The old worker proved surprisingly spry. As he bounded down the steps, Liza misted and rushed forward to catch up with him.

He glanced over his shoulder and yelped, then pulled out a rolled up mat that had been stuck down the back of his overalls.

He threw it down over the steps and jumped on it, belly first. He shot down the stairs like a bullet, quickly disappearing in the dark.

Liza rematerialized. The sisters stopped, staring after him as the others scrambled down to them.

Rip said, “That didn’t look safe at all.”

“How far down do these stairs actually go?” Blair said, turning to address the nobles on the steps above them.

Sharp shrugged and said, “The notes we have from prior ventures are not very clear, Lady Brooke. The top level is discussed most. The lower levels become increasingly sketchy. You’ve seen the maps we were given in the Lyceum. This area is marked ‘Grand Staircase,’ with little indication of its . . . enormity.”

“Toss it all,” Sharp said. “The second level is not that far away, only a hundred feet. Look yonder, I can see something down there.”

He pointed and everyone turned to look at some movement in the gloom further below.

Rip’s [Night Vision] kicked in and he raised his eyebrows.

“That . . . is something coming up. And it’s big. What is that, another robot?”

The Verez sisters, their night vision also active, backed up a couple steps and aimed their Tommy guns down the stairs.

Everyone heard a squelching noise, like a boot pulling free of muck, followed by the thumps of heavy footsteps as . . . something stepped into the lighter gloom halfway up the giant staircase.

“That will likely be the one they call ‘The Protector,’” Sharp said. “Fitzwilly’s group came across him in 1705. Oh dear. I had hoped we could avoid this one.”

More sucking sounds were followed by heavy thumps and the creature finally came into better light. Everyone stared down at a 15-foot tall mass of mud shaped in the vague form of a man.

Two flat stones on its face served as eyes, glowing red with life. Dried up leaves, rocks and twigs littered its body. Living creatures made their home in the mud, too. Rip watched as an earthworm wiggled across the creature’s face.

When it walked, mud from its body made squishing noises and it left behind a messy trail of dirty wet footsteps.

Liza and Hilda opened up with their machineguns, spewing half a drum each into the lumbering figure. Bullets thupped repeatedly into mud, but the creature just seemed to absorb them. It did not even pause. It kept moving up the stairs, arms swinging in time with its steps.

“What is that thing?” Rip said. “We don’t have those back home, whatever it is.”

“That’s a garden golem,” Finley said. “A big one.”

“Ah. We have garden gnomes. Or at least, statues of them. But nothing like this.”

Chance said, “Right. This is a job for dynamite. Mr. Twig?”

Twig nodded and pulled out a stick with one hand, flicking his thumbnail to light a match with the other.

He said, “You throw close, I’ll throw far. Together we’ll plant this bastard.”

Chance winced at the pun, but he lit his own dynamite. They nodded at one another and tossed the sticks simultaneously. Twig’s landed on the steps just below the monstrosity. Chance’s rolled to a stop just above it.

Everyone ducked and shielded their eyes as the explosion boomed across the staircase. Mud flew in all directions, leaving only the feet and stumps of two legs standing on the steps.

Chance and Twig smiled and shook hands. But even as they were congratulating one another, the mud seemed to flow back to the legs and feet as if drawn by some magnetic force.

Rip said, “I don’t know much about golems, but don’t they have a core or something that has to be destroyed? I don’t think the dynamite damaged the core.”

The mud seemed to increase in speed, flowing around the steps like water before merging with the feet. The incoming material quickly recreated the vague shape of a man.

When it finished forming, the two flat rocks flowed back into place and flared a brighter red, as if enraged. A gaping hole opened below the eyes, and a mucky mouth formed, dripping with sludge. It let out a low, guttural growl. Then it started climbing up the steps faster than before, the sucking sounds louder and more intense.

Chance said, “Quick! Two more sticks!”

“No, Bobby!” Blair yelled at him. “They don’t do any good. You’re just wasting dynamite.”

“I agree,” Bixby said. “Let us retreat back to the garden upstairs.”

Everyone rushed back up the steps and into the giant atrium. They scattered at the top, some heading right, others to the left.

Rip stopped and said, “Hey! Anybody know how to kill it? Is there a core or something? There’s got to be a way.”

Twig poked his head out from behind a walnut tree growing nearby.

“Lad, if dynamite don’t do it, nothing will.”

“You can’t believe that,” Blair said, her head poking out from another tree nearby. “Dynamite is not the answer to every problem.”

“Begging milady’s pardon, but in my experience, yeah. If it can be blown up, the problem’s generally solved.”

“He’s got a point, Lady Brooke.”

“Shut up, Bobby.”

Rip stood a few feet from the top of the staircase, watching as the mud monstrosity quickly mounted the stairs.

“Ripley . . .”

He heard the note of concern in Blair’s voice.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to try a couple experiments.”

The golem’s foot reached the last step, and with a final squish it pulled itself onto the floor. Rip stood in front of it, arms loose at his side and staring up at its face.

“You . . . are ugly.”

The mouth opened again, dripping rivulets of muck. A couple of worms dropped out and splattered to the floor. It bellowed in rage, an echo from the stairs bouncing back up and amplifying the roar of its voice.

Rip sniffed.

“You stink, too.”

The mud golem rushed him with surprising speed.