap and cry and see how empty their judgmental lives are? I don’t know her, I don’t want to know her, but I’m already having the strangest week of my life, and I’m not stupid. Whatever’s happening to me, a freak like Elza suddenly showing an interest in my life can’t be a coincidence.

“Morning,” I say, smiling as best I can when confronted by her stupid haircut.

Elza blows a wall of smoke in front of her face.

“Hi,” she says.

“So,” I say, “hello. Hi.”

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“I was just wondering why you keep staring at me. You know, like a massive weirdo?”

“I wouldn’t dream of acting like a weirdo. Nor would I dream of staring at anyone. Least of all you, Luke.”

“Well, if you weren’t staring, what were you doing?”

“Observing.”

“Observing who? Because it really looked like you were staring at me.”

“I was observing interesting things.” She taps her cigarette with one long nail. The ash floats to the ground, leaving an apple-red ember.

“Like what?” I ask. This conversation is pissing me off even more than I thought it would. Elza takes another draw on her cigarette. She plays with her hair, a bracelet jangling on her wrist.

“Look back down the road.”

There’s a group of girls walking up the hill. They wear expert mascara and lipstick, and their legs are so tan and sleek they look digitally enhanced. One of them, I realize, is Holiday Simmon. The girls walk in smooth strides, laughing about something.

Beside them lopes a monster, stumbling on long brown legs, wispy hair like white mold, wiry arms swinging as it walks. The thing is naked apart from grubby boxer shorts. His torso and arms are crisscrossed with long scars. He walks from one girl to the next, passing through their bodies like mist. A pair of shears glint in his hand.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, hearing my voice catch.

“Yeah,” she says, smirking. “No idea what I’m talking about. That’s why you’ve gone as white as . . . well, as white as a ghost.”

“I was up late,” I say, still looking at the horrible thing.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know you can see it. A man looking like that, holding a pair of shears? Out in the street? There should be panic. But instead . . .”

I look at the girls again, at the ghost.

“So you really see it?”

“I’m as surprised as you are. I’d gotten used to being the only one. No fun, is it?”

“There’s just no way.”

“It’s happening,” she says.

“You’ve always seen these things?”

“Look, second sight isn’t even that big a deal. It can be pretty useful.”

“Your whole life?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Elza says. “Would you rather be blind? Rather be in a wheelchair? Sure, we’re different, but plenty of people are worse off than us. Some people think it’s a gift, actually.”

Holiday walks on, smiling, oblivious. This new ghost is the most horrible by far. What the hell was my dad getting himself into? What has he gotten me into? The ghost’s skin is dark, wrinkled, and stretched over his bones. Close up, I can see that almost every inch of his skin is cut with scars, some trailing all down his body, others small dashes only an inch long. His face is like something left in a bathtub on a warm summer day. His eyes are milky, like he’s got cataracts. His mouth is wide and wet, lips barely covering small white teeth. Holiday grins at her friends, and the withered face leers over her shoulder.

It occurs to me that Holiday is about to notice me and Elza, and I try to arrange my face into a normal expression, rather than a slack mask of all-consuming horror.

“I haven’t seen him around before,” says Elza. “He’s one of yours, I assume.”

“Oh, man.”

Holiday has definitely seen me, and she’s heading our way. I never thought there would be a situation where I didn’t want to be looking at her perfect face, yet here it is. She’s followed by Alice — and the ghost.

“Luke!”

“Holiday, Alice. Do you know —”

“We’ve met,” says Elza.

“Elza,” says Holiday, “great to see you!”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Elza replies, and exhales another wall of smoke.

I keep flicking my gaze from the ghost to Holiday and back again. She’s smiling expectantly.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Great,” Holiday says. “Another exciting day at school, right?”

“Big fun,” I say.

“Where were you yesterday?” she asks as I will her with all my heart to leave.

“Are those shoes, like, vintage?” Alice asks Elza.

“I suppose,” Elza replies.

“Oh, you know. I had some stuff to do,” I say. The ghost stands behind Holiday, opening and closing the shears. He radiates cold, like the open door of a freezer.

“They’re really, like, dorky, but in a cool way,” says Alice.

“Well, thanks,” says Elza. “Your fake tan looks good. Really thick.”

“You’re so mysterious, Luke! So listen: Are you coming to my party tomorrow? I told you about that, right? I mean, I know it’s like a whole week before Halloween, but this Friday was, like, the only time my parents would let me do it, with exams and stuff, oh, and yeah, I decided it’s going to be full costumes.” Holiday finally takes a breath. “You . . . should come too, Elza.”

