Mercutio set his hand on Tybalt's shoulder as he was about to start heading down the stairs to the crypt. Tybalt paused and glanced back at him.

"You don't have to do this, Tybalt," he said quietly. "What are you expecting to find?"

"I don't know. I won't know until I look," replied Tybalt quietly. He turned back and started slowly down the stairs.

Truth be told, he was dreading this. The body would have been down there for two and a half months by now – and there was no telling how old the body was before it ended up in the coffin intended for him. He didn't recall an overpowering stench of putrefaction in the brief time he had spent in the tomb waiting for Juliet to awaken, so he supposed it must have been reasonably fresh. He wondered absently if it had been embalmed as he turned the key in the lock.

The stench hit him the moment the door opened. A foetid miasma of decay and rot seemed to hang in the air and he remembered the weather had been particularly hot the past few weeks. Even embalmed, any body would have reached a fairly unpleasant stage of decomposition after ten weeks in a coffin on a shelf in a crypt, even below ground. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose; it didn't help much.

He heard Mercutio retching behind him, and he glanced back.

"You don't have to come," he whispered softly. "You can wait up top."

Mercutio shook his head. "No, I'll – I'll be alright in a minute," he gasped, fishing in his pocket for his own handkerchief.

Tybalt shook his head and turned back towards the crypt.

The smell worsened the further into the crypt he went. The newer burials were towards the far end, he recalled, in the second chamber. His father's tomb was there, as was the bier where Juliet had been laid.

He had to wonder at that, as he made his way past shelves filled with skeletal remains with the odd casket here and there. What decided whether a body was laid to rest in a casket, which in a stone tomb, and which upon a bier? Would Juliet have been laid to rest eventually in one of these niches? Had he died, would he? What was so dreadful about this body that they used a coffin – or was it simply because they were afraid someone might look too closely at the dead man's face?

The smell was infinitely worse in the second chamber; he felt his stomach heave rebelliously. Behind him he could hear Mercutio taking shallow, frantic gasps as he tried not to breathe in too much of the stench, somehow managing to keep up a litany of swears under his breath.

Ignoring him, Tybalt made his way around the stone bier where Juliet had laid, towards his father's tomb. A dark mahogany coffin rested upon the stone shelf about fifteen inches above the surface of the tomb where Tybalt himself had lain that night. As Tybalt studied the small brass plaque bearing his name etched upon it, he felt a cold chill run down his spine. He reached up and traced the copperplate script slowly. It was a strange thing, to look upon his own name here in this place of death, and know he had lain beneath his own coffin.

"Tybalt?" asked Mercutio just behind him, breaking his reverie. Tybalt shook his head sharply to dispel the disquieting feeling. He laid the crowbar in his hand down upon the lid of his father's tomb and reached up for the nearest brass handle.

"Help me lift it down onto the bier," he whispered.

Between them they managed to swing the coffin down onto the stone bier. Tybalt tried to ignore the foul-smelling liquid that oozed and dripped from the wood to spatter onto the floor, though he endeavoured to keep it off his shoes. Mercutio swore as he did likewise.

The smell was indescribable. Tybalt hesitated as he inserted the edge of the crowbar under the edge of the coffin lid and glanced up at Mercutio, who looked about as enthusiastic for what was to come next as he was. He drew a slow breath, then wrenched the crowbar down. With a screech of protesting, splintering wood the lid was wrenched free of the nails holding it shut and slid off. Tybalt straightened and glanced down at the body, then abruptly whirled away, staggering to the corner where he vomited.

From the sounds of things, Mercutio wasn't doing much better.

Tybalt's stomach twisted and spasmed until it was empty, retching uselessly, his throat burning from the bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand as he slowly straightened then turned to glance over his shoulder; Mercutio's eyes met his.

The first whiff was always the worst; his uncle had told him that once, and as Tybalt made his way back to the coffin with a feeling of dread he found it was so. The stench was as rank and foul as before, but somehow he could tolerate it a little better. Mercutio hung back, watching Tybalt with something like newfound respect or possibly simply disbelief as Tybalt stepped back up to the side of the bier. Pulling a pair of disposable vinyl gloves on, he shed his coat and handed it to Mercutio before rolling his sleeves up then bent over the coffin once more.

It wasn't the worst-looking corpse Tybalt could remember ever seeing, he found himself dispassionately reflecting as he studied it with his eyes. That had been the body of one of his uncle's men fished out of a sewer after rotting there for four months. This body was at least still vaguely recognisable as human. What he found most unnerving was the long black hair that was uncannily reminiscent of his own. Though putrefaction had discoloured and changed the face, it was still recognisable as superficially familiar to his own.

The throat had been slashed, but something seemed wrong about the cut. He was no specialist in forensics, yet he had the distinct impression that there was something altogether too neat about the cut. This was no wild slash inflicted in anger in the heat of a fight but a precise cut made whilst the body were still. Dead, perhaps.

