“They’re undertakers,” Pride tells you as the three men follow you into the lab.

They wear navy aprons over their clothes, and when you all come to a stop, nobody speaks. The first of the men is a big ginger bear, the second, a young man with a pretty face and pink hair, and the third is staring at you in a creepy fashion, grey eyes intense as he pulls a tape measure from his pocket.

The big guy laughs, but the one with the pink hair elbows the creepy one. “Behave yourself, Sharpy. They’re not here to be measured up.”

“Don’t mind him,” says a tiny, freckled woman, casting a stone-cold glare in Sharpy’s direction. “He left his manners in the mine.”

Sharpy sniggers out a laugh, but doesn’t speak.

The lab is as clinical as you expected, but it smells like someone dropped a bucket of bleach in a butcher's shop. The big guy offers you a mask, and you reach for it with thanks and a grateful smile, immediately hooking the elastic loops around your ears. There are mountains of papers and coloured files piled high on the filing cabinets along the right-hand wall. There’s also a wall of morgue drawers behind the desk, and you don’t know how anyone can work under such conditions.

“You’ve all got work to get on with,” the woman says, tapping her foot impatiently. “What are you standing around here for?”

The big guy folds his arms over his chest, his brown eyes twinkling. “Just wanted to see who you roped into your scheme after we all said no.”

The woman, who looks too much like her grandfather to not be Ophelia Hazard, points at an open doorway to your right, flicking her flaming red braid over her shoulder. “The hearse needs cleaning.”

Sharpy makes a clicking sound, then signs something to Ophelia. Baz washed the hearse yesterday.

“I know he did,” she replies. “I’m talking about the junk on the inside. The footwell shouldn’t be covered in a layer of radioactive cheese dust.”

The pink-haired one rubs Sharpy’s back. “Wotsits are his favourite.”

Sharpy has frozen, his eyes wide.

“And yet he clearly grinds most of the packet into the floor,” Ophelia says.

Sharpy throws his arms up in surrender and lurches off towards the open door, the pink-haired guy, Baz, in pursuit.

The big guy remains behind for a few seconds longer, his eyes darting from Pride to you. “Don’t let her talk you into anything that might get you arrested.”

Ophelia huffs. “I haven’t been arrested in ages, Eddie.”

“Nineteen days is not ages in anyone’s book but yours, Phee.”

Ophelia’s face flushes pink. “Go and clean the hearse.” They stare at each other until the air dries out. Awkward! Then she calls at his retreating back, “And don’t forget to dispose of the condoms.”

She may look like her grandfather, but you can’t imagine Uriel ever being this tyrannical. You also can’t imagine him wearing a combo as ugly as royal blue scrubs and green Crocs. You don’t want to think about why there are condoms on the floor of a hearse.

“So, what are we getting roped into?” Pride asks as soon as the vacuum cleaner groans to life beyond the open doorway. “Because I have no intention of digging up dead bodies with you. Been there, done that. Still have the arrest record to prove it.”

Ophelia laughs loudly. “Of course not. Even I learnt my lesson eventually.”

The vacuum cleaner has stopped. “That is a lie,” a voice calls from the other room.

Ophelia’s nostrils flare. “Shut up, Eddie!”

“So, what are we doing if we’re not grave-robbing?” asks Pride.

You grimace, and Ophelia catches it, even from behind your mask.

“Are you not going to introduce me to your friend, Pride?” she asks.

“Ed,” you say, leaning forward to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hmm, soft hands,” she says.

“You’re stalling,” says Pride. “Which means it must be stupid or dangerous.”

“Or both,” Eddie yells from the garage.

“Shut up, Eddie!”

“And if they’re refusing to go with you…” Pride hitches a thumb over his shoulder, but leaves his question dangling in the air once again.

Ophelia flicks her head towards a curtain behind her. “Need to get him back…” The rest of her sentence is mumbled incoherently under her breath.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” says Pride.

“I need to put Sir Reginald Burrowes back in the ground,” she says begrudgingly, as if neither of you deserve an explanation of her wholly outlandish expectations. “He’s being officially exhumed tomorrow.”

