In the Crux, where the wet earth rejected corpses, the dead had their own city. A black maze of moss-covered tombs and statuary.

Cold fingers walked down Ava's back as she crossed under the cemetery's arched gate, beneath the leering gazes of granite gargoyles and dragons. As always, her stomach rolled as the homes of the dead loomed up around her, rows and rows of silent stone. Nausea burned up her throat.

Deeper in the night, at the furthest edge of the cemetery, lost in the encroaching woodland, her family's tomb waited. Her mother's bones lay within, still bricked up in a vault for the newly deceased, ten years past their time for cleaning, blessing, and bagging.

Unlike those stored on the shelf above. Warmire Longbane, seventeen years gone, his remains mouldering in a sack tied with one of his wife's hair ribbons. He hadn't survived his first week in the Crux, his wounds too severe, his spirit broken.

His guilt and his young, traumatised daughter's needs too much to bear.

Chest tightening, Ava looked to the sky, its faded stars. How many more days would pass before she could forgive him?

"If you were any more tense, Longbane, you'd splinter like a two-bit bow." Tythorn drew level with her, stride matching hers, something she was yet to grow used to—or comfortable with. "I'd have thought you at home with the dead. Are you concerned one of your colleagues might have missed one of the cursed amongst the night's fallen? A vampire, or revenant out to settle old scores."

Ava hooked back her coat, exposing the dagger and collection of stakes sheathed at, or shoved into, the top of her mid-thigh boots. "Any such oversight can be easily fixed."

Tythorn lifted both brows, eyes taking a tour a downward. "This is no time to seduce me, Longbane."

Despite the dread in her gut, Ava felt the corner of her lips twitch. The elf's charm might be nothing more than a cynical tool or reflex, but he knew how to wield it. "If blades were all it took, your nymph friend would look less forlorn."

Tythorn sighed. "First a person feels pity. Next, he or she is naked, gasping, and claiming to have seen all seven gods. Whatever melancholy Fox suffers, she's found a way to live with it. Her wife, a fertility acolyte, considers such encounters charity for the needy—a kind of spiritual and educational outreach." The elf shook his head. "Earth nymphs, always encouraging the practice of creation magic."

Ava found herself fighting back an actual smile at his disgust—a battle she won the second she spotted two shadowy figures. The Bones Keeper and his teenage assistant, unloading a cart of bodies. If the pair were outside and busy...

A certain someone would be inside, unsupervised.

With a Whym inquisitor not ten paces away.

On a burst of speed, Ava ducked into the Bones Keeper's workroom through a side door, avoiding polite greetings and delay. Shooting out a foot, she kicked over an empty wash bucket on the way in. Its clatter was an insult to the night's quiet. A sharp warning.

"What in the seven blazes?" At the far end of the candlelit room, a squat figure in Death Watch black lurched about, almost upending the trestle table beside her and the naked corpse on it. "Longbane! You blighted wretch! You out to stop an old woman's heart?"

"It'd take more than a tipped bucket to still your rotten core, Milrag." Smile tight, Ava jerked her chin towards Tythorn as he joined her. "Meet Inquisitor Sol. He knows a lot more effective ways to silence a heartbeat. Just show him some depraved miscreant and he'll gladly demonstrate."

At the end of the room, the witch's milky gaze widened. Fear. Just a flicker. In the tatty, soiled folds of the woman's robes, a gnarled hand—and whatever it held—disappeared into a pocket. Some small piece of death secreted away: a few clippings or samples. Of the alternate names for death wardens—reapers and ghouls—the woman before her aspired to the latter.

But whatever disquiet the witch felt at seeing an inquisitor in her foul workspace, it was brief.

Peeling back a potion-stained lip to reveal equally blackened, derelict teeth, she rolled and huffed her way forward, her club-headed cane thumping across stone defiled by body fluids and rags. "Elves." She sneered and spat sideways. "Overrated. 'Cept if your crotch needs scratching. You letting this poxed devil poke you, girl? Nasty, bow-legged slut."

Ava shook her head, resisting the embarrassment the crone hunted. "You that desperate to court your mistress' attention that you'd provoke an armed elf? Stop worrying about being forsaken. Going by the way you smell, Lady Death took you some days ago."

