What felt like a lifetime had passed. Mugs shivered. He was thankful for his oilskin jacket, though the occasional rain droplet whipped through his open collar and sent a freezing chill slithering down his skin. He looked around and, seeing Shin somewhere in the distance, picked his way through yellowed piles of broken timber, pottery, brick, and everything in between.

“I can’t find anything,” Mugs said dismally. “I don’t think—”

“Here.”

Mugs was stunned. A rush of energy spiked through him like lightning. “What’s that?”

“Here.” Shin repeated, pointing. At his feet, almost imperceptible amid pieces of rubble, was a trapdoor. Shin squatted next to it and grabbed a piece of wood that covered it. The piece didn’t budge. “Camouflage,” he said simply.

Mugs floundered with the edges of the trapdoor, brushing off dust and loose debris until his fingers found the lip of a handle. He tugged, feeling it give, then opened it slowly. The trapdoor hinges were soundless.

The smell of blood wafted from below.

Mugs opened the door fully and unsheathed the pistol from his boot. From what little light was left of the sun hidden behind the clouds, Mugs couldn’t make a damn thing out. There was no ladder down, only one visible foothold carved into the hard earth that told both men in very uncertain terms it was the only way down into the blood-stenched hole in the ground.

“What do you think, Shin?” Mugs was quiet. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

“I have seen many things,” he said. “But this I have not seen before.”

This did nothing to comfort him. Mugs steeled himself in one breath and started climbing down. One ginger step at a time his surroundings were consumed in darkness. The hard-packed dirt gave way to craggy, hand-mined rock walls, but the floor was not in sight.

Shin made a clicking noise from above and Mugs turned to look. He pointed to his eyes and then made a sweeping motion with his fingers. Can you see anything?

Mugs shook his head, but the distraction was a mistake. One moment he was perched precariously against the rock, the next he was dangling from his fingertips, feet hanging in empty space, scraping the wall. He swore loudly, an adrenaline-fueled panic gripping him. He wondered how far this hellish pit went, how far he would fall before his body impacted the ground and broke him, leaving him to rot forever in this godless place. He strained to keep himself from falling, hugging the wall as tightly as he could, making as little unnecessary movements as possible but to no avail. He was about to lose his grip. Without a foothold, Mugs looked up at Shin one last time before losing his grip and plunging into the unknown.

*  *  *  *  *

“What d’ya think they up to, hm?”

“Saving the twit from himself, no doubt. Probably gave himself a papercut, the insufferable prick.”

“Seems a likely theory.” Jim sniffed, picking at something on his breastplate. He flicked at it and then stood with a huff, grabbing at his musket that had started to slide away from its propped-up position. “Really though. What’s goin’ on with ‘im and the bossman?”

The rain pounded a little harder against the tin roof as if in indignant response. Kate groaned and mumbled something in the corner: the man was clearly dismayed that his companions’ talk kept him from sound sleep. He sat up slowly and glared at the two men. He never seemed to be happy with anything. “Must you people speak?” he spat at them.