They were a strange sight, the three of them. Alex walked on one side of Ren, bending down to support her. Luke walked on the other side, bending down even farther, since he was taller than both of them. Ren, for her part, had the look of a sleepwalker: her eyes just cracked open and her steps unsure.

From the steps of the gallery, a guard called out to them to come back and wait for the police, but he quickly lost sight of them in the shifting throng of the midday metropolis. Fellow pedestrians eyed them suspiciously. But soon they were back in the relative safety of the good old Northern Line. Once the train doors closed behind them, Ren became just another sleepy kid, jet-lagged perhaps.

Luke leaned across her to talk to Alex: “Why didn’t we wait for the cops?”

Alex shushed him as a few nearby heads turned. Luke was surprised by the shushing, and Alex was stumped by the question. How could he explain this to his cousin? Where would he even start: the powerful death cult for whom the police were no obstacle, or the full story, ancient spells and all, that would land them all in a mental institution? He glanced down at the spot where his amulet rested beneath his shirt.

“What is that thing?” Luke whispered. “There’s no way those guys were just throwing themselves around. You did that, right? With that bug thing?”

Alex gave Luke a look: Not now!

“Well, at least tell me where we’re going,” he said, leaning back.

“Servants’ quarters,” mumbled Ren from the seat between them.

The three shaken friends settled back — into their seats, and into their thoughts. Alex’s were dark, as usual, but also unusually clear. His grim mood and obsessive behavior had driven his best friend away — and alone, she was easy prey. The thought that she could have suffered the same fate as his mom — kidnapped, taken from him — had rocked him to his core. As the train rumbled toward its destination, he stewed in a mix of guilt at himself, anger at The Order, and gratitude for Ren’s safety — and Luke’s help.

He glanced over at his cousin, who looked troubled, too. Luke caught his cousin’s eyes and whispered one last word to him, very clearly: “Knives.” Alex nodded, but Luke had already looked away. Once again, he had taken running into the thugs in stride — literally — but the fact that they were armed this time had clearly caught him off guard. Luke wasn’t used to the rules changing mid-game.

Ren sat silently, sleepily between them. If she was still angry at Alex, she didn’t show it. In fact, as the train jounced and jostled along, he felt her lean against him for support. The needle-torn sleeve of her injured shoulder felt rough against his arm. He understood her instinctively, the way that best friends do sometimes: We’re both hurting. It’s okay.

The train reached their stop, and the three disembarked. Enveloped by the anonymous chatter of the crowd, they could speak more freely now. And Luke had something to say. “I don’t know what you two are up to,” he announced, “but it’s more exciting than this camp. And no one at the camp has tried to stab me, either. I want payback. I want in.”

Alex and Ren exchanged quick glances. No need for discussion. Luke wanted in? After what he’d just seen? After saving their bacon for a second time? They just nodded. He was in already.

On the way back they stopped at a Tesco — a British chain that fell somewhere between supermarket and 7-Eleven — and loaded up on food and snacks. Mostly snacks. Then they walked into the little parking lot of the Campbell Collection.

“Home again, home again,” said Alex.

Ren removed a Cadbury chocolate bar from the plastic bag, the last wisps of fog lifting from her eyes. “Jiggety-jog,” she answered.

On the other end of town, Liam was about to learn that when you work for a death cult, failure has its consequences.

“Where ya takin’ me, then?” he asked, nervously eyeing the dark tunnel walls around him. Cut at a steep downward angle, the dirt and rock and clay didn’t feel very secure. He wasn’t feeling very secure, either.

Still no answer from his guide. He risked a quick glance over, but the man’s expression was hidden under a heavy iron mask in the shape of a crocodile head, like a knight’s visored helmet gone wild.

“What’s your name again?” he asked nervously. He knew the man beneath the mask was powerful and dangerous, but the subterranean silence was driving him batty. He wanted to hear a voice other than his own.

“Ta-mesah.” The word came out in a low, reptilian hiss that sent a chill through Liam’s system.

“Tommy what?” he said.

The other man looked over at him, leveling the sinister snout of the mask in his direction. Liam could just make out two small, dark eyes. “Ta-MESAH!” the man repeated.

Liam still didn’t understand but nodded anyway.

The tunnel led steadily down into the dark English dirt. Liam looked up at the roof of the tunnel, where an uneven stripe down the center gave off a greenish-white glow, providing the only light. Must be one of those funguses, he thought. The kind what glow in the dark. He’d seen something about them on the BBC.

More nervous the deeper they went, Liam continued his questions. “Where ya takin’ me?”

Ta-mesah was silent for a few more steps and then: “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Liam wondered who on earth that might be. He’d already been told — they all had — that the man in the mask was in charge. The tunnel opened up into a larger chamber, and Ta-mesah slowed down half a step to allow him to enter first. Liam stepped inside.

A very large man stood behind a stone slab near the back of the room, regarding Liam with black, lightless eyes.

Liam felt a gut-punch of fear and confusion at the sight, but he did his best to collect himself. “You, uh, wanted ta see me?”

The looming figure croaked out a ragged response. Liam didn’t understand a word of it, but his masked guide seemed to.

“Another minion for you,” said Ta-mesah.

Minion? thought Liam.

The sleeve of the man’s filthy shirt was rolled up, and he was pushing through an array of sharp metal tools on a tray in front of him. The implements clinked against each other as Willoughby made his selection. He raised a thin bronze probe, as long as a forearm and tipped with a small, sharp hook. Unlike the clods who’d prepared him, Willoughby knew which end to hold the thing by. He looked at Liam … and smiled.

“Right, then,” said Liam, more to himself than to the two men he was now sure meant to kill him. He’d been a loyal employee, if not an especially effective one, and The Order had paid him well. But there comes a point when even a company man needs to declare free agency.

He turned quickly on the heel of his boot — always fast for his size — and made for the tunnel.

Ta-mesah casually raised his right hand from beneath his long dark robe and brought it back down — just a quick flick of the wrist.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Liam felt his body lift off the ground, his feet kicking out from underneath him. He could only flap his arms helplessly as he was slammed back down. The back of his head crashed into the hard-packed dirt and knocked him out cold.

A small boy wearing clothes nearly as dirty as his master’s emerged from the tunnel.

“Why is the little one alive?” said Ta-mesah as he stepped aside to let the child pass.

Willoughby put down the hook and waggled his thick, sausage-like fingers. Ta-mesah understood: Mummification was an intricate process. It required nimble fingers.

A crude figure shambled in after the boy and began dragging Liam’s limp body toward the stone slab. The creature stooped and pulled against the big man’s weight, its fresh, tight wrappings straining and fraying from the effort. A second figure joined it, and together they lifted the body onto the cold stone slab.

Ta-mesah assessed the creatures’ decidedly non-nimble movements. They lose something after death, he thought.

The boy took up his post — his eyes haunted, his movements mechanical — and handed Willoughby his hook.

Far overhead, back above the surface and another few thousand feet up besides, strange clouds grew thicker and began to turn as Willoughby moved on to the next steps. The sky above opened up.

Ta-mesah watched the mummification with a detached, vaguely academic interest. He’d already known what had become of London’s missing. Now, as the scent of the red rain filtered down into the murky air of the tomb, he understood what triggered that, too. He was more familiar than most with the ancient proverb: blood for blood.

It meant little to him. He’d been sent here to aid the Walker, and he had done so. But he had no doubt who he was really serving.

Let the Englishman have his crude toys, he thought. Soon we will have true immortality, and the power that comes with it.