“Sure thing,” I say. I feel queasy.

“Wouldn’t be seen anywhere else,” says Elza.

“How do you know Luke?” Holiday asks Elza.

“I don’t, really,” Elza says. “He was asking for a cigarette.”

“I didn’t think you smoked,” Holiday says to me with a frown.

“Er . . . not usually,” I say. “Only on special occasions.”

“What’s the occasion?” Holiday asks.

“It’s Thursday?”

Nobody says anything in response to this. Alice is giving me and Elza the kind of look you’d usually reserve for someone you saw eating a slug in the street.

“Well . . . we’re going to be late,” says Holiday with slightly forced casualness. She’s right: The flow of students around us has dwindled to a trickle of stragglers. “Let me give you my number? I’ll let you know about the party tomorrow?”

“I’d . . . like that. Yeah. Thanks,” I say.

So I exchange numbers with my dream girl, while Elza and Alice face each other down like panthers about to lunge, and the scarred ghost opens and closes his mouth, breathing wetly. I notice his tongue is missing. Holiday and Alice take their leave and stride away. The ghost stays with me and Elza, picking at its teeth with the shears.

“Who are you?” I ask it when they’re out of earshot.

It says nothing. Gulps. Looks at me with milky eyes.

“Where’s the Vassal?”

The ghost grins and then fades away, becoming thinner and fainter, until only the shears are left, like a rusting Cheshire smile.

“Gosh,” says Elza. “Are your ghosts always that charming?”

“I’ve never met that one before. I don’t know how you manage to make jokes —”

“I got used to it early on. I’ve always been this way; I never changed like you did. Listen, you need to get better at acting, fast. You spent the entire time looking like you’d just pissed yourself.”

“This is all a bit of a shock, you know?”

“Oh, I feel the same. You’ve got yourself some ugly spirits, Luke. That was not a sight I wanted to see at eight fifty-five on a Thursday morning.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I’m guessing your dad just died, right?”

“How do you . . . yeah. Don’t worry. We weren’t close.”

Elza flicks her cigarette butt into the gutter. The water carries it away from us. I watch as it rushes down the street and vanishes into a sewer grate.

“I think we’ve got a lot to talk about,” she says.

“I agree.”

“No time like the present,” Elza says. She looks up at the clouded sky. “It probably won’t rain in the next hour or so. Let’s skip homeroom and take a walk.”

To my surprise Elza leads me through the school gates, but instead of heading up the hill to the front yard, she turns right, staying close to the wall, pushes her way through a close copse of pine trees, and ducks under a half-collapsed wire fence. Neither of us says anything. This feels like a condensed version of everything that’s happened to me this week. I thought my life would be taking the obvious path, to a place I knew, and instead I’ve been pulled off into the dark undergrowth. I follow Elza into an overgrown garden of some sort that doesn’t look much different from the school grounds we just left: thigh-high grass, enormous dripping fir trees. Elza moves past the trees, and I follow her into an open space, a flat lawn studded with crumbling stone blocks. A stone angel looks down at us with a dismayed expression, its head half hooded by a froth of yellow lichen.

“I thought this would be appropriate,” Elza says. “Do you like it?”

“I’m hanging out with a goth in a graveyard.”

If Kirk and Mark get wind of this . . .

“It’s the far end of Saint Jude’s,” she says. “Most people don’t know about that route out of school. I’ve been coming down here at lunch for years. And I’m not a goth. I’m a free thinker.”

“If the combat boot fits . . .”

“I don’t have to help you,” she says mildly.

“How are you going to help me, exactly? I mean, what are you? Are you a necromancer, too, or something?”

“A necromancer? Not at all. I think there might be witch blood somewhere in my family, but that’s not unusual. I was born with second sight. That’s it, really. So when did you sign for the Manchett Host?”

She sits at the base of the angel statue and starts rolling another cigarette. Some pigeons take off from the tree above us, slapping their wings through the branches and vanishing into the sky. I haven’t been able to talk with Mum about what’s been happening, or with my mates, or Holiday . . . And the idea of speaking to a teacher about Dad and the ghosts is so ludicrous, it never even crossed my mind until now. And here I am, laying out my deepest secrets with a girl I’ve barely said three words to before today.

