At the doors to the crypt of the Old Cathedral, the stench met them. Harry knew the smell. He’d met it coming and going over the last twenty years: in caves and mines, in the estates of the rich and powerful, in chapels like this one. The smell was bodies and it was bodies stacked like firewood.

He pushed open the door. Looked at Cian. “You keep watch up here.”

Cian nodded.

“Pearl, Irene—” he started to say.

Pearl walked past him and started down the steps.

“Never mind,” Harry said.

He followed Pearl, the lantern in one hand, the Smith & Wesson in the other. Pearl didn’t go too fast. She didn’t have light, and that was a powerful reason to stick close. She walked just at the edge of the lantern’s reach, though, and her back was iron.

Oliver was close behind Harry. The scent of rum and juniper mixed with the decay.

The crypt was built deep, deeper than most of the churches Harry had known, and the steps zigged and zagged, boring through earth and stone. Behind Harry, Sam spoke to Freddy in a whisper. If Freddy answered, it was impossible to tell. The old Hun’s breathing scraped the air, a rough, sandpaper sound.

When Harry looked back, once, Oliver was pale.

How many years in the dark? How many years alone, being hurt?

Harry didn’t try to smile. What Oliver wanted was measured in brass casings, not in smiles.

At the bottom of the stairs, Pearl waited with hands clasped, studying the barred door that blocked their passage. A padlock held the door shut. Harry passed the lantern to Pearl and pulled his picks.

“I can see them,” Pearl said.

Harry didn’t look up from the lock, but he heard the shuffle of bare feet on stone, heard the whisper of cloth. Something nagged at him until the lock sprang open, and then he realized what had bothered him.

They weren’t breathing.

He pulled the padlock and pushed the door open. The iron clawed at the ground and skidded to a halt. Beyond, in the darkness, shapes moved.

“Freddy?” Harry said.

“If I’m right, they’re dormant. We will be safe.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Sam said.

Freddy didn’t answer.

Still holding the lantern, Pearl stepped through the door. Harry followed her.

“You’re bold tonight, Pearl,” he said.

She looked straight ahead. Her hair was down today, instead of its usual bun, and shorter than Harry remembered. She might have been dead too, except for the red in her cheeks.

Harry would have said something else, but then he saw the bodies. They were dead. There was no doubt. Many had suffered the same wounds—surgical incisions across their stomachs—but others had gunshot or stab wounds, and a few had no injuries at all. They were pale, though, and stiff, and as they dragged themselves along the bare stones of the crypt, they sowed corruption in the air.

“You cannot wake them.”

The voice came from deeper in the crypt, from among the stone sarcophagi. Pearl lifted the lantern and took a step forward. Harry caught her arm. The red in her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t pull away.

From the throng of dead, the corpse of Welburn Strickland came forward. Dead was dead, but even for a cadaver, Strickland looked like a rough Sabbath morning, when God wanted fifteen more minutes of sleep.

“Strickland,” Freddy said. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s not Strickland,” Harry said. “What do you want? If it’s the crown, you’re too late. Nassaan Nassaa has all the pieces.”

A ripple moved through Strickland’s body, as slow as molasses. He shook his head. “Then you cannot wake them.”

“It’s the only way to find Nassaan Nassaa,” Freddy said. “They’re connected to the magic of the crown and the mask. When they wake, they will lead us to Nassaan Nassaa.”

“And you will give him exactly what he wants,” Strickland said. “Nassaan Nassaa has waited three hundred years for this. He has slept in Dagon’s embrace and he has dreamed this and he has planned.”

“He didn’t plan too well,” Sam said. “Not if he’s counting on us to do the job for him.”

“The ghost betrayed him,” Strickland said. “He was not prepared.”

“Who are you?” Harry asked. “Enough games and riddles.”

“I have warned you once,” Strickland said, “and I will warn you again, Harry Witte. This one,” he pointed at Oliver, “will betray you to Ghoggonath. He still burns for Ghoggonath.”

“That’s a lie,” Oliver said. “Who are you?”

Pearl turned to face Harry. “You knew this? He warned you once and you didn’t think to tell the rest of us?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “He has no proof, Pearl. He talks in circles. Oliver wouldn’t do that.”

“He will betray you, Harry Witte,” Strickland said, “because he loves you. Now leave before—”

Before he could finish, Oliver brought up his pistol and shot Strickland in the head.

