Made us open them again, with our own sweat and blood.
Inviting our own destruction.
The moans grow louder. I search for my sister in the mist, but I can’t see her. “Wisty,” I cry, but my voice is drowned out by the Lost Ones’ moans and human screams.
I’m stumbling toward where I last saw her when the Undead begin creeping up from the mouths of the tunnels. One after another, they cross the threshold into our world. Slowly, determinedly they march, the beginning of an indestructible army. In the smoke, they seem like shadows with glowing eyes.
“What the—” Stan says. Then he stops, his mouth hanging open in horror. He’s never seen the Lost Ones.
They’re figures out of a nightmare, with slimy, stringy flesh and depthless yellow eyes. Surrounding them is an overpowering stench of decay that emanates from their rotting souls. They were evil people in life, and they are paying the price after death.
I know these creatures far better than I want to, because I’ve been down to their world. I’ll never forget the terrible, seeping cold of it—a cold that seemed alive, that sought out human warmth and tried to suck it dry.
In Shadowland, the trees are made of bones and the clouds are as red as blood. The Undead slink out of their skeleton forest, ravenously searching for live humans in the Underworld. They gather around them, their dead eyes flashing. They pluck at their clothes, their hair, their warm skin.
And then they devour them. Alive.
Suddenly a bone-chilling shriek pierces the air, and a body collapses to the ground just a few yards away from me. It’s an old man, and even from here I can tell there’s no hope for him.
A dozen Lost Ones flock around him, grunting and gnashing their teeth. With cries of hunger, they fall upon him like hyenas. His final scream is cut off in the middle. His blood soaks the muddy floor of the pit.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The Underworld has invaded the Overworld. And now the terror has truly begun.
Chapter 64
Wisty
“WHIT!” I SHRIEK. “WHIT!” But of course he can’t hear me amid the screams of everyone else in this unimaginable hellhole.
As the Undead pour out of the tunnels, I see people trampling one another into the mud as they try to run away. I see them desperately trying to scrabble up the sheer walls of the pit. And I watch one man escape the Undead by shoving another man into their gray, grasping arms. A minute later, the unlucky slave is nothing but bones.
For far too long, I’m completely frozen. I feel like I’m witnessing the end of the world.
But what is wrong with me?
I have to find my brother—and I have to fight.
I step forward into the melee, hands already sparking. Can you kill something that’s already dead? I’m about to find out.
I take aim at a pack of them, and I can feel the fire burning in my blood when suddenly a voice resounds through the pit—a voice so loud it seems as if the sky itself is shouting.
“Halt!” it booms, sounding like a death rattle. “Stand down!”
And incredibly, the Undead stop in their tracks. They turn to face the center of the pit. Their moaning quiets.
One by one, the people stop their screaming. (But not their mad attempts to climb the pit walls, I note. If I didn’t need to find Whit, I’d be scrabbling up with them.)
Cruel laughter echoes through the air, and the Undead tremble, cringing. Then, in the new silence, a familiar, loathed voice cuts through the mist.
“Vander,” calls Darrius sternly. “It is not yet feeding time.”
And incredibly, there he is, our debonair despot, striding toward a tall, imposing Lost One. Darrius steps over the bodies of collapsed workers as if they were simply piles of rock. As he nears the one he called Vander—the least dead-looking of the Undead—he begins to smile. “There will be much feasting,” he says. “You can be certain of that. But not yet. And in the meantime, welcome.”
Welcome? I think. Feasting?
And the Lost One, dressed in the rags of what once was a military uniform, gives Darrius a lipless smile back.
“It is good to see you again,” Darrius says. “Where’s Lilith?”
The Lost One bows low. “She’s on her way, my lord,” he says. It was his voice that had commanded the Undead to stop. He must be their leader.
Then Darrius walks all around the pit, greeting the gruesome Undead by name.
What the hell?
I’m trying to wrap my mind around this, and totally failing, when Darrius turns away from the ghouls—
And looks straight at me.
