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Erebus Reid Oram Salem.

Eros.

That was it. All he was. The only tie he had to his life before Dewmort.

Erebus had gone to see Taeto. After they'd discussed what happened, Erebus had been sentenced to two weeks' probation. No traveling to the human world, no assignments—nothing.

He was only two days in and was already bored. He tossed the name around in his head over and over again, trying to remember those words coming from his mother or father. Of course, he didn't know who they were. But he was sure that he'd known them at one point.

What a great thing it was, to have a name but no memory of it ever being used. Erebus rolled his eyes and sat upright. He stared at the piles of borrowed library books, papers and files scattered across the floor. Ridley's laptop screen had gone black during Erebus's timeout. He wiggled the mouse, trying to find the page he'd been reading.

Mason and Damien had been given an assignment by Taeto—an Inbetweener had been spotted somewhere in Zambia, raising lions to terrorize villages in the area. Since they'd been gone, Erebus had been searching through the Dewmort records for any reference to other Salem family members. If he could find just one, he could go to them. He could learn something about his previous life.

But there were no other Salems.

Searching the internet, he found information about the witch trials and Arabian horse breeds, but that was it. He even tried asking the city's oldest members if they remembered seeing him on the road the day he arrived.

Nothing.

Ridley was downstairs again, smashing at the old walls at the back of the cathedral. Max, meanwhile, was lost somewhere else in their monolith of a warehouse.

Standing, Erebus gathered up everything and went to return Ridley's things. He paused, catching his reflection in the mirror in Ridley's room.

A scar on his right hand, another on his chin. A birthmark that looked like a leaf above his left hip just above the waistband of his sweatpants. A great tattoo of a snake eating its own tail stretching across his bare shoulder blades. He wanted to know where they came from. But Erebus wasn't hopeful. He'd been here for years now and hadn't remembered a single thing on his own.

He trudged downstairs, pulling on a shirt and his long, black coat. He knocked on the wall of the cathedral. Ridley turned, dropping his sledgehammer and removing his dust mask. He was still in his pajamas, the bird tattoos on his chest visible through the fabric of his shirt.

"What's up?" Ridley asked.

Erebus held up the borrowed books in a burlap sack. "I'm going to run to the library, in case Max asks where I am."

Ridley nodded. "Cool, no worries." Erebus turned to leave. "Hey."

Erebus turned back. Ridley was walking toward him.

"Are you all right?" Ridley asked.

Nope. Erebus nodded. "Uh, yeah? Why?"

Ridley looked sympathetic but shook his head. "Just wanted to check."

***

The warehouse stood in the center of the French Quarter. Outside were colonial verandas drowning in plant life, pots hanging from ceilings, vines weaving in and out of cast iron railings. All around Erebus were brightly colored manors, stone streets, and old, oil-run street lamps.

Walking alongside him, standing on their balconies, and filling the entire city, were all manner of supernatural creatures: women with horns—ram, deer, antelope—adorned with ancient jewels; men with leaves along their hairline, wildflowers growing between cobblestones wherever they walked; children with blue and pink skin swimming in the river that bisected the streets, pearls in their hair, long colorful tails swishing beneath the surface.

He squeezed through the gaps between buildings, holding the sack of books close to his chest, trying not to accidentally step on children playing tag or get hit in the head by a seraph racing across the sky. He made his way to the library in the center of the district.

Music flowed through the air, always, be it from a busker on a corner or a parade or a bar down the road. A great church shadowed the horizon ahead of him, a square with a fountain before it. Erebus remembered Ridley appearing there when he came to Dewmort the night he died.

They had all arrived at different times. Some had come to the city back when Dewmort was nothing more than a great forest. Mason had been a Viking, and he'd arrived at a castle. Damien grew up during the witch trials, and woke in Dewmort when it was still just a large village. Ridley, on the other hand, came during the time of flower power and painted Kombi vans. They'd watched it change throughout the centuries—from a medieval fortress to the

New Orleans lookalike it was now.

When Erebus first arrived, Max had explained to him that Dewmort was merely a reflection. And this—the old man had gestured to the city—was how Dewmort had chosen to depict itself.

After returning the books to the library, Erebus slipped round the back of the building, arriving at two tall doors set into the ancient brick of the structure—one, golden and shining, rippled with carved patterns and a great dragon head that glittered in the sun.

