I become insane . . .

"Erebus."

. . . with long intervals of . . .

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

. . . horrible sanity.

Sigh. "You're not."

Erebus couldn't remember how many times over the last couple of hundred years he'd heard Damien Tate recite his plans to redesign and renovate their warehouse home. To be completely honest, Erebus wasn't actually interested in changing anything.

Approximately four stories high and the length of half a football field, it was a monster of exposed metal, gridded floors, and tall industrial windows. Over the years, all five of its inhabitants had gathered every utensil, appliance, and piece of furniture on their own. Nothing worked well together, and Erebus loved it.

Damien, not so much.

Erebus sat at their dining table, fiddling with spare bolts that one of the others had left lying around. Damien, cross-legged on the table, looked expectantly at his friend.

"I'm sorry." Erebus slid the bolts away. "I'm listening. Tell me again?"

Damien sighed dramatically. "Well, do I get to start over?"

Erebus winced. "Fine." It had been four days since his encounter with the Necromancer. Erebus had shown up at the warehouse with a swollen face—his vision foggy and his legs falling beneath him—as he stumbled through the doors with his bags. Damien had been the first one there, running down the stairs to the doorway to pick Erebus up off the ground.

Following Damien was Max, their caretaker and owner of the building, in his robe and fluffy slippers, with the silhouettes of the other two boys running close behind. Erebus passed out again, and continued to slip in and out of consciousness for the next three days.

Damien turned, pointing to the metal grid ceiling above and the second story beyond that. "And then, in the kitchen, I was thinking that we could—" He dropped his hands, unimpressed. "Erebus! Seriously?"

Erebus straightened. "What?"

"I can tell when you aren't listening. I'm asking you to just pay attention for, like, two minutes."

Erebus was about to speak when Max shouted from the upstairs kitchen. "Erebus! Have you gone to see the Legion Council yet?"

Erebus closed his eyes. "Not yet!" he yelled back.

"And when do you plan on doing that, exactly?" The older man stood at the top of the stair, staring disapprovingly over his wire-framed glasses.

Erebus grabbed the bolts and twirled them between his fingers. "I'll go this afternoon."

"Good. Taeto isn't very happy about what happened," Max repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. Even Damien rolled his eyes.

"I know, Max. I'm sorry, I had no idea she was going to be there."

"I don't think her being there is what's bothering him."

"He still should have checked that none of the academies had sent out Reapers of their own—that's Taeto's fault," Damien said, pointing at Max.

Taeto operated the Dewmort Legions, of which the boys were all members. They were a group of Necromancers and Reapers occasionally sent topside to dispose of rogue creations or their masters.

Max nodded. "Yes, that does fall on Taeto's shoulders. But both he and the Legion Council are bothered by the fact that you, Erebus, having been trained to do this for hundreds of years, were knocked out by some girl who's been training for what—fifteen, sixteen maybe?"

From behind: "What I don't understand is how you managed to not notice her eyes. Necromancer eyes tend to stand out."

Erebus looked up as Mason Sørensen pulled out the chair next to him. "She had her back to the light," Erebus said. "It was dark and I couldn't see her eyes."

"Do you have any idea who she was?" Mason asked.

"She was a Lahey," Max answered. Everybody who was anybody knew about the Laheys. They were the only Necromancer family in history to have changed sides in the war.

"What's her name?" Mason asked.

"Nyx," Erebus answered, and Damien giggled. "What?"

Max pulled out a chair opposite Erebus. "Let's just hope that she forgets all about it and doesn't ask questions."

"Yeah," Damien scoffed. "I'm sure she'll forget all about it by next week."

Erebus grimaced. "Actually . . ."

The others fell silent, eyes snapping to Erebus. The ground shook below; banging echoed throughout the building.

"Actually?" Max pressed.

"She kind of . . . she has my necklace," he said, expelling a breath.

Damien looked at Mason. Mason looked at Max. Max stared at Erebus.

"How exactly did she acquire that?" Max asked.

"I think it fell out of my pocket."

"How do you know she has it?" Damien queried.

"I went back there this morning and it was gone. She's the only one who would have been down there looking for something."

"You don't know for sure, though, right?" Mason asked, glancing desperately between Damien and Max.

Max cleaned his glasses. "We cannot afford another incident with her, Erebus. She's already seen you—she knows you're not normal."