“Officially exhumed?” you ask, copying Ophelia’s bunny ears as you say it.

“For what purpose?” asks Pride.

“An autopsy,” she says.

You glance again at the curtain shielding Sir Reginald’s body. “So… how is he already here?”

“I just needed some answers,” she says. “Unofficially.”

“Oh, so you already dug him up?” says Pride, amusement in his voice.

“And did you get your answers?” you ask.

“Yes.” She leans forward. “And what’s more is this: I think the coroner will choose another incompetent to examine what’s left of Sir Reginald.”

You glance nervously at the curtain. “Exactly how much is left of him?”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s fine.”

“He’s a corpse,” you remind her.

“Yes, but he’s all bagged up and ready to go. You won’t have to see anything… gruesome.”

You try to smile with your eyes, because you know there's a grimace under your mask. “Excellent.”

This is not excellent. What are you talking about?

“They’re going in at six in the morning to ensure privacy,” Ophelia says. “Though who they’re expecting to show up at a family cemetery, I don’t know.”

“But it’s broad daylight,” you say. “Shouldn’t we wait until it’s dark?”

“I’ll take care of that,” says a new voice from behind you.

Pride grins. “Cecilia!”

Cecilia stalks into the lab, dressed like she was the last time you saw her—as a cat burglar. “I believe this is yours,” she says, dangling a pocket watch from a chain. “Uncle Uriel had some choice words for me when he realised I’d stolen it from you.”

You frown. “But I haven’t seen you since—”

“Best pickpocket in all of London Town at only seven years old," she says, breathing on her knuckles and polishing them on her shirt.

“That was you?” You can see it now, the ghost of the little girl you crashed into on the street corner, residing in Cecilia’s disarming smile, and you can’t help but return it. “Did you ever run into the jaws of that lion?”

Cecilia winks as she says, “Only once.” Then she looks up at Ophelia. “Kane’s on his way, but you’ll still need an earth render.”

“We’ll pick her up on the way,” Ophelia says.

“Why will the coroner choose an incompetent examiner?” you ask Ophelia, remembering her quest for answers.

“Because he went to Cambridge with Sir Reginald’s heir, whom certain family members believe had a hand in his death,” Ophelia says. “And because he assigned an incompetent one to perform the post mortem. I procured a copy of his toxicology report, in which nothing of note was found. And despite the alleged cause of death, there is no evidence that a histological examination ever took place.” For the benefit of all the blank faces, she adds, “No tissue samples were tested for signs of disease or injury.”

“What was the alleged cause of death, then?” you ask.

“According to the report by Doctor Summers, who is suddenly no longer in debt with the bookies and has a shiny new Audi, it was multiple aneurysms, likely caused by a head injury brought about by a fall down the stairs. He was found at the bottom of the main staircase.”

“And according to you?”

“There are two puncture wounds at the base of the skull, and swelling suggesting something was injected into his brain. And there are signs of diazepam abuse that would render a man legless, despite his doctor never having prescribed it. Sir Reginald was, in fact, on medication that could be fatal if combined with a benzodiazepine—a fact his son, also a doctor, would have known. Frankly, Sir Reginald would not have been capable of walking himself to his bedroom door, let alone along a forty-foot hallway and down the first flight of stairs.

“Sharpy had already noted some inconsistencies in the EXIF data on the photo sets taken at the scene and on the table, which prompted an examination of the original photos. There were clear abrasions on his chest and arms, and his wrists and ankles, suggesting he was tied up, most likely to a chair. None of this was noted during the post mortem, and some of the photos were altered to remove the marks. Others were missing entirely. It was Sharpy’s findings that made this worth further investigation.”

“Why did you wait until now to examine him if the exhumation is tomorrow?” Pride asks.

“I wasn’t going to go to all this trouble if the application was denied,” Ophelia says. “If you think I actually enjoy getting arrested, you’re very much mistaken.”

Eddie’s boisterous laughter bursts out of the garage.

“Shut up, Eddie!”

“Who requested the exhumation?” asks Pride.

