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spirits here and why do these demon warriors attack?”
    Ghosts charged at the sigil. Nicholas gabbled a fresh section of a psalm; the warriors’ weapons struck the air overhead like hammers brought down upon an anvil. In an opposite corner of the South Transept, Popule shot a couple clean through with his salt revolver.
    “The warriors protect their lords, who are linked to this site by their own spilled blood.” Naw let out a sigh. “I’m blacking out, boyo. Help Popule fight the good fight.” The Welshman’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious.
     
    The spirit evaporated the instant Willy lost his hold on the sides of the archway.
    Ailen ran over to his friend, who collapsed into his arms. He lowered Willy to the floor. Thom worried at the man’s tunic collar, loosening it.
    Ailen stepped away. “Check his hands,” he said.
    Thom turned Willy’s hands palm up. They were burned red-raw.
    “Stay here, Willy. Thom and I can see to the devil.”
    “Not in a month of Sundays.” Willy sucked air through his teeth and fought his way to standing. “We’ve spooked the blighter now. You’re going to need me to chant, to help chain it. First, though, you’re going to need to coax the flibbertigibbet out of its hiding place—”
    Ailen glanced at Thom. “The poltergeist likes you. I need you to lure it out.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It can burn down the cathedral about our ears but it can’t harm you.”
    “Someone has been harmed, though. We heard the cry.” Thom looked pained. “It sounded like Naw.”
    Ailen pointed through the doorway. “Let’s deal with the ghost first. Then we can help our man.”
    They exited the vestibule to find the sun had gone in. The nave was cavernous and very dark. From the south side of the building came the crash of swords, blasts of fire from Popule’s revolver and the young canon’s quivering prayer.
    “On second thoughts, I’m going to help Naw and the others first.” Ailen pointed in the direction of The Sleeping Children monument. “I know where to find you.”
     
    Ailen arrived in the South Transept to see Popule fire off a salt spray and the five ghost warriors who had him cornered fade at their edges. He looked for the canon and found him muttering prayers and gone wild about the eyes. Naw bled at his feet. The sigil provided them with a circle of protection, but if Popule and Ailen were to catch the spirits, they would need the trap to be empty.
    “Canon!” he shouted, avoiding the arc of a ghost’s axe by bending low. “I need you to exit the sigil if we’re going to tie the spirits down.”
    “But they’ll destroy us the instant we step off,” answered Nicholas, close to tears.
    Ailen chuckled. “How soon you adopt our wicked pagan ways, Canon.” Again, he avoided the fall of the axe and, seconds later, the huge sword that was swung towards his throat. “Have faith in your own spells,” he called. “Prayer will keep the ghosts at bay long enough.”
    The canon looked doubtful. Ailen had no choice but to trust that the man would exit the sigil in time, and hopefully drag Naw out too. Charging towards Popule like a bull elephant, Ailen cried, “I’m going to pipe them in. Salt ain’t enough. These spirits are too ancient and justified.”
    Justified in misunderstanding the alterations to the building and wanting to keep their deathbed intact
, he thought as he ran through the salt mist, tasting it on his lips. Figures came at him, their burned flesh, whited eyes and flashing weapons seemingly birthed from Hell. Ailen fought their blows with bursts of notes from his dragon pipe. Ahead, the three kings flickered beneath the stained glass window. Their crowns were thorny, their bodies elongated like men put to the rack. Ailen didn’t need them to speak to sense the tremendous anger issuing from them. He would have liked to reason with the three ancients – reassure them that the stonemasons were