“Monday afternoon. His solicitor . . . he said I’d inherit everything. There’s money, too, he told me. That’s what I wanted. He didn’t mention the part about the Host. How do you know about that?”

“It should be apparent,” she says, lighting up, “that I’m not stupid. I’ve had my eye on you for a while, because really, how common a name is Manchett? So I heard your father had died and then when I saw you in the schoolyard, I felt this really strong spike of power coming from you. Plus, then the town ghosts started going to ground —”

“Town ghosts?”

“People die all the time, Luke. Try to keep up. There are ghosts everywhere. Dunbarrow’s an old town. It was here before the Romans came. We’ve got suicides, murder victims, plague victims, crib deaths, sweet old granny ghosts, headless horsemen . . . They’re all part of Dunbarrow. They’ll always be here. In general they’re harmless. Worst they do is knock on your windows at night. Poltergeist stuff. Make a chair float of its own accord.”

“All totally normal and harmless.”

“Well. It’s a matter of perspective. But bound ghosts, spirits like the ones that make up your Host, they’re different. Your dad never explained any of this?”

She’s looking at me the same way she looks at people when they mispronounce words in English class.

“I haven’t seen him for ten years. I haven’t even had a birthday card for the past three. So no, he never explained any of this.”

“OK. Sorry. But the Host, those spirits are bound to you. The bond gives you, their necromancer, power, but it also — this is very important — it also gives them power. It works both ways, and half a necromancer’s job is making sure his ghosts are under tight enough control that power is no use to them.”

“Being enslaved makes them stronger?”

“It’s not a concrete science. None of this is remotely a science. But yes, usually. For the Host, your life force, it’s a kind of anchor to Liveside. They can influence the living world to a greater degree than free spirits ever could.”

“Liveside?”

“Here.” Elza waves her hand, cigarette leaving a sketch of smoke. “This is Liveside. Sorry, I post a lot on Second Sight Support forums, so I know the terms. It’s good to talk to other people who know what you go through every day. Liveside and Deadside are forums jargon. I don’t know what real necromancers call it. Deadside is . . . not easy to describe from what I can gather. It’s formless mist, a labyrinth, a void, a chaos. It’s not surprising so many spirits choose to stay here.”

“OK. Spirits in a Host are more powerful than normal ghosts. They said that themselves.”

“They were right. But you shouldn’t trust anything they tell you. Dead people are like living people: They lie a lot, they’re selfish. And then in other important ways they’re nothing like us at all.”

I think of the Heretic, stumbling through my hallway as everlasting fire boiled out of his bones. I think of the Judge and the Vassal and whoever the hell that scarred, tongueless guy with the shears was. I shudder.

“Yeah. You could say that.”

“I don’t know how to put this, Luke, but you’re in a lot of trouble.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean really. A lot of trouble. You, me, the entire town. You’ve had these things for three days, and you’ve just been letting them do as they please, haven’t you? Don’t frown at me. You have.”

“All right, yeah,” I say, “but —”

“It’s not all right. It’s very dangerous. They’re not on your side. As soon as they realize you’re not in control, that there’s nothing to be afraid of, they’ll turn on you. You need to be a ruler. You’ve been the heir to the throne your whole life and not known it, and I know you never asked for this, but you have to rule them.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Elza blows smoke out of both nostrils.

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know!” she says, making a face like the words taste sour. “I’m not an expert on Hosts. I know they’re dangerous. I know your dad had a full set of eight, which is extra powerful and bad. Second sight isn’t very common, and some of us are oddballs, but we’re not . . . I mean, your dad was deep into something not many people are into. Necromancy, Luke, I mean, raising spirits from the dead, binding them to your own soul. It’s the blackest of black magic, I’m talking deals with the Devil here.”

“Er —”

“Sorry to be so blunt. Do you know what demons are?”

“Oh, man . . . was that what the guy with the shears was?”

“They’re spirits that were never alive at all. They come from the deepest parts of Deadside. Unfortunately, I think the man with the shears was human once. Who knows what he did in life to look like that in spirit? But demons don’t even look that human, I’m told.”

“Dad owned demons?”

“There are rumors to that effect, yes. I’ve never wanted to see one. But if we’re unlucky, we’ll both get the chance.”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“Well. I’ve heard that there’s a book. It’s old — supposedly the first copies were written in Babylon thousands of years ago. It tells you all about the dark arts, how to raise the dead —”

“Yeah, the Book of Eight. I’ve got it on my desk at home.”