“His granddaughter. She pointed out to the police that a certain forensic pathologist received a shiny new gift, and—”

“How would she know the pathologist bought a new car?” asks Pride.

“Because Sir Reginald’s granddaughter went to Oxford,” Ophelia says. “With me.”

“It really is all about who you know,” you mutter. “So, she asked you to intervene like this?”

“Not exactly,” Ophelia says. “She thinks she can just request that I perform the examination, but if Shepherd wanted me to do it, I would’ve been informed by now. She thinks she has it all in hand, but… she doesn’t. It took four months for the application to be approved, and sometimes it’s months before a date is decided—usually because there are a number of variables—but this came through quickly. Doing it this way is… insurance.”

Eddie comes back into the lab, rubbing his hands on his apron. “And if Shepherd declares the same results as last time? What are you gonna do then? You can’t say, Well, actually, my results say different.”

Ophelia’s hands fly to her hips. “Was that supposed to be me? I don’t sound like that.”

“Oh, you do,” Eddie insists. “So, what are you gonna do, Phee? How is it insurance if you can’t use it?”

Ophelia’s glares might be stone-cold when she directs them elsewhere, but when directed at Eddie, they’re flaming hot. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. Ophelia glares harder.

“Phee,” he sighs, his voice softening. “All you’ll be able to prove is that your methods of fact finding are as shady as Shepherd’s. If you play your hand, he’ll play his, and you can bet your pretty white arse it will be dirty.”

Ophelia’s cheeks flame a brilliant red, and she freezes in place like she’s been petrified.

“I think you broke her by mentioning her pretty arse,” says Cecilia, dimples flashing as she grins at a silenced Ophelia.

Finally, Ophelia lets out a long breath. “I can’t let Daisy’s uncle get away with murdering her grandfather. She adored that man, and she came home to find him dead. And anyway, I’m willing to bet I have friends in higher places than Shepherd does. Much higher places.”

“Need I remind you that Uriel said you’re on your own next time you get yourself in trouble,” says Eddie.

Ophelia flaps her hand dismissively. “Oh, he doesn’t mean it. Dad will have a word with him, and Grandad will do anything to keep the peace. You know what he’s like.”

“She’s got a point,” says Cecilia. “Resolving conflict is what Uriel does.”

“If you say so,” says Eddie. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I just don’t want to see you walking headfirst into trouble again.”

“I can handle myself.”

Eddie trudges back to the garage, shaking his head.

By the time Kane arrives—teleporting directly on the arm of the dark-haired man you remember as Mando, and whom you’re told is Cecilia’s father, Armando—Ophelia has changed into a jumpsuit much like yours, though it’s in a vibrant—or perhaps violent—shade of purple that clashes with her hair.

When Kane asks you how you’ve enjoyed your adventure so far, you tell him his clothing spell sucks. He finds this hysterical. He laughs until Simeon’s ghost shows up, loudly proclaiming how pleased he is that the whole gang is back together again.

Once everyone is gathered, you wonder why you and Pride are even needed at all, since there’s more than enough muscle for two corpses or more without you.

***

“Why exactly are we here?” Eddie asks.

“Why exactly are you here?” Ophelia counters. “You said you weren’t coming.”

“Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment,” he replies.

“Where exactly is here?” you ask.

“Beyond that wall is the Cascade’s Academy,” says Pride. “Which means Doctor Hazard here is corrupting a youth.”

Ophelia huffs. “Corrupting a… pfft!”

“Such an eloquent argument, Phee.”

“Shut up, Eddie!”

A rumbling sound reaches you from behind a high brick wall at the edge of a wooded area, and a girl with long, white-blonde hair slowly rises above it until she’s level with the spiked railings on top. She pulls herself over the railings, and this time when the ground rumbles, you see a staircase made of dirt rise to meet her.

“Show off!” Ophelia calls, but her big grin shows she’s pleased to see the girl.

The girl laughs and bounces down the staircase, which falls away behind her, leaving a mess of the grass verge. “This better be worth missing lessons for.”

“What are they teaching you in there, anyway?” Ophelia asks. “Because you certainly haven’t improved when it comes to cleaning up after yourself.”

