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Reciting from The Book of the Dead, she had warped this place to her own making. She transformed herself into the banshee of old, whose death wail signified impending doom. Using The Book of the Dead, she summoned those souls most likely to be twisted and manipulated into despair. Those unrestful souls who faced unresolved torment. Her wail called for them.

Little by little, they showed. It was easy to bend and break their will. To play on their fears and doubts and trauma . . . their grief. Her ghoulish army grew. Their wails beckoned those souls. She built the army to exact her revenge. A vast army. An unrelenting army of the dead. Those she could command and shape and mold.

If she had to suffer torment and heartbreak, if she had to endure a life with no control, then she would ensure the world suffered the same fate. For all her family’s wealth and power and influence, they were not immune from the true law of the world—the uncaring truth of mortality.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They were close once—her and her father, Alabaster Sinclair. Close to the spell Hugo and Alice drank. It was within their grasp. The plan was perfect. They needed to track down the spell and extract it, then use the spell to erase the curse. Tracking the spell had proved more difficult than anticipated, but yet, they were so close. They knew where it was, hidden in a small western town.

They formed a pact with a pair of vampires. They sent someone to retrieve it. She and her betrothed would drink from it. The vampires would then own it. Everyone would win, and they wouldn’t race each other and tear each other apart to get it. They sent a specialist, a wielder of shadow magick to extract the spell. Like everything else in the world, they only faced disappointment and ruin.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The mask had been placed on the face of one who drank from it. It wasn’t on him long enough to fully extract the magick coursing through his body. The residuals of the spell became a part of him once he drank from the cup. It needed more time. If not for the traitorous Thaddeus Price . . . She should have committed him to oblivion sooner.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Ms. Sinclair,” Russell Farnsworth said as he approached. His steps echoed off the wooden planks of the dock. “We have searched the house. There were no other signs of magick or connections to the mortal realm.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She didn’t turn around to acknowledge him. Madeline kept her focus on the mouth of the cave before her.

“There was only a shattered mirror. Perhaps he used it to communicate with her. A bridge to the mortal realm.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Ms. Sinclair, how do you want to proceed? The ghouls grow restless.”

Russell Farnsworth was like a surrogate father to her. A servant of the family. He protected her as she grew up. He cared for her. He was the one soul she trusted more than any other. The one soul she wanted by her side to exact her revenge on the uncaring world.

“Mr. Farnsworth, the books were calling to each other. All three copies. They cried out into the darkness. They were being used and, in turn, signaled for each other. Our salvation may be at hand yet,” Madeline said.

“Called for each other? All three books? Someone has found the other book?”

“The Sinclair-Grove Foundation must be using the book to make contact. Someone else is using the other one. I’m guessingthe little witch had the third copy. It was hidden away for so long; they signaled for each other once she used it.”

“If the foundation could get their hands on the third . . .”

“We could finally go home.” Madeline turned to face Russell.

His face was painted white with black rings around his eyes. He carried the mark of the death mask, but she would not allow him to succumb to the banshee’s wail.

“They contacted each other at the very spot where they drank from the spell. We may be able to extract enough from there to charge the mask,” Madeline said.

“Then you could make contact?”

Madeline glanced down at the mask. “It’s the only hope we have left. All we have is hope. Take me to it.”

Madeline picked up her black parasol and marched toward her black death coach with the headless driver waiting on top. Russell Farnsworth followed.