My brain wouldn’t let me process more than the dead woman for a few seconds. She’d been blond once upon a time, and for a desiccated corpse she still had a lot of hair. It was piled in a loose bun that was beginning to fall around cadaverous cheekbones and sunken eyes. Her skin was mostly blue, with rough raw purply-red streaks marring her flesh where it was exposed under her dress. At a guess, I thought she’d been dead for over a hundred years. Not that I really knew from long-dead bodies, but her dress looked straight out of Laura Ingalls Wilder.

The two little dead girls sitting with her, which my eyes had been trying very hard not to see, wore equally old-fashioned clothes. Their hair, dull brown, was carefully braided, and the fragile lace on their collars looked as if it’d undergone an attempt at cleaning bloodstains and viscera from them.

All three of them were partially crushed, though their bodies were sitting in such a way as to almost disguise that. The woman, though, tipped to her left, like her hip couldn’t bear weight, and there was a collapse to the left side of her torso that couldn’t be accounted for by perspective. Her left ankle, booted in fading leather, seemed both whole and delicate, which made the rest of the mess that much worse.

The bigger girl was angled away from me, but once my vision adapted to her mother’s misshapen form, I could see that the child’s shoulder and rib cage were smashed in, and I thought her face was turned the other way to hide similar damage to her features. The littler girl was more broken in half, a childish smile on her dead face as she rested her head on her arms against the table. I suspected that was the only way she could sit up at all, given the flatness of her hips and waist. Even frozen solid, her body wouldn’t have the integrity to remain upright.

I rotated another quarter circle or so, and Archie Redding stopped reading the foreign language to smile beatifically at me and say, “Hello,” in perfectly comprehensible English.

I said, “You crazy motherfucker,” except I had a gag in my mouth, so it came out something like “Y’kavee moffaffuka,” which, under the circumstances, I felt got the point across. Redding looked like somebody’s genial grandfather with sparkling green eyes and a sweet old smile, just as he had in his museum security photograph, although he hadn’t been wearing a long black hooded robe in that. “Wwava vuk iv wong wivvu?”

“I’m sorry,” he said very earnestly. “I’m afraid I can’t understand you. I’d remove the gag, but I can’t allow you to start screaming, so we’re going to have to do without clear communication. Don’t worry, though. It won’t last long. I’ll be cutting your throat in about ten minutes. I need a test case for the cauldron, you see. My guide suggests that between midnight and the first minute after, it has the power to actually bring the dead fully back to life, rather than simply make undead warriors like these poor fellows.” He gestured to one side, and I finished my rotation to discover ten silently screaming dead men standing in rank beside me.

I admit it. I’m not proud. I screamed like a little girl. The gag did a decent job of making me sound deeper and more rugged, but in my heart of hearts I knew that the sound that had erupted from my throat was up there with the most soprano of sopranos, a pure ripping sound of absolute terror.

I spent a good fifteen seconds at it before I realized the dead men weren’t lurching to pull my flesh from my bones or eat my eyeballs out or anything else of equal disgustingness. Nor, at a second look, were any of them Cernunnos or his Riders, so I flung my weight sideways and rotated back to Redding. “Whevva vukivva Hhnnt?”

He shook his head with what looked like a genuine affectation of sympathy. “I do wish we could speak. I’d like to know what brought you here, and there’s so little time.” He brightened. “But if the cauldron works as my guide believes it will, then we’ll be able to talk afterward.”

Hopefully, I said, “M mmnt hweem,” and meant it. I’d gotten all my screaming out already. I was sure I could make better use of my time than screaming if he’d ungag me. Like biting his face off, or something.

Redding looked like he’d understood me that time, but it didn’t make him remove the gag.

“Whovvavuk iv vrr ghyyyv?” I was getting better at talking through the gag. At least, I thought I was. Redding didn’t seem impressed. What’s a girl got to do? I ask you.

The obvious answer was keep him talking. If I could stretch my useless interrogation out to one minute past midnight, the dead family would stay dead, I would stay alive, and maybe I could jimmy myself off the basketball hoop and knock Redding out with my body weight as I tried to avoid head-diving into the cauldron. It was a plan. I ran with it. “Vvt hhvvnd voo vr fmmvy, Revving?” I was getting better at talking. My gag was loosening. Apparently Redding hadn’t taken Kidnapping 101 before tying me up here.

Wherever the hell here was. We’d visited Redding’s apartment, and I was pretty sure if there was other property listed in his name, we’d have visited there, too. Either this place wasn’t on the books or we’d done some embarrassingly sloppy police work. Which reminded me unpleasantly of the little army of dead men at my side. Those people had gone missing from somewhere, and they didn’t bear the Redding family’s freezer burns. He hadn’t been keeping them on ice to use for test runs in the cauldron.

The thought that they were, in fact, hordes of undead birthed straight from the cauldron, like in the movie, swept over me, and I swung back around to look more closely at the little army.

They carried short swords and wore leather armor over their cadaverous bodies, which lent credence to them being ancient warriors torn from the cauldron’s heart. Either that, or Redding had murdered a bunch of soldiers from the Society of Creative Anachronism, which honestly seemed less likely than undead killers several centuries old.

“Vve cauvvron vrks,” I said in genuine astonishment. I didn’t want it to, but a tiny part of my brain chalked up a functioning black cauldron as unexpectedly cool. “I vvoght vrr wavvnt an army invvide it. Vrr’d vey cmme frmm?”

Redding, to my dismay, checked his watch before answering. I wasn’t fooling him into losing track of time. Evidently we had enough, though, because he said, “My master gave me the incantation to retrieve ancient souls held captive in the cauldron, warriors who would protect me while I completed the ritual for my family. More were born, but most were too weak after so much time. These are all that are left.”

That suggested the undead could die. I actually relaxed into my bonds, slumping in relief. There was light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I cast a thankful glance upward, except up was down and the tunnel below me was the cauldron. I said, “Crap,” so softly that the gag couldn’t distort it, and, more urgently, repeated, “Vvt did hhvvn voo yrr fmmly?” Keeping him talking could only benefit me.

He sighed, turning a page in his book and finding the text he wanted with a fingertip before answering me. “We ought not have been traveling in winter, but it had been mild, and we hoped we might push through the mountain passes and be in California by spring. We wanted to farm, you see. That was our dream, me and Ida and the girls.” He fell silent again, cheery countenance darkened with old, maddening sorrow. “There was an avalanche. I was thrown clear, but Ida and the girls…their bodies were frozen by the time I retrieved them. Some of the others in the wagon train buried their dead there, but I could never do such a thing. I took them west, all the way west, praying for a miracle that would bring them back to me.” His smile came back, beatific and terrible. “And before winter broke its hold, a miracle came to me.”