After nearly three grueling months in the saddle, Miguel and Coward at last emerged from a clutch of evergreens to find themselves staring at the mining camp. Miguel would have been happier to be done with such a miserable journey—Coward had promised they would rest here and find hot meals—were it not for the distressing vision that rose before them.
Coward reined in his pony. “Quite a sight, eh?”
Standing starkly before them, the snow-laden cliffs of their destination seemed to form a giant skull that peered over the Rockies and the landscape beyond. Lofty ridges along the mountain face formed the skull’s brow, and massive black caves seemed to indicate eyes, a nose, and a cavernous mouth that led deep into the mountain.
“¡Dios mío!” Miguel murmured.
Coward opened his arms wide. “Welcome to Skeleton Peak.”
“I ain’t never seen anything like that,” Miguel said.
A heavy morning mist crowned the stony Peak, casting long shadows across the ragged formations. At the mountain’s base lay the camp, a modest village of canvas tents and log cabins. The headquarters was on the verge of being swallowed by the great skeleton’s maw. A small cavalry of uniformed soldiers patrolled the camp’s perimeter, some mounted on dark horses, some standing guard in hastily constructed watchtowers.
“Your boss, Ignatio,” Miguel said. “He’s there?”
Scorn seared Coward’s face. “Nobody is my boss. However, Ignatio is the Reverend’s lieutenant. I want you to deliver the Char Stone into his hands.”
Miguel snarled. “I don’t want nothing to do with that thing.” Before he could speak his next sentence, a painful charge flashed across his forehead. Coward had touched the charred circle on his palm, activating the Devil’s mark on Miguel’s forehead. “I wasn’t misbehavin’!”
Coward smirked. “Before you meet Ignatio, I need you in the right mind-set. I also need to return something to you.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew Miguel’s bone-handled knife, still tucked in its leather sheath. Coward cradled the blade in his palm. “This belongs to you. Take it.”
Miguel reached for the blade but hesitated. “This is a trick.”
Coward chuckled. “The Devil’s mark forces you to obey. I have no reason to trick you, boy. Take the knife.”
“I don’t understand,” Miguel said.
“All will become clear when the time is right. Now take it.”
Miguel accepted the weapon. A gentle vibration caused the blade to tremor in his palm. He looked up, frowning, and saw that Coward’s finger hovered over the mark on his palm.
Coward rasped, “When you meet Ignatio, behave with respect and obedience. Mention nothing about the knife. Keep it tucked in your belt, and the blade should go unnoticed.”
Miguel peered into Coward’s eyes, but he could read no hint of the man’s plan. The prophecy is real, el diablito had said, but he had spoken no more about the knife after the Char Stone incident a few nights ago. “Coward, what are you up to?”
Instead of answering, Coward touched the blackened brand on his palm again.
More shattering pain exploded through Miguel’s mind. He felt his thoughts twist under the strain of invisible vises. He wanted to resist, but there was nothing he could do. Miguel’s free will melted beneath the heat of the Devil’s mark. “Sí. I’ll do what you want.”
“Good boy.” Coward flicked his reins, and his pony started forward. “Now, let’s go meet Ignatio.”
One of the guards that patrolled the mining camp approached, musket raised. The soldier’s tattered getup and pasty features told Miguel he was a thrall. A glance around the camp revealed that all the armed troops were also members of the raised dead. The musket-bearing thrall poked the tip of his weapon closer. “State yer purpose.”
“Where is Ignatio?” Coward said. “He’s expecting me.”
Mention of the sorcerer’s name made the creature drop his jaw. “You’re the fella we’ve been awaitin’. The tiny man.”
Coward glared at the creature. “What did you just call me?”
The soldier took a step back. “I didn’t mean no disrespect! Master’s in his headquarters, top of the rise.” He pointed a bony finger up a dirt path lined with ragged tents.
“Stand aside,” Coward commanded.
Dozens of imprisoned workers moved about the camp. Some pushed wheelbarrows full of rocks; others carried pickaxes. Many wore shackles and chains, and all of them were covered in grime and misery. A small outfit of cowhands heaved a pair of logs across the path, while a cluster of women wearing ratty dresses piled stones into a long wall. Even children had been put to work.
Miguel felt his stomach twist with horror. When he and the Lost Causes had investigated the town of Wisdom in eastern Kansas, they had discovered that Ignatio had loaded the town’s entire population into wagons and sent them out west. The reason now stood before him. The townsfolk had been forced to labor inside Skeleton Peak. Coward had called the site a mining camp, meaning the gaping holes that made up the skull must lead to tunnels inside the mountain. From all appearances, nothing of worth seemed to be coming out of the shafts. Not one deposit of silver, not a single nugget of gold. Only the sounds of labor and despair.