The witch grunted and wiped taloned hands across her sagging breasts, adding fresh smears to what had already crusted. Then she sniffed, sniffed again, her smile spreading across flaccid wrinkles like a stain. "Going by the hot flesh I smell, your momma's forsaken soul won't need no demon to torment it, girl. You know how she felt about these pointy-eared prigs. She'd have cut this one's twig off for twitching it in your direction. Then she'd have choked you with it, ended you like she should've done at birth. Your blighted existence is punishment for whatever sin damned her."

Ava flinched at the summation; caught Tythorn's sideways glance.

"That promise you extracted from me minutes ago," he drawled. "Wise play."

His dry humour eased her next breath. He didn't know about her parents' sins, and Milrag only knew enough to wound—entertain.

"I only said not to burn out her tongue or behead her." Meeting the witch's merry, malicious gaze, Ava willed the crone's twisted soul to the deepest pit of all the hells. "Everything else is negotiable."

Milrag grunted and lumbered to a stop before Tythorn. "You'd do well to keep that pledge, Whym lord." Her pale eyes crawled down his body. "A woman of my extensive experience can do a lot of interesting things with that particular appendage." The thick slug of her tongue waggled out. "Feeling lusty, elf?"

Tythorn eyed the witch down his nose. "Not the word I'd choose."

"Stow the games, Milrag." Ava pushed the crone back a step, not liking the gleam in the witch's gaze. It wasn't strictly amusement, and with the workroom's air thick with death, blessing herbs, and the hag's own ripe odours, even an elf might not sense a spell until it was too late. "We're here to do business. The kind you like—irritating Hellebore and the covens. What dirt have you got on her or your other sisters? Anything that'd sour that candy-coated glamour she wears?"

Milrag sniffed indifferently, but her eyes sharpened. "Information costs, girl. Your momma learned that trying to save her own pitiful hide. Fed my caldron often and well. Tasted sweet—ripe and rotten as any fallen peach." The witch sucked at her lips, looked to Tythorn. "What would you taste like, Whym lord? Rich? Meaty?"

Ava stepped between the elf and the witch before the light in Tythorn's eyes could turn to actual fire. The crone knew exactly which wounds to poke. "So, you've heard about the dead elf. What do you know? Who's in the market for Whym body parts these days?"

Listing sideways on her cane like a drunken toad, Milrag eyeballed Tythorn's groin. "Anyone with eyes got an interest, girl."

Ava snapped her fingers in front of the witch's nose, breaking her focus—any chance to cast a spell. "Why don't you tell us who's desperate or stupid enough to risk getting roasted by Whym fire—besides you?"

"Learn to share, girl. Elves no more faithful than a troll's hind end, and jealousy ain't a pretty look on that sun-starved puss of yours."

Tythorn shifted his hand, rested it on the gilded hilt of his mytar. "Your severed head rolling across the floor is, however, an image that grows more attractive by the second."

"You want information, Whym, you going to have to do better than threats." The witch's grin spread. "Never know, if you're generous, I might throw in an interesting scrap or two about your human slut. Like why she looks like she ain't seen daylight in—"

Ava grabbed the witch by her crusty front and jerked her close. "You'll waste no more time and you'll stay on topic, or you won't like your payment."

The witch exposed stained teeth. "Ah, yes. You don't have much time, do you, girl?"

Ava shoved her away with one hand, the other slipping from the pocket she'd found. She clunked the small jar she'd retrieved down on the nearest workbench, setting it amongst similar glassware and bags filled with powders and herbs. The contents obscured by the jar's cloudy glass, however, would more likely curse than bless: stolen pieces of the dead. "And you might have less time than you think, witch." She didn't dare glance at Tythorn. Didn't dare wonder what he might make of the witch's words. Milrag's vindictiveness was matched only by her self-destructive streak.

She'd happily get them both killed.

The witch eyed the jar, wet her lips. When she finally shifted her attention back to Ava, her gaze could've flayed skin. "I remember the day your mother begged me to put a stake through your heart."

