A gruesome sight. But what was written on the cement above the skull sent an army of chills down my spine:

JESSE BISHOP

Shock swept through me. I stood frozen for several moments, then pushed it away and focused on the details. The writing was definitely inscribed by the same hand who’d carved the mandalas, and, like the strange alphabet on those, the letters here were evenly spaced.

Like a child practicing block letters. That shook something loose in my brain. An image from an old newspaper clipping in the bottom of Dare’s banker box. I was no handwriting expert, but even I could see that Bishop’s name was written in the same manner as the names of the seven kids that were carved into the trees at Sandpiper Park.

Oh, Christ . . .

Bishop wasn’t the Snatcher.

Bishop was killed by the Snatcher. The key on the necklace had provided Hajo with a direct thread to its owner’s remains—not the children.

A dry croak stuck in my throat as I tried to say this out loud, but Lon immediately hushed me. “Take a picture,” he commanded softly.

With shaking hands, I pressed the screen on my phone to enable the camera function. It was all I could do to focus long enough to get a partially blurry shot, so I took a second one, but it didn’t turn out much better. One thing was obvious: though the seven mandalas were well planned and precisely executed, the oval holding Bishop’s bones was an afterthought. It was set off in the corner, the angle slightly askew. Drawn quick and rough. In a moment of anger?

“So, this is the guy you’re looking for, yeah?” Hajo said. “Looks like he was involved in some heavy occult shit. Remind me not to cross a magician.”

“Damn straight,” Lon muttered.

Hajo squatted down near the circle and pointed. “What’s that? There’s something behind the jaw. Looks like he swallowed it.”

Lon shifted the flashlight’s beam to illuminate the skull, while Hajo leaned over the skeleton to reach for it. When his fingers almost made it, he leaned in farther, taking a step inside the oval, and a tinge of dull red light, barely perceptible, washed over his shoe.

“No!” I shouted. But it was too late.

The red light sizzled around the oval and brightened. Another spell. It wasn’t a deterrent this time. Not a warning, either . . .

A deafening blast cracked the concrete beneath the skeleton and the whole room shook. An unseen force rushed at us, knocking Hajo against the wall and slamming Lon into the conveyor machine. My back hit the concrete floor. Pain ripped through my lungs. Lon’s flashlight flew from his hand and ricocheted off the wall. It blinked a couple of times as it spun on the floor and rolled somewhere near me.

“Cady!” Lon bellowed in the darkness.

Before I had time to answer, “What happened?” echoed in the distance and I saw Lon’s golden Zippo flame flickering, floating through the air like a yellow fairy as Bob ran toward us.

I pushed myself up, scanning the dark for the flashlight. It was pointed at the wall. I touched the handle with my fingertips, accidently pushing it away as a strange scuttling sound vibrated through the air, somewhere off in the corner.

Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch.

“Be quiet!” I yelled. Bob’s running feet stopped abruptly.

My hand stilled as I strained to listen to the bizarre scratching sound. It multiplied and moved, and my heart nearly stopped.

Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch.

What was that? Claws? Something small was clicking on the concrete, moving closer.

Bob shrieked and the Zippo flew through the air, the flame extinguished before the lighter clinked on the floor. Sounds of a struggle broke through the darkness, then Bob shouted, “Get it off me!”

My fingers gripped the handle of the flashlight. I swung it madly, bouncing the cone of light around the room. Lon, Hajo, Bob, surrounded by shiny things. Moving things. Birds?

I shone the light on the skeleton. The tripped spell that knocked us off our feet had furrowed the concrete floor and part of the wall and left a gaping inch-wide crevice. It had also cracked the skull—cleaved it right in two, from crown to jaw. And in the center of the split skull, like a sprout emerging from soil, the moving things slithered out and made a thumping noise as they hit the floor.

Not birds.

Bugs.

Enormous goddamn cockroaches.

Ribbed, shiny, flat bodies. Spiny legs that clicked on the cement like claws. Twitching antennae as long as my fingers. Beady eyes that glowed turquoise under the flashlight’s beam. Eyes? I’d never seen a roach’s eyes. I’d never seen roaches this big. They looked like terrifying prehistoric bugs from another planet.

Bugs from the Æthyr.

One extended a pair of shiny wings the color of burnt sugar. Then it made a hissing noise, buzzed its wings, and took off several feet into the air . . . and landed on Hajo’s leg. He kicked it away. It made a queasy crackling sound when it landed, then a scraping noise as it skidded on its side across the floor.

Okay, make that flying bugs from the Æthyr.

Screams cut through the room. Mine. Hajo’s. Maybe Lon’s. I’d never heard him scream, but who could tell. I nearly wet my pants in a moment of hyperventilating revulsion.

“Help!” Bob fell to the floor, reaching for his leg. Nearby, a trail of light brown goo dripped from the conveyor machine. A squirming bug carcass lay upside-down at its base, its spiny legs twitching violently. “It bit me!”

I scurried on hands and knees to help him while Hajo defended himself against the oncoming horde, kicking away the bugs as they emerged from the skull.