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“Who is that?”

I switched on my headlamp, illuminating a wall of bars. A thin brown arm reached through, belonging to a man in a white tunic. It took a moment to recognize him with a beard—to find the scar on his forehead, the amber eyes, the freckle under the left one.

“Paige,” he breathed.

“Zeke.” With a sigh of relief, I grabbed the bars. “You’re alive.”

“You came for us.” He clamped his fingers over mine with a weak grin. “Nadine said you would.”

“Of course I did.” I held up the keys. “Do you know which is the right one?” When he nodded, I passed the whole set through the bars to him. The cell beyond reeked of sweat and piss. “Where is Nadine?”

“Thuban took her a few hours ago.” Zeke was starting to stammer. “I have to find her.”

“We will.”

He found the right key, and I unlocked the cell. Twelve hollow-eyed voyants in white tunics began to shove past. “Michael,” I croaked, searching their grimy faces. “Zeke, was Michael in here?”

Zeke was ushering the voyants out, helping those who were too weak to rise alone. “Who?”

“Michael Wren. He’s unreadable, about your age, doesn’t talk much—”

“He was here,” an augur said, “but they took him away yesterday.” His hair was lank, and he leaned hard on Zeke. “I don’t know where.”

We had missed Michael by a matter of hours. I beckoned the voyants into the corridor. “Stay close to me, all of you. We’re leaving.”

“They’ll shoot us,” a voice said.

“Well, the roof’s on fire, so we’ve no choice.” The acrid smell of smoke was stronger. “We’re not going past the snipers. There’s another way out, through the tunnels under the palace.”

“Like you said, Paul,” Zeke murmured.

The augur nodded, looking satisfied. “The old hydraulics.”

Arcturus waited for us at the end of the corridor. Now he was away from the poltergeist, he was visibly stronger.

“Warden.” Zeke stared at him. “You came, too?”

Arcturus nodded. “It’s all right,” I said to a medium, who had shrunk away from him with a whimper. “He’s a friend, I promise.”

We moved as fast as we could, given the state of them all. I shepherded them under a flight of stairs to avoid two squadrons of Vigiles. At last, we reached the Lower Gallery, where we had entered the palace. It was already hot and dry as an oven.

A constellation of dreamscapes shone ahead. Ankou and Léandre were at the other end of the Lower Gallery, guarding the doors to the north wing, the latter newly armed with a Scion-made assault rifle. The carpet was swampy under my boots, and it reeked of something familiar, so strong my eyes watered. Léandre saw me at once.

“Paige.” He beckoned my group. “Through here, all of you, now.” As they hurried into the north wing, he said, “Renelde has gone ahead. She has Le Vieux Orphelin and your friend Nadine.”

“Nadine?” Zeke said, catching her name. “What did he say about Nadine?”

“She’s okay. She’s out,” I said in English, and pushed him through the doors. “Come on.”

I turned with my revolver drawn when I sensed more dreamscapes. Thuban burst through another doorway, shadowed by Situla and eight more Rephaim.

Ankou pumped his shotgun and pointed it straight at Thuban. We were so close to freedom, so close I could taste it, thick as the smoke that was leaching through the ceiling and beneath the doors.

“Just let us walk, Thuban,” I called to him. Each word stabbed me in the chest. “Don’t disappoint the blood-sovereign again by letting this place burn.”

“If you imagine that you and the concubine are going to leave here with your heads,” Thuban said, as he passed a brazier, “you are sorely mistaken.”

I stared as he came into the firelight. His right eye was a pit, and ectoplasm had dried on his cheek.