An old man burdened with a bundle of heavy planks stumbled past. His boot slipped in the snow and he collapsed, scattering boards in every direction. Nearby, a tall woman threw down the burlap sack she’d been carrying and hurried over to the man. Her leather shoes were split, her trousers threadbare. Heavy dirt caked her dark skin, and streaks of sweat cut trails down her forehead and cheeks.
One of the thrall soldiers cracked a whip. “Back to work!”
“This man needs water,” the woman hissed.
Before the creature’s whip came down again, Coward shouted, “Hold, you worm. She’s right. The workers need to drink.”
The woman turned toward them, fury burning in her gaze as she took in first Coward, then Miguel. Her ferocity almost made Miguel wilt.
“Fetch a water bucket,” Coward told the thrall. “We didn’t haul this entire town six hundred miles into the mountains just to watch them die of thirst. We need them to dig.”
The thrall barked orders to a pair of children. The kids scurried to the buckets and set to work dipping wooden ladles. The woman offered the old man the first sip, then let the children with the ladles take their drinks before she accepted her own. She returned her gaze to Coward. “Thank you,” she said, but anger continued to boil in her eyes.
Miguel followed Coward through the camp to the base of the skull-faced cliffside. A modest log cabin and a few attending shacks sat in the clearing, surrounded by tall brown boulders and clusters of blue spruce. Winds descended from the high crags, delivering a bitter bite with the morning freeze. Around the Peak, a murder of the Reverend’s crows circled in the gloom. Scrappy yard dogs stalked around the clearing, growling as Coward and Miguel approached on their horses. A sentry of musket-bearing thralls stood around the perimeter of the cabin. When Coward approached, one of the dead men knocked on the front door.
With a vicious creak, the door opened. Out stepped a tall Spanish man with a hooked nose like a hawk. Dark tattoos covered nearly every inch of his skin, including his face and ears. He wore buckskin trousers, short brown boots, and a fur coat that partially revealed a tattooed bare chest. Shiny metal bracelets jangled on his arms, and a revolver hung low on his left hip.
Something about the villano seemed unnatural. When the answer dawned on Miguel, trepidation crept over his bones.
The fellow cast no shadow.
“Hello, Ignatio,” said Coward.
Miguel shivered. This was the bandido who had cast the curse of darkness over Wisdom.
Ignatio grimaced at Coward, revealing a bright gold tooth. “Hola, Coward. You’re late.” The fellow’s smooth Spanish accent would have been pleasing, even reminiscent of Miguel’s own padre, were he not one of Rose’s disciples. Ignatio’s eyes shifted over to Miguel. “I see that you’ve brought a new member to our pack and that you have marked him.”
Coward hopped off his mount. “He prefers to be called Cutter. He’s got a miserable attitude, but the brand keeps him in step.”
His voice gentle, Ignatio said, “Typical of you, Coward, to bring me a dolor de cabeza instead of a proper discípulo. Why must your every move be so incompetent?”
The castigation seemed to scald Coward like hot water.
Ignatio turned his attention back to Miguel. He lifted a hand to show his palm, which also carried Rose’s charred magical brand. “As you can see, mi amigo, I, too, wear the Reverend’s mark. You work for me now.”
Ignatio turned back to Coward, raised one of his arms, and gestured to one of the dreadful tattoos on his wrist. The inky patterns on the man’s flesh shivered, as if the swirls and lines were alive. “Our workers have been clearing the way inside the Peak, but the Reverend fears more interruptions. If this boy causes trouble, Coward, I will make you both pay.” He smirked, as if pleased by the notion of their suffering. “Now, the Char Stone. Show me.”
Coward reached into his saddlebag and removed the silver containment box.
Ignatio’s gold tooth gleamed. “Bring it to me.”
Coward held the vessel out to Miguel. “You heard the man.”
Accepting the box, Miguel dismounted Chantico and stumbled through the snow. Ignatio accepted the container and lifted the lid, revealing the cursed relic.
The poisonous throbbing of the Char Stone seeped into the air. Miguel turned away at once, recalling how the Stone had screeched when the tip of his knife had stabbed into the vessel.
Ignatio snapped the box shut. His gaze fell on the silver lid. “What’s this?” He slipped a tattooed thumb over the gash where Miguel’s blade had landed.
