King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley

PROLOGUE

Llandderfel, Gwynedd

Wales

She turned her coat collar up against the rain, shoulders hunched as she walked the last distance to the church. The end of a long journey finally in sight. Streaky light glowed in the windows, and this was her endpoint, at last. Here, she would succeed or fail, and if it was failure that awaited, she had no plans for a future beyond it.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Lance said beside her, keeping the rain off his face with a raised hand. She heard all the things he wasn’t saying: that they’d come a long way for a wild chance; that if this didn’t work, time would have been wasted. She heard his fear, too, carefully disguised – but not from her. She knew too much of fear to miss the faint, pushed-down note of it in his voice. The others had their doubts, but Lance had been there that night, years ago, when the world had cracked apart underfoot, and he knew what was possible.

She heard the tread of heavy boots behind them, the rest of the team: stern, quiet Tris; easy-going and seemingly-unbothered Gavin; Gallo, young and nervy. Captain Bedlam had stayed behind, her single arched brow bristling with doubt.

She’d let them come, though.

Lightning forked overhead, bright and white as the Rift – but fleeting. Chased by a sharp crack of thunder that rolled, and rolled, and rolled, vibrations felt through the soles of her boots.

Gallo swore softly.

A few paces from the door of the church, it swung open, and emitted a hunched, robed figure that lifted a hand in greeting. When she’d called, earlier, she’d been surprised and pleased to have her questions passed along to a brother who spoke soft, lilting French; the local Welsh accent had been impossible for her to understand. Brother Eustace, he’d said his name was, and that was who was coming toward them now, if the French greeting – shouted to be heard over the weather – was anything to go by.

Rose stepped forward and took his hand, met by small, but bright, keen eyes set in a homey, weathered face. “Brother Eustace?” she asked in French.

“And you must be Rose. Come in, come in, out of the rain.”

He led them into a cozy, dimly-lit chapel, its pews gleaming, dark wood, its altar blazing with candles. Through it, and to a door that led down a flight of stairs, belowground, and into a stone kitchen with a roaring fire and long, plank table.

Another brother was there, laying out bread, and cheese, grapes, steaming cups of tea.

“Sit, please,” Eustace encouraged. “Eat. You must be cold, and the tea is strong.”

They settled at the table. Gallo reached immediately for food, which caused Tris’s mouth to tighten in silent reprobation.

Gavin cast a glance around the room and said, “How many rooms do they have down here, you think? It’s a lot bigger than I thought.”

Rose accepted a mug of tea, to warm her hands, but didn’t drink. She hadn’t had tea since Beck last served it to her, hot and too sweet and perfect. Keenly aware of Lance beside her, his elbow pressed to hers, she turned to Brother Eustace and said, “I want to be blunt, Brother.”

He smiled, not unkindly. “You rather were over the phone, dear. I admit I was surprised: we don’t get too many visitors anymore, much less requests such as yours.”

“Is it possible?”

“Oh, quite. But you should understand that it’s no small thing, fetching a soul.”

Lance cleared his throat. “Even if it works, and his soul comes back…will he be…useful?”

Rose stiffened; bit her lip hard to keep from lashing out. His elbow pressed in hard, and then pulled back, a silent apology. To Brother Eustace, she said, “Will he be alive?”

His brows lifted. “Oh, yes. Very much so. He will have a body.”

She nodded, relieved.

“Though, in my experience…raised souls are a bit…changed.”

“Changed how?”

“Stronger, often. Touched by their time in the pit. He will have been through…great trials. Impossible pain.”

She nodded again. She’d tried not to imagine, over the years, but the nightmares had crept in anyway. Visions of flames, and of torture; of madness; of the dark, Biblical horrors from old Victorian illustrations.

“We can prepare the ritual,” Brother Eustace said. He laid his hand beside hers on the table, but didn’t touch her; respectful, or frightened, she wondered. “The Saint of our Order can journey into places no mortal ever could, and return this damned soul to you. But I will ask you this, before we begin: Are you