There’s no small pleasure in telling Elza something she doesn’t know. She looks like she’s about to choke.

“You’ve got the Book of Eight and you didn’t mention it?”

“I can’t read it,” I say.

“Is it in another language, then, or —?”

“No, I mean I literally can’t open the book to read it. It’s clasped shut. I’ve tried a few times and there’s just no way. It’s locked.”

“All right,” Elza says. “Is there anything else you haven’t mentioned?”

“Dad left me a big bunch of his papers. I can’t read most of those either. They’re in code.”

“He didn’t make this easy on you, did he? All right, that’s a start. A much better start than I expected, actually. The actual Book of Eight . . .”

“So why are you even helping me? What do you get from this?”

“Well. I hate to heap disaster upon disaster, Luke, but this is just about the worst time of year you could’ve inherited these things. Hosts are always powerful, but bound spirits become exponentially more dangerous during certain days of the year. Of which Halloween is a major one. If they’re planning to break free of your control — and I’m certain they are — they’ll do it then. It’s Thursday today, and next Friday is Halloween. If they break free, there’s no telling what they might do to Dunbarrow. Some of the things I’ve read . . . These spirits can develop appetites. I want to do everything I can to stop them from getting loose.”

“Right. Great.”

The Vassal never mentioned that particular detail to me.

“What?”

“Luckily we’ve only got a half day of school tomorrow, so you’re going to bring everything — the Book, everything — up to my house as soon as possible. And then we’re going to work on this thing until we find a way of banishing your Host, bringing it to heel, whatever we find. We’ve got next week off for half-term so we’ve got time.”

“Why your house?”

“I’ve got hazel charms around my street, and around my house especially. Keeps the uninvited dead away. I mean, we can go to your place if you want them to hear every word we say.”

“Point taken.”

“In fact, forget about school today. Go and get your stuff right now and come to my house. Number 19, Towen Crescent. This is more important than school.”

“All right,” I say. “One thing, though.”

“What?”

“We should probably be careful about being seen in Dunbarrow together. You know, if the Host is dangerous. You could be in danger.”

“I already am. Your starved spirit saw us talking. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.” Elza gestures at the small stone hanging from her necklace but doesn’t explain further.

“Still, though. We should just be careful.”

“Wait,” Elza says. “Is this in case Holiday Simmon or Mark Ellsmith sees us together?”

“No, I just think —”

“Oh, whatever, just say it. I know nobody likes me. I don’t like any of you either.”

“It’s not that,” I say, though it is, a bit. I worked hard to get where I am.

“I’ve got a reputation to uphold as well, you know. What’ll people say if they see me with a boy from the rugby team? They’ll revoke my platinum library card. Look, we’ve got just over a week to find a way of rescuing you from what might possibly be a fate worse than death. I would not want to be in your shoes when your Host breaks its bonds and turns on you. So let’s worry about that, no? Once we’re safely past Halloween, you and I never have to speak again, and you can go back to pretending ‘who’s in and who’s out’ actually matters.”

I can’t really think of anything to say to that, so I just nod. Elza finishes her cigarette and stamps it out in the long grass. A fresh drizzle has started to fall from the darkening sky, drops arriving in furtive gangs, darkening the shoulders of Elza’s jacket. I pull my own coat tighter. Elza seems like she’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. I look around us, at the wide still trees, the old graves.

When I get home, I discover every light in my house is on, blazing out against the dim morning. The windows on each side of the front door are like orange eyes. When I touch the doorknob, I feel the chill of the dead. I move into the house. Downstairs is empty: no ghosts, only Ham, hiding in his crate in the laundry room. Standing in the kitchen, shivering even in a coat, I hear a snatch of conversation coming from the room above me.

“Mum? Mum!”

I’m up the stairs, across the landing, into Mum’s room. I come to a halt, heart thumping. Mum is asleep, and there are two men sitting at each side of her bed. On the left-hand side sits the scarred man I saw outside school, nearly naked, wearing boxer shorts. He rolls his white eyes at me. The shears lie on the floor by his chair. The second man is leaning over Mum, looking into her face. Neither is reflected in the mirror attached to the wardrobe.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, braver than I feel.

The second man, the ghost I don’t recognize, stands.