His golden eyes light up, flashing like sunlight on a knife blade, and I shiver once again. “Well, well, well,” he says. His voice is calm and smooth. “Wisteria Allgood. I’ve been looking for you for quite some time, you know.” He steps around a pile of rubble, coming closer. His hair looks silver in the mist. He’s wearing a tie, of all things, and my fingers itch to strangle him with it.
If only.
My hand finds the handle of a pickaxe and my fingers close around it. Crazy as it is, now’s my chance. He’ll expect me to use magic—not an axe. Quick as lightning, I lift the weapon and hurl it at him. It flies too quickly for me to see, heading straight and true toward his terrible golden eyes.
And then it stops, midair, and clatters harmlessly to the ground.
Darrius shakes his head in mock consternation. Behind him, a few of the Undead copy the gesture. “Really, Wisty,” he says. “Did you honestly think you could hurt me with mere metal and wood?”
“Call me an optimist,” I mutter.
“You continue to make bad choices, don’t you?” he says smoothly.
“You mean like fighting you to the death, witch to wizard?” I challenge. “Would you consider that a bad choice?”
But Darrius only laughs. “I would consider it bad, yes. But it isn’t actually a choice that you can make.”
I step forward, my fists clenched. I can feel the flames in my blood. My heart roars like a bonfire. Maybe I can’t kill him, but I can sure as hell hurt him. “Why not?”
Suddenly Whit’s by my side, holding a shovel up like a weapon. “Or maybe two against one,” he suggests. “How about that, Darrius?”
But Darrius ignores us both. Instead of answering, he lifts his arm into the air, and Whit and I are immediately frozen in place. My bones are stone, my skin’s like ice. The chill of the Underworld fills me.
His guards immediately surround us, their weapons raised. Mingled in their ranks are the putrid Undead, their skeletal fingers already reaching for our clothes. One touches my hair, and if I could scream, I would.
“Oh, but the battle would be over too quickly,” Darrius says quietly. “Me—with all my power—against a skinny little redhead and her ex-jock brother. Oh, once he might have been a worthy foe, but he has been neutered, hasn’t he?” Darrius turns around and looks straight at Whit. “What a brilliant campaign that was! Excise yourself for the good of the City!” Then he reaches his arm out and taps Whit on the end of his nose—like my brother’s a bad dog or something. “How stupid you are,” Darrius croons. “And how powerless.”
I’d give my right arm for a fireball right now, but I still can’t move. My brother lets out a closed-mouth howl of rage.
A cruel smile plays in the corners of Darrius’s lips. “No, it can’t be over yet. I like to relish my victories.”
As the circle of Horsemen and Undead tightens around us, Darrius begins to walk away. “Arrest them,” he directs. “Obviously.”
Whit’s not nearly as powerless as you think, Darrius, I want to scream. The minute we’re unfrozen, we’ll summon our powers and turn your sand cowboys into beef jerky.
But then someone mashes chloroformed rags into our faces, and everything goes black.
Chapter 65
Whit
I WAKE TO FIND MYSELF trussed like a deer, my hands and feet bound to a pole carried on the shoulders of two striding Horsemen
. Wisty, still unconscious, is flung over a Horseman’s saddle, limp as a dish towel. We’re flanked by the stinking Undead, who moan at us and lick their blackened gums.
I shiver when one grins at me. Wisty’s probably lucky she’s not awake for this part.
They carry us all the way to the City prison, parading us down the center of the street like the spoils of war. My head is pounding, like maybe they used it as a punching bag when I was unconscious.
In booking, I’m untied, but only so I can be stripped of my shoes and my belt. They handcuff me—and Wisty, too, even though she’s still out like a light.
I look around in grim recognition. It’s not the first time we’ve been to this prison, with its floors upon floors of iron-barred cells. The One Who Is The One brought us here in the middle of the night when we were just kids, before we even knew we were magic.
