John had spent most of the previous night staring at the ceiling, thinking about quests.

  Not about the brain matter. Definitely not about how warm it had been, or the way it had stuck to his skin, or the smell. He wasn't thinking about any of that.

  He was thinking about quests.

  In the game, you had to work within the guide rails the developers laid out. But here? He could do anything.

  The orphans he’d help rescue wouldn't trust anyone. No amount of kind words or promises would change that. They'd need safety they could see, feel, believe in.

  John knew how to give them that. A mansion protected by ghosts so loyal they couldn't be bribed or intimidated. Guardians who would never abandon their post because they'd waited seventy years just to be together.

  Meant for the player, but here they were perfect.

  John smiled in the morning light as he told Leon his requests.

  This was going to be great.

  The real estate office was nicer than John expected. Polished wood furniture, comfortable chairs, maps of the city covering one wall with colored pins marking available properties.

  The door had barely opened when a woman's voice rang out.

  "No more elves!"

  John stopped in the doorway.

  A woman sat behind the desk, middle-aged and sharp-eyed, with the kind of frazzled expression that suggested she'd reached the absolute end of her patience. Papers were scattered across her desk in disorganized piles.

  She looked up at John, took in his very human appearance, and her shoulders sagged with relief.

  "Thank the gods. You're human." She gestured at the chair across from her. "Please, sit. I'm sorry about the greeting. It's been a terrible day."

  "I could tell," John said, taking the seat.

  "Elves," she said, practically spitting the word. "Wanting to buy properties in the slum district. Every single one of them asking about the same area. They're up to something, I know it, but they won't tell me what." She caught herself and straightened. "I'm Margret Hollins. What can I help you with?"

  "The Thornwick Mansion," John said.

  Margret's expression transformed. Her eyes lit up with something like hope.

  "The haunted one?" She leaned forward. "You're interested in the Thornwick Mansion?"

  "I want to buy it."

  "I have to warn you that property has been on the market for decades. No one has successfully exorcised it. The last person who tried to claim Thornwick didn't last three days. They found him wandering the streets, screaming about pastries."

  "I don't care," John said.

  Margret blinked. "You don't care?"

  John pulled out his bank crystal and set it on the desk.

  Margret stared at the crystal, then at John, then back at the crystal. "You don't want to see it first? Verify the—"

  "Nope." John paused. "Actually, how many properties do you have left in the slums? The ones the elves wanted?"

  Margret's expression soured immediately. "Three. All in the same block."

  "I'll take those too."

  Her head snapped up. "What?"

  "Keep them out of the sneaky bastards' hands," John said.

  Margret's face lit up like he'd just proposed marriage. "Oh, I love you." She started pulling out more paperwork, practically giggling. "You have no idea how satisfying this is going to be. The next time one of those smug—" She caught herself. "The additional properties will bring the total to—"

  She named a number.

  John nodded. "That’s fine."

  "This is why I like dealing with humans," she muttered, a genuine smile spreading across her face. She filled out the forms at record speed.

  John signed where she indicated.

  "The deed will be transferred within the hour," Margret said, still looking slightly dazed. "Is there anything else you need?"

  "No. Thank you."

  John stood and walked out the door.

  Margret sat there, staring at the signed contract and the bank crystal record, wondering if she'd just hallucinated the entire conversation.

  Then she started laughing.

  The cemetery sprawled across the eastern edge of the city, pressed up against the old walls like something that had been shoved there and forgotten.

  The carriage rolled to a stop at the front gates. John climbed out, then turned back to the driver.

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  "Sorry," he said. "This may be another long day."

  The driver was checking the horses' harnesses, running his hands along the leather with practiced ease. He glanced at John with a slight smile. "You mean another day I get paid to read?" He patted one of the horses affectionately. "Give these two some water, let them rest in the shade. Good company, no complaints. Sounds terrible."

  John blinked.

  The driver pulled a book from under his seat and settled back comfortably. One of the horses snorted softly, and he reached over to pat its neck without looking up from the page he was opening.

  John headed through the gates and deeper into the cemetery, following paths that barely deserved the name. The monuments pressed in from both sides, stone angels and weeping figures watching with blank eyes.

  It was crowded. Desperately, claustrophobically crowded.

  Every available space held a grave. Where there should have been grass, there were headstones. Where there should have been paths, there were mausoleums built so close together their walls nearly touched. Some families had built upward instead of outward, creating towers of stone and memory that loomed over everything else.

  When it had still been constrained by the walls, the city had run out of room for its dead.

  John passed a fresh grave—or what passed for fresh here. The dirt still looked recently turned, but the plot was barely three feet wide, squeezed between two older monuments. Efficient. Depressing.

  A sign pointed toward "Administrative Office" with an arrow. John followed it, winding through the maze of stone.

  The paths twisted between mausoleums, some so close together he had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Names carved into stone, dates that spanned centuries. The older sections had sunk into the earth, graves tilting at impossible angles.

  The office was a small building, well-maintained but clearly old. The door stood open. Inside, John could see filing cabinets lining the walls, papers stacked on every surface, and an oldman hunched over a desk. He looked up at John with tired eyes as he approached.