He’s taller than the others, older-looking, too, dressed in a black three-piece suit. His shoes are beetle-shell shiny, and he wears a white shirt that’s fastened at the throat with a strange silver pin. His face looks like a waxwork, with a drooping nose and overripe lips. His hair and beard are full and bushy, granite-gray with hints of white. His hair hangs over his shoulders in a thick mane. He’s wearing round, dark-tinted glasses and a black hat. He looks like an acid casualty dressed up as an undertaker.

“Who are you?”

“I am bonded as the Shepherd.” The ghost dips his gray-haired head in the shallowest bow I’ve ever seen. “This is my colleague, the Prisoner.” He indicates the scarred ghost with a wave. “You are presumably Luke Archibald Manchett, and we find ourselves in your service.”

“Did I say you could be in here?”

“We were merely keeping vigil over your mother.” The Shepherd’s mouth twists into a small sour smile. “She appears to be infirm. I’m curious as to the nature of her affliction.”

“Get away from her. Now.”

“As you wish.”

The ghosts stand and move closer to me. I look into their eyes and try not to flinch. The Prisoner opens his mouth and closes it with a chewing-gum noise.

“Where is your tongue?” I ask.

“It was cut out,” says the Shepherd, “by his father, I believe.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I understand he’s grown used to it.”

The Prisoner shrugs and then fades into nothingness. The Shepherd remains in the room, hands clasped behind his back, like he’s waiting for something to happen. Rain taps at the window. Mum is sitting up, looking at me, I realize with a sudden jolt. She’s awake. Did she hear me talking to the ghosts?

“Luke?”

“I was just . . .” I struggle to find a coherent excuse.

“I’m really very tired, love,” she says. “This head of mine. It’s not letting up.”

“Sorry, I just . . . wondered if you wanted —”

“That’s nice of you,” Mum says, in a tone that suggests she’d like me to leave now. She’s lying back down. The Shepherd is looking at her with an expression that’s impossible to read. I’m thinking of what Elza said. Blackest of black magic . . . Who knows what he did in life to look like that in spirit? Whoever these new ghosts are, whoever they were, they’re dangerous. Even seeing them here like this, with Mum asleep, it’s a threat. I have to be in control, I have to rule. They know I’ve got the Book of Eight. They don’t know I can’t read it and don’t have a clue what it says. I can’t let them know.

“I’ll go downstairs,” I say to Mum, but I look at the Shepherd as I say it so he knows I’m talking to him as well. I say it big and brave, like I’m talking to an underling, some underclassman nobody trying out for the rugby team. The Shepherd meets my gaze for a moment — at least I think he does; it’s hard to tell where he’s looking through the dark glasses — and then inclines his bearded head and nods.

Ham’s in the kitchen, drinking from his water bowl, but when he sees me come in with the ghost, he backs off into the laundry room, ears flattened against his head. The Shepherd watches Ham leave and says nothing. I ignore both of them, move around the kitchen, put some pasta on to boil. My hands tremble as I cut vegetables. The rain is coming down outside, heavy and relentless, a steady dull wash that tells me the storm clouds aren’t going anywhere. The Shepherd sits at the kitchen table, hands resting on the wood in front of him. They’re big hands, with long fingers and a cobwebby wisp of white hair sprouting from each knuckle. He waits as I make my food. He has the air of someone who knows how to wait.

“So you’re sixteen,” the ghost says as I sit down with my lunch.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Strange, how time moves. It seems not so long ago that you were a raw little scrap of a thing, held in a crib. Yes,” he says, in response to my obvious surprise, “I knew you when you were young. We’ve met on several occasions, although you weren’t aware of it at the time.”

“You were with Dad awhile then,” I say.

“I am his oldest servant. His left hand.”

“Why are you called the Shepherd?”

“It is customary for a Host to be headed by a Shepherd. An ancient title. It seems odd that you would not be aware of this.”

“Just making conversation,” I say.

I fork down some food, not really tasting it.

“I saw that you were in possession of your father’s copy of the Book,” the Shepherd says.

“It’s upstairs,” I say. “Why?”

“Horatio naturally entrusted me with certain information and kept other aspects of his life and work from me. The education and training of his heir was one of the aspects I had little influence over. However, I presume you were educated in the rudiments of the art of necromancy? The Book of Eight is not, after all, something to be trifled with.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ve got necromancy up to my eyeballs. Live and breathe it. Know the Book back to front. Definitely wouldn’t want to step out of line if I was a ghost bound to Luke Manchett. I’d come down hard on anything like that.”

