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At the sight of him, Lore froze, but Bastian barely reacted at all. He straightened from where he’d been hauling at the statue, ever graceful. “Gabriel,” he said conversationally. “And here I thought you’d decided against joining us. Whatever changed your mind?”

Mouths and hands and fumblings in the dark. Blood rushed to Lore’s face.

Gabe didn’t look at her. His arms crossed over his chest, the black leather of his eyepatch eating the light, making that side of his face look lost in a void. “What changed my mind,” he said, “is the certainty that if I wasn’t here, you’d invariably fuck it all up somehow.”

“Listen to the Mort now.” Bastian rolled his neck, shook out his shoulders. “We’ll have you renouncing your vows in no time.”

She was glad of the dark. The heat in her cheeks could light a damn candle.

Bastian inclined his head to the well. “Some help, then?” He went back to pushing at the statue, apparently much heavier than it looked, inching it along the wooden platform toward the wall of the well.

With a rumbling sigh, Gabe stepped forward, his shoulder brushing Lore’s as he passed her. She didn’t move, and that was meant as a challenge. The way his eyes flickered to her said he took it as one.

“Where have you been?” Lore asked.

“Thinking.” The line of his jaw was harsh, casting a deep shadow over his neck.

“And did you come to any interesting conclusions?”

He finally looked at her, then. Turned so that one blue eye blazed down at her like a lighthouse at a rocky shore, danger and safety at once. “I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t let you do this by yourself.”

“I have Bastian.” Truth and a weapon and a memory of breath shared in an alcove. “I was never going to be doing this by myself, Gabriel. Just not with you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“What you should’ve been thinking about,” she said, “is what you’re going to do when it’s finally proven to you that Anton is a liar.” Then she turned around to go help Bastian move the statue.

After a moment, Gabe followed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

In our observation of the captured necromancers who worked in pairs, the more powerful necromancer would channel the Mortem, while the less powerful one would direct it. In this way, they were able to raise more of the dead using less energy by binding them together. Some necromancers were also able to shape raw Mortem before channeling it through themselves, causing things like increased strength or stamina once this shaped Mortem was finally taken in. Theoretically, this practice could be harnessed for military purposes, but so few are capable of it that further research into the possibility is impractical.

—Notes from Thierry LeMan, researcher working in the Burnt Isles circa 10 AGF

With all three of them working, moving the statue was fairly easy. Gabe directed them—the statue was on a track, barely visible against the wood grain in the dark—and they inched the statue forward until it slotted into a notch carved into the top of the well wall.

“Upon reflection,” Bastian said, hooking his hands on his hips and scowling at the statue, “moving it toward the notch seems obvious.”

“What an auspicious start we’re off to,” Gabe muttered.

Lore was too out of breath to say anything. Even sliding along a track, the damn statue was heavy.

Bastian moved the wooden piece covering the top of the well, now unencumbered by stone gods. Inside, a perfect ring of pitch-black, so thick it looked almost liquid. Cold emanated from the depths of the well, and all three of them took a tiny, instinctual step back.

“Do you have a key?” Gabe’s voice was low and dark, still suspicious. He arched a brow at Bastian, who looked utterly confused.

“A key for what?”

“The chambers,” Gabe said. “The chambers within the catacombs. They aren’t just left open.”

“Well.” Bastian pushed back his hair. “Fuck.”

“I can get in.”

Lore didn’t look at either of them. She looked at that vast well of darkness, an entry to deep parts of the earth where the living weren’t meant to go. “I can get in,” she repeated.

Gabe’s brows knit. “How?”