Part of me wishes I were still living back then, in happy, unmagical ignorance. I was innocent, carefree. I’d never killed a man, and no man had yet tried to kill me.
The Horseman guards prod me up five flights of stairs to the top, and I can’t help noticing how many rooms there are to be locked away to rot in. But we escaped before, and we’ll escape now—that’s what I’m telling myself. I just need Wisty to wake up so she can help.
The Horseman who’s carrying Wisty over his shoulder uses a free hand to open a narrow cell. “A room with a view,” he sneers. And then he drops my sister to the floor, shoves her farther into the cell with his foot, and slams the door.
Furious, I lunge toward him, but he kicks me hard in the chest, sending me spinning backward into the neighboring cell. I land hard, and before I can launch myself up again, the door slams on me with an earsplitting clang.
“Enjoy your stay,” the Horseman calls as he heads back down the hall.
“Wisty,” I yell as soon as he’s gone. “Wisty!”
But the chloroform hasn’t worn off her yet, and there’s no answer.
I inspect our dreadful new digs while I wait for her to wake up. The walls are made of cold gray stone, and there’s a narrow window in one. In a nearby corner lies a small pile of dirty rags and the tattered photograph of a girl. These were probably the entire worldly possessions of the previous occupant—and now they’re abandoned and covered in rat shit.
And whoever was in here? He’s gone to a better place: oblivion.
Moving aside the rags, I’m surprised to notice a small hole in the wall. When I put my eye up to it, I can see part of Wisty’s ankle.
It looks pale and thin and heartbreakingly fragile.
Who are we to think we can win this battle?
After what seems like hours, I hear my sister moving around on the other side of the wall. My heart leaps.
“Wisty,” I call again, my face right near the hole. “Are you okay?”
“What happened?” Her voice sounds thick and groggy.
“We got captured,” I say. “In case that isn’t obvious.”
“Damnit, Whit, we should have fought.”
“We tried,” I remind her. “He froze us.”
From the other side of the wall comes a string of curses.
“There’s a bright side, though,” I tell her.
“Oh, really.”
I don’t have to be able to see her to know the sneering, skeptical face she’s making.
I stand up and look out the window, where the sunlight’s glinting off the marble of the Old Palace. “We can keep an eye on Darrius’s headquarters. See what he and Bloom are up to.”
Now comes her muffled scoff. “Please. You couldn’t even figure out what you were digging toward with your own two hands. And now you think you’re going to be able to get to the bottom of Darrius’s plans from your prison cell? Good freaking luck.”
Glancing downward to the courtyard, I can see more Undead emerging from the alleyways. Scores of them—hundreds, even—slinking into the square. Then they stop and just stand there, as if they’re waiting for something. I see the big one Darrius called Vander enter the palace, flanked by a dozen other Lost Ones.
“They’re going in,” I whisper. But why? What could Darrius want with them?
Other than to keep terrifying and murdering everyone left in the City.
“Who?” Wisty asks.
“The Undead.” I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching the ghastly procession up the palace steps.
“Whit…” The voice is light, musical—definitely not my sister’s. “Whit…”
I turn around. “Did you hear something?” I call to Wisty.
“Yeah,” she says tiredly. “I hear the rats in the walls. And—wait, hold on—yes, I definitely hear something. Shrieks of terror? Howls of horror? Yes, it sounds like one of our prison neighbors begging for mercy as the Undead eat him alive.”
“No, there’s a voice,” I insist. Although, I admit: there is a lot of screaming in the distance. I shudder, trying to ignore it.
“Whatever, dude,” Wisty says dismissively.
But then, in the corner of my cell, I see a faint, delicate shimmer. Like a ray of sunlight curling around itself, dancing. The light grows brighter, and then slowly it takes shape.
It’s Celia.
Or the ghost of her, anyway. I feel a smile so wide it nearly cracks my face in two. “Hey, you,” I whisper.
“Hi, Whit,” she says softly.
“Wait—Whit, is someone there?” Wisty calls.
“It’s Celia,” I say.