"Do you think she'd just give it back?" Damien asked. Erebus made a face. "Realistically, we don't know she has it for sure. I mean, anybody could have been down there in the last few days. People love abandoned places."

"I think it's most realistic that the girl has it," Max cut in.

"I'm not sure what I should do," Erebus said.

Max stood. "Here's what we're going to do. First, we're going to make sure she has it, and if so, where. If it's inside their home, we need to figure out how to get it without anyone knowing." He frowned at each of the boys; they nodded. "Go as soon as you can," Max said. "But, Erebus, I don't want you missing your meeting with Taeto. Just get that over with firs—"

Bang, bang, bang.

"First. And don't mention anything about the necklace—you didn't lose it; she didn't find it. Nothing—"

Bang, smash, smash, bang.

Max looked toward the stairs to the basement, annoyed.

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

"Ridley Channing!" he roared, stomping his foot.

The banging stopped and was followed by the thud of a sledgehammer being dropped. Seconds later, looking unimpressed, Ridley Channing came up from below, safety goggles askew atop his head, black hair spiked out, a dust mask around his neck.

He narrowed his eyes at the old man. "Can I help you, Maximus?"

"Would you be so kind as to leave your project for the day and join us for a conversation?" Max gestured to the table.

"It's going to take all day?" Ridley made a face.

Max shut his eyes. "No, but I need you to go on an errand with the others."

Ridley sat down on the end of the table. "What did you guys do now?"

"The girl has Erebus's necklace," Mason said, running his fingers along the tabletop.

Ridley's face dropped. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." Erebus clenched his jaw.

"Shit," Ridley breathed, scratching paint from his eyebrow.

For the last forty years, Ridley Channing's sole purpose in life had been demolishing and refurbishing the huge cathedral below the warehouse. None of them were sure of its age—it was all vaulted ceilings, gold trimmings, polished oak pews, and beautiful painted scenes. Some days, like today, Ridley went at it with a sledgehammer, removing rotten walls or benches. Others, he sat on the floor in complete silence, tracing over long-faded biblical scenes with a paint brush no larger than a toothpick or cutting bits of stained glass to fit into mosaics. Sometimes, he simply played music from a monstrous organ set into the front wall.

"We'll get it back," Ridley said. The others nodded in agreement.

Erebus could feel Max watching him. They all knew how important it was to him, Max especially. Hundreds of years ago, when Erebus first appeared in the city, he arrived with nothing but that necklace. No name. No recollection of who he was, where he'd come from. Even what he was. He had simply appeared on the streets of Dewmort, unconscious. A few volunteers from one of the town's hospitals had collected him and left him in a room until he woke.

Max was the first person Erebus Salem laid eyes on. Back then, Max even looked younger—though that should have been impossible considering he hadn't aged. Stethoscope around his neck, white coat in place, glasses new and shiny.

"Ah," Max had said, placing a medical chart at the end of the bed as Erebus sat up. "I was wondering when you were going to wake." He extended a hand to Erebus. He had introduced himself as

Dr. Maximus Brais, and asked Erebus if he remembered his name.

Erebus shook the man's hand silently. His brain reeled, trying to find some possible reply. Names ran through his head as he tried to find something that sparked some kind of remembrance.

Erebus struggled for words, his heart falling as he realized he couldn't find a name.

Max nodded. "That's not unusual, it may take a day or two for it to come back to you."

"What's going on here? I literally have no idea where I even am right now. Like, what is this building or . . ." Erebus trailed off, touching the stethoscope around Max's neck.

Max offered a concerned look. "This is a stethoscope, my boy. And this"—Max gestured to the room—"is one of Dewmort's hospitals. We help people like you with the transition."

Erebus's face was hot; he remembered nothing. He rose from the bed and looked out the window. Before him was a great city of old buildings and stone streets.

Dewmort, Max revealed, was what some people called the

Second City, or the City of Souls. When a supernatural person passed to the other side, normally their soul dissipated—wafting up into the clouds and disappearing. But sometimes, when a person's death was particularly brutal or unjust, they ended up in Dewmort. A city of unfinished business.

White noise rang in Erebus's ears. "What? What are you trying to—"

"Congratulations, my boy." Max interrupted him. "And I'm sorry. You're dead."