He reached down and tugged open the once-white shirt which was stained dark with decaying bodily fluids; as it slowly peeled open, insects scuttled out and a waft of stinking putrid air caused him to reel back for a moment, his eyes stinging from the fumes.

He stood there for a moment, face turned away as he blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them.

"Are you OK?" asked Mercutio, his voice hushed. Tybalt raised a hand and nodded before turning back to the body.

He drew a scalpel out of his pocket and uncapped it, then reached down with both hands to begin steadily cutting open the t-shirt beneath the shirt. He had no idea what to expect or see. He peeled the pieces of fabric aside then stared down at the corpse, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He pulled his small maglight from his pocket and flicked it on, playing the small beam over the glistening body as he narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.

Then it hit him, and he felt his breath sucked from his body as he was suddenly sheeted in cold sweat. His hands were shaking as he staggered back, mind reeling with horror.

He was vaguely aware of turning towards Mercutio, who caught him as his knees gave way.

"Tybalt! What's wrong, what did you see?" exclaimed Mercutio, eyes wide in concern. Tybalt tried to speak but the words wouldn't come. He was hyperventilating, his heart hammering frantically in his chest as his fingers grew numb, his hands tingling as darkness encroached upon his vision. He couldn't get the words out. He felt himself falling, still unable to tell mercutio what was so horrifying in the casket as he fainted.

The man had been flayed. Most likely alive.

He came back to consciousness slowly. He was vaguely aware of a cool breeze blowing over his face, and the air tasted sweet and fresh. He was sprawled upon the ground – grass? - and someone had their arm around his shoulders. He could taste the sting of brandy upon his tongue; as he tried to open his eyes, he felt the cold hard rim of a metal flask press against his lips and liquid spilling into his mouth. He coughed as the brandy burned his throat and tried to bat the hand holding the flask away.

"I think he's coming round." He knew that voice. Father Lawrence?

"Oh thank God," replied another voice. Mercutio. "I was afraid he was going to have another fit."

"What were you two doing down there?" A third voice – Benvolio? "I would have thought he'd had enough of that tomb after the last time."

"None of your damned business," Tybalt managed hoarsely as he opened his eyes to glare up at Benvolio.

Benvolio opened his mouth to argue but subsided when Father Lawrence raised a hand to silence him.

"You gave me one hell of a fright," said Mercutio.

"Nothing like the one I just got," whispered Tybalt.

"What did you see?" Mercutio replied quietly. "I can't imagine anything that could make you faint like that."

"A dead man. Skinned," replied Tybalt.

Father Lawrence crossed himself hastily and even Benvolio looked unnerved. Mercutio looked sick to his stomach.

"Was -" Mercutio had to stop, swallowing hard before he could go on. "Was that what you were expecting to find?"

Tybalt shook his head. "I'm not sure what I expected to find, but that certainly wasn't it," he replied slowly.

He sat up slowly with Mercutio's help, then between them Mercutio and Father Lawrence managed to get him back to his feet.

"What now?" asked Mercutio; Tybalt shook his head slowly.

"No idea. I need to think what this means."

"Mercutio," said Benvolio quietly. Mercutio glared at him.

"Save it – there's nothing you have to say that I want to hear," he snarled.

"Peace, Mercutio," said Father Lawrence placatingly. "Benvolio came to me with something he heard earlier this evening. We both thought you should hear it. We were on the way to the palace to tell you when we noticed you struggling to carry Tybalt out of this crypt and came to help."

Mercutio glared at him. "Well, out with it then, and then begone and get out of my sight," he said ungraciously.

"Not here," Benvolio said quietly. "Somewhere private."

Tybalt and Mercutio exchanged a glance. "I guess you'd best come with us back to the Capulet estate then," said Mercutio heavily.

Benvolio and Father Lawrence exchanged a worried glance, and Tybalt felt his heart sink.

"Something has happened. Something involving the estate."

Benvolio nodded, and Mercutio swore.

"What's that bitch Lady Montague done this time?"

"Not Lady Montague; it was from her that the intelligence came," answered Father Lawrence hastily.

"She got word from one of her people that known Capulet agents were sighted near the estate. She sent word to Prince Escalus but I wanted to come and warn you myself," added Benvolio. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you or Romeo and I hadn't warned you. I know what happened to Tybalt was unforgivable -" he darted a glance at Tybalt who merely stared at him impassively. "But I honestly didn't know that would happen, I swear. Tybalt was wounded and I just figured that even if he was a prisoner of the Montagues, he'd at least get treatment. I had no idea she'd try to execute him without the Prince's authority."

"You are either a liar or far more stupid than I had given you credit for," stated Tybalt coldly. "I have not the time to care either way. If Capulets are moving against the estate then we need to get back there."

Mercutio nodded then glared at Benvolio. "You're coming with us, and no arguments," he said. "You can start trying to put things right by making yourself useful."

"I shall carry on to the palace and raise the guard," said Father Lawrence, nodding. Tybalt was already striding through the long grass between tombs and graves back towards the entrance to the cemetery and their waiting car.

If anything had happened to Juliet or her husband, someone would pay. Preferably with their life.