“Oh, great,” I hear Wisty mutter. “I wonder what happy tidings she’s bringing this time.”
“Don’t be rude, Wisty,” I say.
“Oh, sorry. Sure, I just got chloroformed and thrown into prison by a guy who wants to murder me about as much as he wants to breathe, and you’re worried about my manners,” she snaps. “God, I’m so sick of you.”
Celia doesn’t seem to hear Wisty’s grousing, though—or if she does, she doesn’t care. She floats closer to me and says, “This is urgent, Whit. When Darrius unleashed the Undead upon the world, he gave them a power they did not have before.”
“What do you mean?” I’m not liking the sound of this.
“In Shadowland, the Undead ate only flesh. In this world, they can also eat souls.”
I shudder at the image. “But what does that mean?”
“Eating someone’s soul doesn’t simply kill them,” Celia goes on. “It’s much worse than that.” She takes a deep breath. “When Lost Ones devour a human soul, then they live again. They’re no longer Undead.”
I gasp. “What?”
Celia nods. “They become immortal. Invincible. And more evil than ever before. Under the control of Darrius and Matthias Bloom, they will destroy the entire world.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. If what Celia’s saying is true, we’re talking about the end of life as we know it.
Wisty sighs in her cell. “You know, Celia,” she calls, “I always liked you. But ever since you died, you’re kind of a bummer.”
“Celes,” I say, “are you sure?”
Celia reaches for my hands, but her ghostly fingers slip through mine like the ruffling of a faint breeze. “You and Wisty need to stick together,” she urges. “And you two can’t fight with each other anymore. Seriously. Never again. It’s important to the City that you’re unified.”
Wisty’s over on the other side of the wall, once again whispering all the curse words she knows—some of them maybe even directed at me and Celia—and I’m thinking, Easier said than done.
I turn back to Celia, and her lovely blue eyes gaze deep into mine. “Whatever you say, Celes. But what else are we supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” she says sadly. “Just… be strong.”
And then she flickers, sputtering out like a candle—and vanishes.
Chapter 66
Wisty
I FEEL BROKEN. Scared, tired, with a headache the size of the universe—and just downright busted. My moments of bluster (okay,
some might say rudeness) were only so I didn’t burst into tears.
Cry me a river, Wisteria, right? Well, I’m telling you: I could.
You have to understand that, waking from the chloroform, I forgot who I was. For a whole entire minute, I was nothing and nobody—I was simply a doomed and nameless girl.
I had to work to remember myself.
I think, in a way, I didn’t want to.
I didn’t realize it right away, but giving Whit half my powers felt like it hollowed me out. Like there’s a part of me missing, and no matter how hard I search I’ll never be able to find it again. Sometimes I’ve looked at my brother and thought, What have you done to me?
But I could never ask him that question.
Or maybe I’m shattered because I finally realize how tired I am of fighting. Of struggling simply to stay alive. I just want to rest.
If only the screaming in the halls would stop so I could sleep.
If only my brother would stop calling my name.
I can see his lips moving through the hole in the wall. “Wisty,” he’s whispering, “we have to get out of here. Now.”
“I thought you were all about the cell-based recon,” I mutter. “Do some more of that. I need to rest.” My eyelids feel like they’re made of cement.
“Listen!” he yells. “They’re coming closer. Do you want your soul to be a Lost One’s midnight snack?”
“I don’t care,” I say, closing my eyes. “I’m too tired.”
“You need to wake up and smell the zombies, sis! Because I, for one, have no interest in waiting around to be killed by the Lost Ones—or Darrius, for that matter, who’ll probably murder us in an even less enjoyable way.”
I hear a scream nearby that turns my blood to ice. They’re coming from outside on the street now, too.
Our City’s being devoured.
Damn it all to hell: I suppose it’s up to me to try to stop it.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Okay, okay,” I say. “So what’s the plan?”
“We find Darrius and Bloom, and we defeat them,” Whit says, as if this explains everything.