"And yet here I stand." Ava hauled up a smile, blocking the memory of sharpened wood against flesh and bone. "I believe you were about to tell us who might be pilfering power and abusing corpses even though they could hang for it. Do you have a name for us, Milrag? Or should I suggest one to get things started?"

The witch bared her teeth as if immune to the threat, but her cataract-pale eyes cut back to the jar before rolling to Tythorn. "Elf meat. Mmm, such a succulent delight. But spicy. Very spicy. If someone is making a meal out of your kind, they won't be new to death's treats. It takes a flesh-eater decades to callus the gut enough to withstand the richest meat. The one you seek will be fighting age, and most likely waning power. Or they're simply bored or fat and hoggish. I can think of five such witches who fit those descriptions."

"Names?" Tythorn's grip on his sword tightened.

"Patience, Whym lord. We've not yet discussed price—though you know well what it is." The witch slicked out her tongue.

Something akin to both disgust and pity darkened the elf's gaze. "You putting your own name on the list, witch?"

"There's no crime here, inquisitor. Only business." A light more avid than amusement danced in the witch's eyes. "You agree to the price, you give permission. And I ask for so little. Nothing a healthy young body like yours would even notice the loss of."

"I should remove your tongue just for the insolence." Tythorn's gold stare gleamed. "But as I've given Longbane my word that I'll not carve bloody pieces off you..." He rolled up one sleeve. "One drop per name—"

"No!" Ava grabbed his arm, horror coming with understanding. "Don't—"

"Deal!" Milrag spat on the ground to seal the agreement. "The first are Hornet and Thistle Gripe, fat, useless bovines who rot from the hooves up. What little power they have left lies constipated with the blood and dung in their bowels."

Ava caught Tythorn's stare—jerked her hand off warm, tense muscle. Her heart tumbled out of rhythm, but what the inquisitor might have sensed from that brief skin contact wasn't what terrified her that second. "Do not give her your blood." Power wasn't the only thing the witch might gain. Fresh blood could hold knowledge, and it could bind wills, fates, and curses.

Tythorn trailed a hand over the flesh she'd just released, lips curving. Then they flattened again—hardened. He slipped a dagger from one sleeve, put its edge against his exposed forearm. "Tell me about the other three witches you suspect, or there's no deal."

Milrag hummed in approval, gaze locking onto the blade. "The first is little better than a corpse, the second enjoys the hospitality of the dead, and the last bathes in life that's not her own, soaking it up like a mouldy sponge."

Ava fisted her hands to stop herself disarming Tythorn. "The agreement was for names, Milrag. You break the terms."

Gaze fixed on the inquisitor's dagger, the witch snorted up a lungful of air. "What's that I smell? Dawn? Best run along, girl. Leave the Whym lord and myself to finish our business to our mutual satisfaction." The slug of her tongue peeked again, rimmed her mouth wet.

Ava shot a look out the open side door, to the fading darkness beyond. Awareness of the coming day rose in a dark tide. Her first impulse was to run; her next—She spun back to Tythorn. "Pay the hag with coin or the swing of your sword. Better yet, just leave. She lies as well as she spits."

"Deal's been struck." Milrag's smile bloomed sly. "The elf will get his names ... in good time."

"That time would be now." Ava clenched fists. "You piss about one more second, the only blood you'll be eating is your own."

"Vile creature." Milrag huffed, feigning pique. "Show respect to those who've lived long enough to have forgotten more than you will ever know. The names will come back to me." She pursed her lips in exaggerated thought, spent precious seconds scratching her rear—then her crotch. "What was that disintegrating corpse called again? Spoiled creature. Did it rhyme with bratty—no, scabby, like the flesh she plucks off herself for snacks."

The answer jumped to Ava's tongue along with a curse. "The hermit who lives in the abandoned quarry to the south. She has a skin disease. People call her Mabby the Mange."

Tythorn looked to Milrag for confirmation. At her disdainful sniff, he let his blade bite flesh.

The cut was barely a scratch, but the witch froze. Her nostrils flared.

"The next name," Tythorn prompted.

"Ah, yes, we must have another name." The witch's words came in a husky, saliva-coated rush. "The second is a slice right off a cow's rear. A slothful lump of dried meat. Her udders would hang to her knees if only she had the will to get off her back."