Strickland wavered on his feet for a moment. The gunpowder scent purged the decay from the air. The crypt magnified the sound of the shot, and the clap rocked Harry on his heels. A heartbeat passed. Strickland still hadn’t fallen. Harry wanted to shoot him too, wanted to make the man fall and stay fallen.

Instead he pulled Pearl back a pace. With his other hand, still clutching the Smith & Wesson, he forced Oliver back too.

“What did you do?” Freddy was shouting. “What did you do?”

Sam had turned back to the stairs. “Cian, Irene, you’d best get down here.”

Steps and an answering shout came from above.

Oliver. For Harry, in that moment, there was Pearl, there was the Smith & Wesson, there was the smell of the dead. But if he told himself the truth, there was only Oliver.

Oliver, who was silent. Oliver, who spoke with his pistol.

Oliver, who wouldn’t meet his look.

Strickland still hadn’t fallen. He wobbled back and forth.

The scent of decay caught in Harry’s throat. A thick, gelatinous cold-gravy smell. He coughed, tried to clear his throat, and coughed again. When he heard Pearl coughing, he knew that it wasn’t just the stench. Something was wrong.

With a sudden shriek, Strickland became perfectly still. Oliver’s round had caved in one eye and left ruined matchsticks of bone and flesh exposed. The other eye, though, was dark and alive.

Strickland started to come towards them. His hands were up—flaccid white hands that pulled invisible coils. Harry coughed again. The tightness in his throat was hot and red. Oliver was choking too, hands locked around his throat, his face darkening. Pearl fell to her knees. With a clink, the lantern hit the floor and rolled towards Strickland. Even through the corruption, Harry tasted kerosene.

Then he couldn’t taste anything. No air, no breath. Sparks blazed in front of his eyes.

Harry stumbled. The world was rushing away from him.

No air. No breath.

Then he saw a flash of light. The first ball of fire struck Strickland just below the chest. It was a tight, red flare that burned through jacket and waistcoat and shirt and flesh. The blaze left a discolored patch in Harry’s vision. The air held the scent of burned wool and burned flesh. A second ball of fire rippled through the darkness. It moved with a graceful flap, like a cardinal in spring. The flames hit Strickland’s shoulder, and when the fire died, bone showed through the charred flesh and linen.

Harry’s throat loosened. He sucked in a breath. Turned around and saw Freddy, short and standing straight, a dour little German man with a globe of fire rotating above his hand, like some nightmarish Father Christmas.

“Enough,” Strickland said. “Enough, I will—”

The globe of fire spun out from Freddy’s hand, swelling until it was as large as Strickland. As it passed overhead, the flames scorched the back of Harry’s neck, and he heard Pearl’s muffled surprise and pain.

There was a clink of metal. The lantern rolled towards Strickland.

When the flames struck Strickland, the kerosene ignited in a long, oily whoosh.

Strickland screamed. He was a man of fire, a thing of wax and wick, waving arms that had become torches. His screams only fanned the fires. For a moment, Harry thought Strickland would press the attack, but then he turned and ran deeper into the crypt. The flames trailed him, banners that licked at stone and dead flesh. Then Strickland vanished into the depths of the crypt.

Harry coughed, choked on kerosene and smoke, and drew another breath. He heard Pearl gasping. He heard her weeping too. When he looked at her, she turned her face away, pressing her cheek to the icy stone.

Oliver was on his knees, taking unwilling, reflexive breaths—the breaths of a man who was drowning. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered towards the stairs, pushing past Cian and Irene. Harry watched him go.

It should have been dark but it wasn’t. A disc of greenish-white light rotated above Freddy, shedding a sickly radiance on the crypt. The melted metal of the lamp and a few scorched stones were the only sign of their battle. Even the sound of the flames and of Strickland’s screams had faded. The crypts went deep, Harry supposed, and Strickland had escaped.

“Everything all right?” Cian asked. He had an arm around Irene. The two of them were supporting each other.

“What happened?” Irene said.

Harry looked at them. He shook his head because he didn’t know the answer.

“Freddy,” he said, his voice rough. “Wake them up.”

Freddy nodded. His dark, Hun eyes were polished onyx set in bone. He started chanting.

And Harry wondered if he was making another mistake.