Mirren had tended the Briar for nine winters. She knew which graves to leave alone. The whole forest had grown over an old war, with bone under the roots and rust under the moss. That morning the thorns wept sap the color of a bruise. Under a hawthorn she found a grey hand pushing up through the dirt. It twitched, then grabbed at the air, reaching for her.

Mirren caught the cold wrist and hauled. A man came up out of the dirt, gasping, his eyes blind and white. "The bell," he rasped. "Someone rang the bell. The army is waking up." He clutched her sleeve. "You have to stop it before nightfall, or they all rise."

Mirren decided the dead could keep their war. She shoved the blind man back toward his hole and grabbed her spade. But his grip was iron now, and his white eyes locked on her face. "You can't bury me again," he whispered. The hill split open around her boots, and a hundred grey hands rose to pull her down into the dark with them.