“Oh, the irony,” says Eddie.

For once, Ophelia doesn’t tell him to shut up. “Everyone, this is Runa.”

Runa cringes at the state of the grass behind her, making a few complicated moves with her hands until the dirt lies flat. The grass still looks patchy until Kane takes pity on her, crouching with his palm to the ground. He replicates the grass before your eyes until the brown dirt patch is green.

“Thanks, Mr Kane,” Runa says, blinking up at him with big blue-grey eyes.

Simeon cackles at Kane’s attempts to ignore it, and that’s when you realise something.

“Not everyone can see him, can they?” you ask Pride.

Pride presses his lips together into a grim line. “No, they can’t. There’s no real rhyme or reason to it, though there are theories that those of us who’ve travelled interdimensionally are more likely to see ghosts.”

“That study was dismissed as absolute bollocks,” says Kane. “Almost twenty years ago.”

Pride shoots a withering look in Kane’s direction. “Which is why I said it was a theory and not a fact.”

“Cecilia was the first to see him,” Kane tells you. “I couldn’t see him for two years after he died.”

You glance between Kane and Simeon, who has a sappy look on his face as he admires his ex-husband. “That must’ve been horrible.”

“Quietest two years of my life,” says Kane.

Simeon’s laughter is so loud it makes you jump.

You’re not really sure what Simeon sees in Kane. Not until a strange mix of emotions crosses Kane’s features—love, regret, sorrow, pain, wistfulness—and suddenly you wonder if Kane’s dismissive treatment of Simeon is just a coping mechanism. Your heart gives a little twinge for both of them.

“Come on.” Ophelia motions them all back towards Armando. “We haven’t got all day.”

***

The Burrowes family cemetery sits on a hill overlooking a lake, every gravestone ostentatious and old-fashioned. Within seconds, an intense fog shrouds the area around the small patch of cemetery—a fog emanating from Cecilia’s fingertips—and every sound beyond is cut off, even the wind silenced. Armando drifts in and out of the fog, presumably keeping watch.

Runa draws soil from the ground, piling it high beside the gravestone.

You’re not sure what you’re here for.

It takes Runa almost five minutes to clear the grave and reveal the dark wood of the coffin. For the first time, you glance at the bag holding Sir Reginald’s remains. It looks like a giant gro-bag—the kind gardeners plant tomatoes in. Kane lowers a network of ropes into the ground, where they slither beneath the coffin and out the other side.

“Can’t you just hover it out?” you ask.

“I could,” he says. “But this way just seemed easier.”

“He’s being sarcastic,” says Simeon, even though you caught that yourself. “He does that to deflect from the fact that he can’t actually float a coffin out of a grave.”

The netting reminds you of the ratlines on Captain Quinn’s ship.

“Nice and slow,” says Pride, handing you a section of rope as everyone takes their place on either side of the grave. “One rung at a time then… and go. And go.”

You all pull on Pride’s instruction until the coffin clears the ground, then shuffle sideways, dropping it on the grass at the foot of the grave. You don’t watch Ophelia and Eddie unzip the bag and transfer Sir Reginald’s body back into its coffin, though you’re certain the air temperature has dropped by several degrees.

“Can you check outside again, Dad,” Cecilia says. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Armando disappears into the fog.

“Let’s get him back in there,” Ophelia says once Eddie has secured the lid of the coffin. “Pride, if you want to count us in again.”

Pride’s count seems a little rushed, and a shiver runs up your spine. Armando had said repeatedly that there was nobody around, but everyone is anxious, casting nervous glances over their shoulders, looking up abruptly, or gasping at the quietest of sounds. It puts you on edge.

Once the coffin is settled back in the grave, Kane pulls his ropes free, and they vanish into thin air. The dirt goes back in the grave much faster than it came out, and once again, Kane tidies up behind Runa, freshening the grass.

Ophelia zips and rolls up the body bag. “You can take the shield down if everyone’s ready, C.”

Cecilia’s fog drops, revealing her father, and several other people, including the Duke of Rosemont, who arches an eyebrow when he spots you.

But he's not the one who speaks.