  "If you're here about a burial, we're full," the man said. "Try the new cemetery on the west side."

  "I'm looking for someone," John said. "Emily Whitmore. She would have been buried here about seventy years ago."

  The old man set down his pen slowly, his expression shifting from tired to something more complicated. "Seventy years..." He rubbed his face. "That's a long time. Bodies don't stay in the ground that long. After ten years, they get moved down into the catacombs to make room for the next." He gestured vaguely downward. "And after a hundred..."

  "So she's somewhere in the catacombs," John said.

  “If you’re lucky.You need to talk to the undertaker. North wall, building with the iron doors." The old man paused, studying John. "But I should warn you—he's not going to be happy about someone wanting to go that deep. Level four isn't safe. Nothing under the city is.”

  Yeah.

  John found the building easily enough. The iron doors stood out among the weathered stone, dark and heavy and covered in scratches. Deep ones, like something had tried to claw its way in.

  John pushed them open.

  The interior was dim, lit by a few enchanted lanterns that cast more shadow than light. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars and bottles and things John didn't want to examine too closely. A desk sat in the center, covered in ledgers and maps and what looked like architectural drawings of the catacombs below.

  A man stood with his back to the door, hunched over something on a workbench. He didn't turn when John entered. Didn't acknowledge him at all.

  He was thin, almost gaunt, with robes that were dark, stained with chemicals and dirt. But what drew John's attention was the bulge on his back, beneath the robes. Something large, moving slightly with the man's breathing.

  Before he could speak, the bulge on his back moved. Something pressed against the fabric from inside, and John saw a thin, segmented leg emerge from beneath the man's collar. Then another. They gripped his shoulder, and a faintly luminescent fangs extended toward his neck.

  The puncture was precise. The man didn't even flinch.

  John watched as blood began flowing up through the translucent fangs. He could see it clearly—thin streams of red traveling through the ghostly creature's body, spreading through what looked like veins.

  The man reached back absently, patting the bulge. "Good girl, Beatrice."

  John took an involuntary step back.

  The man turned slowly, revealing pale blue eyes with dark bags beneath them. He blinked at John with deliberate slowness, like he'd forgotten how to do it at normal speed. The spider continued its work at his neck, Beatrice's feeding creating a faint rhythmic pulse visible through her body.

  "What brings you here, my friend?" His voice was quiet, like a whisper, with the tone of someone who spent most of his time talking to the dead.

  "I'm looking for an Emily Whitmore," John said. "She was buried here around seventy years ago."

  "Whitmore," he repeated quietly."Emily." He said the name like he was tasting it. "Level four, western alcove. I remember... The preservation took well." His tone had shifted, become almost appreciative. "She's a beauty. Even now."

  Beatrice chittered, and the man seemed to collect himself.

  "But that's deep," he continued. "Dangerous. I'm the only one who goes down there, and even with Beatrice I avoid some sections. The pupae, the hybrids..."

  "I need to go anyway," John said.

  The undertaker sighed. Beatrice's feeding slowed slightly but didn't stop, her ghostly form pulsing with each draw of blood.

  "It's your funeral," he said.

  A pause. Then a dry laugh.

  The undertaker moved slowly, Beatrice adjusting her position on his back. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a rolled map, spreading it across the desk. The catacombs, drawn in meticulous detail.

  "Level four, western alcove," he said, pointing. His finger traced a path down through the levels. "You'll need to go through here, and here. Avoid the northeast section, the webs will slow you down, and the acid..." He shook his head.

  "The hybrids stay in the darker areas. They don't like light much, but they're territorial. If you have to fight, go for the joints. That's where they're weakest."

  He looked at John, his pale blue eyes serious. "And whatever you do, don't disturb more than you have to. The dead down there remember things. They don't like being woken."

  John nodded.

  The undertaker rolled up the map and handed it to him, then moved to a heavy door at the back of the room. Iron, like the entrance, covered in the same preservation wards.

  He pulled it open.

  Beyond was darkness. Stone steps descended into it, worn smooth by centuries of feet. The air that rose up was cold and stale, carrying that same smell of old death and preservation herbs.

  "The enchantments will keep the air safe, but it'll be thinner than normal," the undertaker said. "And the deeper you go, the worse it gets. Level four..." He paused. "Level four, the magic is failing in places. Reality gets strange down there. You might see things. Hear things. Don't trust any of it."

  Beatrice chittered urgently against his neck, her feeding stopping entirely for the first time.

  "She doesn't like this," the undertaker said quietly. "She can sense things I can't. And she's afraid for you. You have no spider of your own."

  John looked at the stairs descending into darkness.

  "Last chance to change your mind," the undertaker said.

  "I won't."

  "Then good luck. And if you're not back by nightfall..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

  John drew Moonfang. The moonstone blade caught the dim light, casting its own pale glow.

  The undertaker's eyes widened slightly. "That'll help. The things down there won't like it." He stepped back from the doorway. "Beatrice says good luck."

  John started down into the dark. The pale glow of the blade pushed back the shadows, but barely.

  Behind him, Beatrice chittered a warning, but he didn't look back.

  The stairs descended, and the darkness swallowed him whole.