“You know, of course, that the Book of Eight is considered to be infinite in length. It would not be possible for someone to ‘know it back to front.’ Even the most experienced necromancers will find pages they have never seen before.”

“Figure of speech,” I say, waving my hand.

“As you say.”

“I am a necromancer. I’m legit. Are you trying to say I don’t look like a necromancer?”

“Of course not, Luke. You carry yourself with all the dignity befitting a man of such ancient knowledge and arcane discipline. I and my colleagues have merely noted that you have been rather lax in terms of the bindings and restrictions you have placed on us.”

“It’s a new era, you know? I don’t see why necromancy has to be all, like, black robes and blood sacrifices. Forget what you think you know. I’m hoping we’re all going to be friends.”

What am I even saying? I’m so scared of this ghost that my mouth is just moving and words are coming out. The Shepherd snorts and sits up straighter in his chair.

“We are not your friends. We are bound to you. It is a rather different proposition.”

“All right, if you insist. I just wanted us to get along.”

“Interesting that such a thing interests you at all.”

“I’m not Dad.”

“Issue a general summons to your Host,” the Shepherd says.

“Why?”

“I want to see you do it.”

“I don’t want to. And to be honest, I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”

“Issue a general summons. You don’t even know what position your hands should be in, do you? Horatio . . . that old devil. He didn’t teach you a thing, did he?”

The Shepherd has his sly smile back.

“He taught me enough.”

“Luke.” The Shepherd holds his hands out, as if to beg from me. There are weird spiky stars tattooed on the palms. I think he wants me to see them, as if they’re supposed to mean something to me. “In life I was a great necromancer. My Host was the terror of the world. I have forgotten more pages of the Book than most men have ever seen. If you hoped to bluff me, you could not have picked a worse approach. You have no mastery of the dark arts.”

“No,” I say, fumbling for something, “I —”

“There is no shame in it. You’re a young man, not without wit or drive, and I appreciate the attempt at cunning you have shown in our dealings today. But you are no necromancer. You cannot manage a Host. You do not even want to manage a Host.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Free us. Let us go. Do not live your life burdened by your father’s sins.”

I don’t know what to say. This has to be a trick. Elza said they’d try and break free. I know this ghost is dangerous, I can feel it in my marrow, like he’s radioactive. Maybe he’s still afraid of me, a little? He’s right, I don’t want a Host. All I wanted was four million pounds, properties, DVD sales . . . I didn’t want this at all. I want them gone. What’s the harm in that, if I can just let them go? Surely everyone gets what they want?

“It’s that easy?”

“Oh, certainly Luke. It’s very easy. As easy as signing for us in the first place. We could do it right now. You don’t want a Host, Luke. You want a normal, happy life. You don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps, believe me. Let us go, and this can end here.”

It can’t be this easy. I need to be careful.

“Well —”

“All that’s required,” the Shepherd continues, flashing a gray rank of teeth, “is a suitable mark of relinquishment in the Book of Eight. Fortunately your copy is right here.”

His tattooed hands move over the surface of the table, and there’s a flicker, like someone changed the reel in a film I’m watching. The green book is on the table, just in front of the Shepherd. The cover’s eight-pointed star gleams in the glare from the light fixture overhead.

“A simple spot of blood,” he’s saying, “and we leave your life, your home, forever.”

He strokes the Book, and the clasps spring off the cover without being touched. The yellow pages move as if blown in a gale, and the Book falls open right in the middle. He pushes it toward me. I put my hand on it, spin it around to have a look.

There are no words on these pages. The double spread is covered in a psychedelic pattern of concentric circles and spirals, all of which look hand drawn, and they seem to be moving as I look at them. I feel like every time I focus on one part of the design, another part of the page will change. I’m getting a headache.

“This will free you?” I’m saying.

“Indeed, Luke. A general declaration of freedom from bond, for all eight spirits.”

“Really. Wow.”

The circles seem to have . . . depth, somehow, like there’s more to this page than just the page. If I keep looking at it, I’ll be able to see what it is. There are pages beyond the page. There are hundreds of them. Millions of circles.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” the Shepherd asks.

“It’s amazing.”

My ears are ringing, roaring. I can feel my blood flowing.

All I can really look at now is the circles.

My hand is moving toward something, I realize it’s my fork.

“A single drop is all we need,” the Shepherd says. He sounds like he’s talking to me from down a long tunnel. His voice echoes.

