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“Where?”

“We must see to the western tower, to the other Lost Ones and their camp.”

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The coin in Adam’s pocket felt cold as he, Argent, and Silver neared the western watchtower. It appeared the banshees had swept through the graveyard, slaughtering the Lost before turning to the blocky building. It still glowed golden, but its light flickered, inconstant, like a candle whose wick was near its end.

“Carl,” Argent called.

He lay broken, his bandaged nose the least of his issues. He’d gone down fighting, two thick plugs of wax in his ears.

Eran ran to him, pressed two fingers to his neck. She shook her head.

They continued onward, pausing where there were wounded, giving help when they could.

Adam felt useless as he scanned the bodies strewn among the tombstones. He went to see if Lily remained in the cardboard church, but it was empty. A fresh grave outside told him all he needed to know.

Unlike the Court of Swords, which, aside from Adam, was strictly elven, Seamus’s people were a mix of souls and races. There were green-skinned goblins and red-skinned imps. Even some of the purple ogres were here. Plenty of pixies and little fairies were among them, and Adam stepped carefully as they neared the entrance to the blocky mausoleum.

“Where is he?” he asked an ogre. “Where is the King of Coins?”

She shook her head and pointed to the door.

“Do what you can for them,” Silver told Argent.

She nodded.

“Adam, you’re with me.”

He went with his king into the tower.

The flickering grew worse.

Ahead, more ogres blocked their path, forming a purple wall.

“We’re here to help,” Silver said.

The ogres did not move.

“He’s telling the truth,” Adam said.

He took the coin from his pocket and held it up between two fingers.

“Please.”

Their large eyes met. Some sort of silent argument went down, and then one shoved the other out of the way before stepping aside.

“You know,” Adam said as they passed. “I’ve never heard them speak.”

“Ogres communicate by smell.”

“Seriously?”

“Sincerely.”

Seamus lay ahead, his bed the marble slab atop a shelf where urns went. Adam tried not to think of it as a bier. He looked rough, with a bad gash in his belly that, while bandaged, was stained the color of his velvet suitcoat. His skin, always cragged and rough, was a sickly yellow tinged in lime.

The smell of blood was thick in the air, but it wasn’t the metallic, sweet tang of human. This was something earthy, like mushrooms or fresh grave dirt on a rainy day.