This was, as all of the dead of Dewmort knew, the door to the human world. To their pasts, their families—the golden life they'd once had.

Erebus glanced at the other door, only a few feet from the first. Red and rusted, dents in its frame, bent edges, holes where the rust had all but eaten through it. It had been locked for millennia. Even Dewmort's oldest members were unsure if it had ever been opened. For thousands of years people had tried to open it. To pry it, curse it, burn it, smash it down. Now, though, in this age, no one paid it any mind. It was simply part of the scenery.

Erebus gave it no more than a quick glance as he approached the golden door and slipped inside, pulling his coat tight around him. This was against Taeto's rules—Erebus had lost his right to travel through the door for at least a fortnight. But he had to try his luck with the Reaper academies. Maybe in their libraries he'd find something.

It was said that the Reaper academies held most of the world's records: birth records, death certificates, stories and epics, news articles, and conspiracies. Each academy had their own

pieces. And Erebus was determined to find out whether or not any of them were about him.

Erebus knew the chances of finding anything were slim—he figured that they saved the pages in archives for information on kings and great people, and great things great people did.

Not some random dead boy.

Nevertheless, Erebus trudged down the dark streets of Misten toward the Reaper Academy. It had just rained, and its aftermath still pooled in the gutters and in the center of the road where the old asphalt dipped. Lampposts glowed weakly on street corners, looking as if they'd fall over if anyone so much as breathed on them.

The wrought-iron fencing of the academy rose up from the sidewalk. Before long, the great gates of the school appeared, its crown of spires brushing against a canopy of trees. A great iron scythe rose proudly—the centerpiece. A large golden lock kept them shut tight.

Erebus sighed, staring at the lock. He rested a hand upon the metal, shaking his head. He looked through the gate, to the large wooden doors of the academy.

I need to at least try.

He closed his eyes and put his hand on the lock. He felt his body grow light, then stepped forward, the iron bars passing through him like thick liquid. Erebus held his breath—he always did. With another step he was on the other side of the fence. His weight and tangibility returned to him.

"What . . . the fuck?" someone gasped.

Erebus opened his eyes to find none other than Nyx Lahey standing before him. Scythe still in hand, backpack over one shoulder.

"Oh—my God," Erebus spluttered. Holy shit, she actually just saw that. He contemplated disappearing into a cloud of feathers. "What are you doing here?"

Nyx laughed, and the stone around her neck flared. "What am I doing here? I go to school here! What are you doing here, and what the hell was that?"

Erebus held up his hands and stepped forward. Nyx's detector flashed once more, and she raised the blade of her scythe in his direction.

"I can explain," he pleaded.

"What are you?"

Erebus sighed, "I don't know if I can actually tell you that."

Nyx laughed sourly. "Well, you better try, because what I just saw . . ."

"Like, I really, really don't think it's a good idea—"

"You're not a Necromancer and you're not a Reaper. You're not an Inbetweener or anything . . . so, what are you?" Nyx slowly approached; scythe still raised. "I swear to God, if you don't—"

He threw up his arms. "I am . . . a . . . uh, ghost, I guess."

Nyx blinked, her scythe dropping slightly. "A what?"

Erebus grimaced like the words stung. "A ghost."

"How?"

"I died, I guess?" Erebus halfheartedly shrugged.

"How is that possible?"

I am in so much trouble, he thought to himself. "I honestly don't know, but I woke up in the city and there were others already there so I—"

"What city?" she persisted, moving closer.

Fuck. "Our city." He slowly lowered his hands. "The one we go to when we die. Dewmort."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then why were you in the freezer that night?"

"Dewmort has its own hunters, the Legions. They send us out sometimes when they think it may be a bit too . . . revealing. They don't want you questioning anything you don't need to be questioning."

"How many of you are there?" she asked.

"I couldn't tell you. Hundreds, maybe thousands?"

"And where is this city?"

As she spoke, Erebus caught sight of a small girl hiding behind the corner. She peered out at Nyx, smiling. She was no older than five and definitely not old enough to have classes so late.

Erebus pointed past Nyx. "Uh . . ."

Confused, Nyx looked around. Holding her scythe behind her back, she bent over. "Are you okay? Are you lost?"

