There's a vaguely ticklish feeling at the back of Matt's neck.

It's not the books around them, he doesn't think (not even the one with wicked spikes sticking out from the spine), and it's not a magical premonition per se; it's more than his attention keeps flickering uneasily back the way they came.

How long does it take dozens of tiny, stabby swords to get past a locked door?


His feeling of foreboding is compounded by the way their next left turn appears to conclude in a dead end.