A tall, thin man with pockmarked brown skin drawls, “Well, well, well! Who have you brought on your grave-robbing adventures today, Doctor Hazard?”

“Now, he remembers my title,” Ophelia mumbles under her breath, raising her voice to tell the man, “No grave-robbing here, Uncle. We’re just… babysitting the grave until the official exhumation tomorrow.”

“She must think he’s an idiot,” Pride whispers. “That’s Raguel Templar. Chief Justice of Cascade.”

“What is Cas—”

“Sshh!” Pride hisses.

“You must think me an idiot, Doctor Hazard.” Raguel glances around at all their faces. His eyes narrow on Pride. “How fortuitous that I should find you here, Mr Pride, after our—”

Pride is glowing, threads of golden light weaving subtly around his body.

Raguel bows his head reluctantly, still silenced by whatever Pride is doing. Rosemont is bowing at Pride too.

“But how is this… how is this possible?” Raguel asks.

Rosemont huffs, glaring sideways at Raguel. “You know very well who he is, Raguel.” He lowers his voice to say, “Now, stand down before you make a fool of yourself.”

You’re well aware that Pride has lived for centuries, and that he was a king at least once, but you’re certain Raguel is another of Uriel’s archangel brothers—Ophelia called him Uncle, after all. Who is important enough for an archangel to bow their heads?

Raphael’s words come back to you: Only gods can create true, unbreakable tethers.

Is that what Pride is? A god?

“Mr Ambrose, what are you doing so far from the morgue during work hours?”

Eddie glances at Ophelia for help, but Ophelia is already talking. “He’s with me. Obviously. We were discussing plans for tomorrow’s exhumation… should the coroner appoint me.”

“And you needed Doctor Rose-Abaddon and her fog for what exactly?” Raguel asks.

“To prevent nosey people from wandering in,” Cecilia says pointedly.

Raguel nods at Runa. “And the earth render?”

Runa freezes in the process of trying to hide behind Pride. “I’m on work experience,” she blurts.

“Grave robbery is not a career we encourage at the Cascade Academy, Miss Fenlock.”

“I’m going to be a forensic pathologist one day, Chief Justice Templar. An excellent one like Doctor Hazard.”

Raguel lets out a derisive snort, then glares at Armando. “Mr Rose. Please escort Miss Fenlock back to the academy, through the front doors, and sign her in at reception. I will be along to give my report to the chancellor this afternoon.”

Armando smiles, but it’s not a pleasant smile. “I don’t work for you, Templar.”

“Which is the only reason I cannot arrest you for anything other than trespass, and I’m not inclined to make unnecessary paperwork for myself.” This seems to amuse everyone, but you can’t crack even a glimmer of a smile. Raguel’s hostile glare gives you the creeps. “Not for you.”

Armando is unfazed. “I’ll consider myself lucky you’re in a benevolent mood.”

Simeon chooses that moment to burst into raucous laughter.

Raguel either can’t hear it, or chooses to ignore it. “Mr Rose…”

“What the Chief Justice is trying to say, Armando, is that everyone else here is ten seconds away from arrest, and that you and Miss Fenlock are free to go,” says Rosemont. “I’d consider it a personal favour if you would escort her back to school.”

Armando sighs, then communicates silently with Cecilia for a few moments through a series of twitchy facial gestures. “Fine. I’ll take her back.”

“Through the front door,” Raguel reminds him.

The last thing you hear before Armando and Runa disappear, is Armando calling Raguel a high-handed ball-bag, and Runa giggling.

“I don’t work for Cascade either,” you say.

When Raguel turns his dark eyes upon you, you wish you hadn’t spoken. “Don’t you?”

You frown, glancing up at Pride, who’s looking away. “No. I don’t.”

Why would he think you work for Cascade?

Raguel makes no further comment on the matter. Instead, he says, “You showed up here with a body bag, Doctor Hazard. By Cascade’s order, you and your friends here are under arrest.”

***

The bonus for this chapter is about the infamous resurrection men, Burke and Hare. Fair warning, it's a little bit gruesome.

Password: BODYSNATCHER