I push the fork into the ball of my thumb. There’s a nice flush of red. It doesn’t remotely hurt. When I look up at the Shepherd, I can still see the circles and spirals, weaving over his suit and face.

They’re everywhere.

My hand is moving toward the book.

“You’re doing the right thing,” the ghost says.

My thumb is poised over the center of the design.

I’m about to press down.

There’s an explosion of noise, and I’m thrown sideways, landing hard on the floor. The rushing in my ears is gone. My thumb is fizzing with pain, blood running down onto the palm of my hand. Ham stands over me, barking and barking. The Shepherd looms above us.

“Restrain this beast, and seal the declaration of release,” he says.

“Sir.”

“Stay out of this!” the Shepherd yells, turning his head to look at someone else.

The Vassal is standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“I can’t recommend you do this,” he says over Ham’s barks.

“I was going to release you,” I tell the Vassal, though I’m not sure anymore why it seemed like such a good idea.

“It’s for the best,” the Shepherd says.

“For you, perhaps,” replies the Vassal. “He has not wronged you. He is guilty of no crime.”

“You livestock,” spits the Shepherd, “you servile, mewling animal!”

“A Host is unable to harm its master,” the Vassal tells me. “It is at the heart of our bond. He may not kill you, but if you release him, you remove that deepest taboo, and he will stop your heart with a word.”

“Why?” I ask the Shepherd. “Don’t you want to be free?”

“Revenge,” the Vassal says. “He is consumed by it.”

The Shepherd kneels beside me and Ham. His glasses catch the light, two silver moons. Ham shrinks back but doesn’t run. I can see blue veins under the ghost’s skin. The wrinkles by his mouth shift as he speaks.

“You father defiled my tomb. In life I was the greatest necromancer the world has known. He bound me — bound me — and used me as his Shepherd. I do not forget. I do not forgive. I swore to rend his body and torment his soul, and, denied that small pleasure, I must turn to his heir.”

“I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Listen,” the Shepherd says. He removes his glasses. His eyes are black and wet, with no whites to them at all, black like the eyes of a goat or raven. “Listen to me, child. I have voyaged to the dark lands of the dead. I have seen things there that our words cannot describe. There can still be some small mercy for you, if you release me this very day.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You are a poor liar. Worse even than your father.”

The bottomless black eyes are a finger’s length from mine.

“This isn’t over,” he says. “This is the beginning.”

The Shepherd is gone.

“You could have warned me,” I say to the Vassal.

“I was afraid.”

“Of him?”

“He was the most terrible man in the world while he breathed, and he became worse for every day he spent beyond the veil. I fear him very much, sir.”

“Thanks for saving me,” I say. “You and Ham.”

“I know you did not ask for such a burden as we. The father is not the son.”

“So he can’t kill me?”

“He may not. Without explicit instruction, however, we may allow harm to come to you, and many of the Host would do so.”

“What will he do on Halloween?”

“I do not know, sir. The Shepherd has some stratagem, I am certain. He always does. Look to the Book of Eight.”

“I don’t know how! I can’t even open it.”

“And yet you must, sir. And yet you must.”

I look at the Book, now closed, sitting on our dining table as if it were any old book, nothing to take notice of. My stomach is churning. The Vassal has his head turned away from me, frowning, as if he’s listening to something happening in another room.

“I must go,” he says suddenly. “They will not forgive me for this.”

“I’m glad you helped me.”

“I hope I have cause to be glad of it as well, sir.”

The Vassal gives a small bow and vanishes.

I don’t go to Elza’s house. I don’t know what to do. The Book of Eight sits on the table, and I’m afraid to go anywhere near it. I’m afraid to even try to open it. I keep thinking about the circles flowing out of the pages, the way they covered the walls and the Shepherd’s face. The Book is a monster, and the Host wants me dead. I can’t leave Mum and Ham here without me. The afternoon darkens into evening. The trees that surround the house take on the shape of whispering giants. Ham won’t settle and paces the kitchen all night. I think of waking Mum, telling her we need to leave, but I don’t know how I’d get her to believe me, and I don’t know where we could go that they wouldn’t follow. By one in the morning I can’t keep myself awake any longer. I climb into bed with my clothes on and lie still, listening for any hint of the Host returning. The wind whispers at the cracks in my window frame. Outside, the fields are cold and dark. Animals shiver in their burrows, dreaming bleak dreams of running and dying.