The little girl fiddled with the empty slot at the front of her mouth from a lost tooth. She shook her head. "My mommy said that dead people aren't allowed in the school."

Nyx stood straight. Erebus's mouth dropped, and he felt the urge to turn and fly away again.

"What was that?"

"That dead boy. He's not allowed in my school. My mommy said dead people are bad." The girl stared intently at Erebus.

Nyx looked at Erebus. "Oh, no, he's . . . he's not dead—"

"Yes, he is," she whispered. "Did the Old Necromancer send him here?" Her face flushed with excitement.

"Who?"

She lowered her voice as if it was a secret. "My mommy told me a story about the Old Necromancer who knows all the dead people in the whole world. Maybe he sent that dead boy here to steal our school."

The Old Necromancer? Erebus thought to himself.

Nyx almost laughed. "Oh, no, darling, he wasn't here to steal our school. He was just . . . visiting."

"Ooh," the girl said. "Did you bring the dead boy here? Because you're a Necromancer?"

"Oh! No, no, no, no, I didn't bring him here. He's not, uh, dead." Nyx felt a wave of panic at the thought of a younger student walking around telling kids the Necromancers had brought a dead person onto school property. "Let's not tell people that, okay?"

"Okay," the girl agreed, immediately forgetting what she'd said.

Nyx held out her hand. "Why don't we get you home, hey? Before your mommy starts wondering where you are?"

There was a crash then, and a door swung open around the corner. The laughter of boys filled the air. Nyx pulled back quickly and dropped her voice, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the noise.

"You need to leave," she whispered, turning back to Erebus.

He started to back away.

She locked her eyes with his, nodding at him with her blade. "This isn't over," she said. "Now go, get out of here."

Erebus nodded and fell back two paces before he felt his legs drop away and let his thick coat envelop his body. He seemed to melt into the black suede until it swirled and shrank. Feathers emerged from the fabric and, in an instant, a raven took his place and beat its wings into the air.

Nyx stared, dumbfounded as Erebus flew into the distance. She continued to stand there even after the other late-class students rounded the corner, their conversation hushing at the sight of the Necromancer.

Her mind reeled. Had that really just happened? Was he crazy? Was she crazy for thinking she'd just seen him turn into a bird?

The girl tugged her toward the side gates, and Nyx looked up at the sky.

This was definitely not over.

***

A pale man with orange eyes smiled in amusement at the globe before him. It turned in the middle of the room, a great sphere floating in the air as misty clouds rolled off. At its center, an image of Nyx Lahey, hand in hand with a Reaper child, walking through the academy gates.

A voice beside him: "It's funny, isn't it? How our stories sometimes come up in the most peculiar of places."

The man moved aside. A woman stood beside him, leaning on the railing as she looked down into the well of the room. The scent of incense and jasmine enveloped them both.

The woman's red eyes reflected the glow of the sphere. "I remember when the first travelers went to that world and spread our stories to the Reapers and the Necromancers—even the humans heard bits and pieces. For centuries they knew our names. But it's rare to find ones nowadays who know of us."

"We seem to have gone out of fashion." He kept his eyes trained on the beauty beside him, with her pale skin, long dark ringlets, garnet eyes, and shiny black horns spiraling up from her hairline. She was primordial—something to behold.

She pointed at the slowly fading image of Nyx Lahey. "You're sure about these two?"

"Erebus and the Lahey girl? I'm positive. I can see the power radiating from the pair of them. I don't think either is aware of it yet. Erebus doesn't even have his memories from before he died."

The woman looked at him, a glint of sadness in her eyes. "Even now? After all this time?"

"Not a thing. Nyx, on the other hand . . . her powers are so repressed that I don't know how she hasn't exploded."

She could see the pain in his eyes, seeing one of his own kind so bottled up and caged. So unaware of the power she held. He wanted to help her, but in order to do that, the girl needed to be ready to receive it.

"She's not ready. These things take time," the woman said.

"I know, Ira. I just . . . we could help the pair of them so mu—"

"And we will." Ira placed a hand on the man's arm. Neither Nyx nor Erebus was ready to hear the truth about who they were. Or what they were and what they could do.

Ira smiled. "But, hey, seems like you might be coming back into fashion. 'Old Necromancer.'" She laughed.

Mortem chuckled.