It was a mark of Beau’s panic that he didn’t respond. Instead, he nearly tripped over Célie as she stooped to collect something from the moldy stair. It gleamed through her fingers in the darkness. A shard of mirror. Straightening, she held it out in front of her like a knife.

A beat of silence passed as we stared at her. “What?” she hissed defensively, face nearly white. “No one gave me a weapon.”

To my surprise, Coco responded by bending to retrieve her own shard. She held it poised in her free hand, saying nothing of the knife in her other, and nodded once in Célie’s direction. Then she nudged Beau. He looked between them, aghast. “You cannot be serious. We’re more likely to wound ourselves than the cauchemar with such rubbish.”

Rolling my eyes, I pressed a dagger into his palm before picking up my own piece of glass. At Célie’s incredulous stare, one corner of my mouth quirked up. “What?” I shrugged and continued upward, not looking back. “It was a good idea.”

We crept toward the final floor in silence. When the door below slammed shut again, Beau’s whisper quickly followed. “I’m as opposed to airing my dirty laundry as anyone, but perhaps—in light of the circumstances—it might help to . . . discuss our fears?” The step beneath him heaved an ominous groan, and he exhaled sharply. “For example, if one of you could reiterate how you’d never dream of ignoring or forgetting me, that would be grand. It’s a ridiculous notion, I know, but for the sake of—”

“Quiet,” Lou snapped. The staircase ended with a door directly overhead. She tilted her head again, hesitating, before pushing it open and slipping through. I followed, nearly flattening her when I climbed to my feet. She’d stopped abruptly to take in the final floor: an open room without walls to shield us from the elements. Only a handful of beams held the roof in place, and sun spilled in from every direction, banishing the last of the shadows. I breathed a sigh of relief. The cauchemar wasn’t here. Nothing was here save an enormous fire basin. Built into the center of the stone floor, it stood empty. No wood or ashes. Except—

Lou stood perfectly still, the wind whipping her pale hair across her face.

Except it wasn’t empty at all.

From the basin, an enormous figure rose.

Cloaked in soiled fabric, it charged toward us with blackened, outstretched hands. I lunged to Lou’s side, but she’d already moved, surging forward with lightning quickness. When she lashed out with her blade, clipping the creature’s midsection, it reared backward like a great bear. Though a hood shielded its hair, its face, its teeth, it swiped at Lou with one massive paw, and she sailed through the air. I dove after her—catching her wrist before she could slide from the room’s edge—as the others attacked, their knives and mirrors glinting in the sunlight. “Stop!” The wind carried away my shout. “Don’t hurt it! We’re here to warn the creature, not—stop!”

The cauchemar stumbled back a step, hands still raised, but didn’t hesitate to knock Coco’s glass aside and roar when she slashed its thigh. She danced out of reach before it could wrap its hands around her neck—and then the first terror came.

Though Lou had warned us, nothing could’ve prepared me for the horrifying jolt of fear. Of pain. My vision flashed white, blinding me, and I slipped, crouching down to one knee. From the others’ startled cries, they experienced the same.

A black room, blacker chains. Cold against my skin. Wrong. Blood slides from my wrists to the floor in a steady drip. I count each drop. She returns at the top of each hour. Thirty-six hundred seconds. Thirty-six hundred drops. When the door creaks open at drop thirty-five hundred and sixty-two, I choke back a scream. A saw. A handsaw. She lifts it to the candlelight. “Is it in your bones, I wonder? Like theirs?”

I fell to my hands as the faceless woman advanced. Gasping for breath. Shaking my head. Forcing my eyes to see reality instead of the glint of bone: to see Lou, writhing on the floor beside me, to see Coco in the fetal position, Beau flat on his back, Célie wide-eyed and trembling.

I threw my glass shard, and it stuck, point-first, in the creature’s shoulder. Lurching to my feet, I tore another knife from my bandolier. The cauchemar stood its ground. A rumbling noise built in its chest, but I ignored the growl and advanced. The others struggled to join me in vain. Another wave of fear crippled us before we could reach the beast.

Alone. I’m alone. Where is he? Where is he where is he where is he—

I gritted my teeth and continued, disoriented, stumbling against the flickering white like a drunkard.

“Speak.” A high, imperious voice. Her voice. “Or I shall pluck out your brother’s eyes. It is a fitting punishment, yes? He rendered you mute. I shall render him blind.” But I cannot speak. Drugged. The drug. It congeals in my system. The manacle at my throat chokes me. Moan. I try to moan, but she only laughs. His screams fill the air. His pleas.

Oh my God.

This wasn’t right. I didn’t fear torture. I wasn’t mute—

More images flashed. Broken pieces, fragmented horror. A swollen jaw. Irrepressible hunger. Empty syringes, the burning pain of infection. A chilling laugh and stale bread. And through it all, an acute, unbearable panic.

Where is he where is he where is he where is he

Wolves howling.

Eucalyptus.

Moonbeam hair.

Moonbeam hair.

I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing with Lou’s. With a shrill battle cry, she rushed forward, knife raised. I caught her around the waist, spinning her away from the cauchemar. It still waved its hands frenetically, as if—as if trying to tell me something. My stomach churned violently. “Hold. I think—I think it’s—”

In a clumsy, disjointed movement, the cauchemar pulled back its hood.

I stared at it.

Contrary to Célie’s description, the cauchemar didn’t have shadow-cloaked skin or sharp teeth. Its hair was matted, yes, but its swollen eyes inspired more fear than its namesake. Its broken jaw evoked more rage. My vision tunneled to its lacerated thigh, to the angry red streaks of disease on its russet skin. To the blood crusting its tattered pants. This cauchemar had been beaten. Badly.

It also wasn’t a cauchemar at all.

It was Thierry St. Martin.

Lou twisted from my grasp and sprinted toward him once more. Incredulous, I caught her wrist. “Lou, stop. Stop. This is—”