Ava ground teeth. The crone was wasting time for the fun of it as much as she was trying to get Tythorn to herself. Finding the next answer, cutting the game short another minute, came with no satisfaction, only cold sweat, fear the witch would consider a bonus prize. "Veldra Rump. The city magistrate's estranged wife. Hasn't been seen out in public for over a year. Rumour has it she can't get out of bed."

Milrag grunted. "Her pets feed her well right where she is. Or is it the other way around?"

Tythorn let one red drop bead at his dagger's tip. "The last name?"

Milrag's gaze snapped to that bright bead, widened as the drop swelled then became a trickle.

Ava glanced to the door, heart beginning to race. She couldn't leave until she knew Tythorn hadn't given away more than blood. The sky was lightening, but she had time yet. Quarter of an hour maybe. Gods. Was that bird song she heard?

She swung back to Tythorn, silently cursing him. "No one does a deal with a witch without paying a hundred times more than they agreed. Leave her to choke on the last name."

The elf merely arched a brow at Milrag—waited.

Blood trickled to his wrist. The witch's breath became hungry gulps. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, her smile rising with it, exposing teeth that oozed black saliva. Magic, foul and fetid, coiled on her next exhalation. "The last has ears like a fangless bat, the face of a powdered hog, and the arse the size of a bloated—"

The workroom's main door slammed open, squealing on its hinges. A lissom figure in blossom-pink silk strode in on a swirl of humid air. The lush scent of flowers and candied fruit overran the swamp's rot and the room's odour of death.

Hellebore.

"Playing word games, sister?" The brothel witch arched a pale eyebrow, the plucked arc striking on dark cinnamon skin. "How fun. Let me start the next game. Who smells like week-old piss, beds the dead because she's too desperately ugly for the living, and is about to join her rotting lovers in the hottest hellfire?"

Milrag spat on the ground, eyes black now, bleeding unnatural power. "Flatulent whore. I know your true face. You make my festering bunions look as fresh as a baby's pink arse!"

Magic swelled in the room, thick and dark.

Tythorn grabbed Ava's arm and hauled her to the side door. "I believe you have another appointment. Time to head off to it. Leave the rest of the interview to me."

Ava tried to turn back as he shoved her out the door; ran into the wall of his chest. "Your blood." She'd seen it fall to the floor—five fat drops. "You can't let either of—"

Lips came down on hers, stopped her words. Then she was being spun away—from the kiss, from amused gold eyes—back towards the night on unsteady legs.

"The concern is touching, Longbane. But given the spell fire in the air, it's time for you to go." Tythorn swept back inside. "In fact, it might pay to run." He slammed the door in her face.

Ava blinked, fell back a step. What the—?

Something heavy crashed against the door. A shriek sounded. Magic heated the night air—wild and bitter—a gathering storm.

But it was the first note of lark song that broke through her shock, woke real fear.

Her stomach plummeted. Blood roared in her ears. She turned and ran into what remained of the night, letting her strides find their limit. Tombs and moss-cloaked statues flashed past. The black of the woods loomed—rushed up. Bracken lashed her legs as she reached the cemetery's farthest edge.

At the fern wrens' first trills, her palms slammed into the door of her family's tomb hard enough to send rusted iron shrieking inwards.

She tumbled inside—spun to lock the door behind her. Her pulse calmed—just a beat—as she realised darkness still engulfed her. She wasn't so late.

She still had time to strip to her skin, to save and stow her clothes.

But it was close.

Sinking down onto dank stone, amongst rotting leaves, dead bugs, and grime—seventeen years' worth of it—she watched the first light of dawn slant through the window high in the dome of the tomb. The awareness of day crawled over her, a thousand spiders. Magic, foul and black, filled her lungs, clogged her throat. She had to fight for her next breath, managed to snatch it.

But the next ... never came.

Her chest jerked, starved of air. As the light strengthened, silver turning to rose then gold, her heart took its last few beats. Her eyes fell closed, and the world faded back to night's black...

An empty eternity passed.

Something cold and hungry opened its eyes—screamed.