“Nothing at all,” Coward murmured. “The boy tripped on the trail, and the box struck a sharp rock. It’s of no concern. The containment will still work till we reach the Reverend.”
His thumb still rubbing over the puncture, Ignatio peered devilishly at Miguel. “You should be careful where you walk, joven.” He turned to address one of his thrall soldiers. “Place twenty armed men to guard the cabin. No one is to enter, save for myself or Coward.”
“Yessir, Master.” The rotting thrall saluted, then shambled off to gather more guards.
Ignatio faced Coward. “Now hand me the amulet shard Big Ben took from Black Wood’s boy.”
Coward yanked at the cord around his neck. The crescent moon of silver—the fragment that had belonged to Keech Blackwood’s foster father, Abner Carson—winked in the shallow morning light. Miguel watched as Coward passed the silver to Ignatio. The sorcerer turned and slipped back into the cabin with the relics. A moment later, he returned empty-handed.
A thunderous explosion rumbled inside the Peak’s mine shaft. To Miguel, it sounded as if a dragon had just roared with fury.
Ignatio’s terrible, tattooed face brightened. “Each blast moves us closer to the House. Soon I will bring the relics to the Reverend, and we will finish what we started so long ago.”
Coward sniffed the foggy air of the Peak. “You talk large, Ignatio, but while I’ve brought you the Char Stone, you still haven’t found the Key or the Fang.”
Ignatio leaned toward the small man’s face. “The only reason you are here, Coward—the only reason the Reverend allows your presence in our sacred circle—is because your gifts have served a purpose. If they ever stop serving the Master, te mato. I will kill you. Now, silence!”
Coward grimaced, his jowls shaking, but said no more.
Lifting his chin high, Ignatio moved his lips in a whispered chant. Miguel thought he heard the words La Sombra, the Shadow, in the strange man’s mutterings.
Across the camp, a low wind kicked up, and a charcoal cloud spilled out of the trees to the south. The darkness roiled across the ground like a snake, slithering toward Ignatio. A pack of thralls stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads in fear and submission as the shape glided over the ground between their boots. The cloud pooled around the sorcerer’s ankles, and with a strange noise that reminded Miguel of a hissing cat, the chalky substance attached itself to the tattooed man’s feet.
Ignatio’s shadow had returned.
The sorcerer muttered to his dark form a moment longer, nodding with interest as if the newly returned shade had just spoken. Finally, he fixed on Coward. “La Sombra tells me Jeffreys and O’Brien have been in league with the children. The Weaver Black Charlie is dead. Now the mocosos are on the move inside Skeleton Peak.”
More indistinct words fell from Ignatio’s clenched teeth, then he wrenched open his fur coat, exposing his tattooed chest to the morning chill. Again, Miguel looked on in horror as the villano dug his finger into the flesh of his own stomach. His ragged fingernail hooked under a murky tattoo, a smudge of ink in the shape of a person. Miguel saw other designs—a storm cloud, a tornado, a star-shaped spot that resembled a mangled snowflake.
Ignatio peeled the inky black symbol off his stomach. It made a snapping sound, as if a piece of black tar had been torn apart. He held the patch of ink before him, regarding it with something like pride, then tossed the shape into the snow.
The tattoo writhed where it had fallen. A hazy mist rose from the black tangle like smoke. The form billowed, rising up into the morning air. Miguel felt dizzy with fear as he watched the shadow assume the shape of a short figure, a goblin formed of pitch.
The newly formed wraith stretched and stood ready before its master. Ignatio gestured toward the cave opening that served as the mouth of Skeleton Peak. “The mocosos have entered the mountain from the south. Find them, but do not reveal yourself. Simply show me where they are.”
Without further instruction, the shadow goblin hurried away, floating off into the mine.
Ignatio grimaced at Coward. “Sic your new compañero on the children. I would prefer them alive, but if he must kill them, so be it.”
Miguel looked at Coward, silently pleading. But el diablito had his own schemes—something involving Miguel’s Prime-infused blade—and he didn’t seem to care about Miguel’s suffering.
Coward opened his palm, revealing the Reverend’s charred brand.
“No. Please,” Miguel begged. “Don’t make me hurt them.”
Coward pressed down on the brand.
The pain that enveloped Miguel cascaded through every corner of his mind. He dropped to the snow before Ignatio’s feet. The Devil’s mark shot tendrils of power through his limbs, and he felt himself rise. Words tumbled from his dry lips. “Sí, Master. I’ll do what you want.”
“Good boy,” Coward said. “Now get moving.”
Miguel stalked into the shadows of Skeleton Peak to find the Lost Causes.