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You feel something—someone, the ancestral spirit of a werewolf—writhing in that niche, twisting in agony, bound and buried and forgotten. The spirit's pain is incredible, its Rage white-hot. When you wipe mud from the marble plate, something tries to reach for you, out of the Umbra, and drag you into the silvery flames.

"Don't feel bad for him," Melodie says behind you. "He deserves what's happening to him."

The philodox stands behind you in a quilted gown, holding a candelabra. She sets it in an empty niche so the candlelight illuminates Pan-Killer's prison.

"This was the last one," she says. "Graynail and Holds-the-Dawn tracked the last Pan-Killer down in Providence, Rhode Island. That's actually how they met, how Holds-the-Dawn—she was just Jane back then—came to the Broad Brook Caern and eventually rose to command the Shadow Lords here. They followed a Bone Gnawer who was trying to find the last Pan-Killer after he killed her whole pack. They got him. They bound him. That Bone Gnawer went on to teach Podge and quite a few werewolves who had the sense to get out of Broad Brook before the end came. Jane died fighting, but, well, she's not like this schmuck."

"Looks cruel, even after all this time."

"I bet Pan-Killer did something to deserve this, huh?"

"Is this an ancestor spirit? Does he teach something, or just, you know, writhe?"

"What do I have to not do to avoid getting crucified upside-down in chains of silver fire?"

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