Into the Dim (38 page)

The low, barred grate where we'd emerged from the tunnels only hours before was now sealed. No amount of tugging or kicking made it budge. I yanked on the frosted iron until my palms were ice-scalded. “Gah!”

“Um,” Bran muttered, “it appears to be locked.”

“You think so, Captain Obvious?”

I gave the grate one, last savage kick for good measure, then let fly a string of curses.

Bran's eyebrows flew up. “Impressive.”

When I told him to do something that was anatomically impossible, he only chuckled and took my arm. “Come on. We'll find another way.”

“I can't believe it.” Bran's eyes scanned across the nave floor to the main altar.

On the road, I'd explained what I'd felt in the tunnel and seen, dangling upside down from the scaffolding during the coronation. We'd discussed Hectare's cryptic message about a lady in “robes of purest white” guarding “her dark treasure in the deep.” But what if she had been trying to tell us there was a Source beneath Westminster Abbey?

Whether the little nun knew what she was saying or not, the clues added up. And since it was our only shot, we had to at least try.

“You know,” Bran mused, studying the curves imprinted in the black and white marble floor. “Even if the Source is here and we
happen
to locate some opals, it might dump us in some monstrous dinosaur era. Or even worse”—he shuddered theatrically—“the seventies.”

“You think bell-bottoms are worse than velociraptors?”

“Infinitely,” he whispered with a grin that made my pulse jump.

Bran had heard his mother and great-grandmother speaking reverently about the mythical Sources, and how travelers could choose their destination, just by concentrating on where they wanted to go. We had no idea if it would really work. But again . . . no options.

The nave lay mostly empty, and the bare floor stretched out toward the high altar. As we wove through the stout pillars that held up the barrel-vaulted ceiling, copper braziers and enormous candles filled the space with smoky layers of spicy incense and melting beeswax.

Rubbing my itchy nose, I whispered, “Okay. The entrance to the vaults should be behind the altar. We have to sneak by all those little old ladies waiting for confession, and we'll have to be really stealthy, because—”

No warning. I sneezed. Explosively. Twice. The sound blared across the church and echoed against the walls. A flock of geese would've made less noise. A monk in the process of lighting candles frowned at us.

One side of Bran's mouth quirked. “Quite right. Stealth. Got it.”

“Ohhh, you're talking again,” I managed as I swiped a sleeve across my face.

Bran, eyes wide in mock innocence, closed his mouth and mimed throwing away a key. My face felt weird, and I realized I was grinning at him. Really, truly grinning for the first time in forever.

Would it be so bad if we didn't make it out? If the two of us made a life here together?

I quickly thrust that thought away. “Guess we better get going.”

We knelt near the front, heads bowed, just another pious couple. When everyone's backs were turned, we rushed behind the high altar; in this age only a shadow of the spectacular gilt masterpiece it would one day become. Beyond lay a stuffy storage room.

Accoutrements of the mass filled the shelves. Golden cups and saucers. Vials of holy oil. White robes and purple stoles hung on hooks. The heavy aroma of old incense drifted thick from dangling censers.

“Umm,” I moved to a dusty corner where an iron ring was set into the stone floor. “I think, at least, I hope, this leads down.”

Down a narrow, splintery set of steps lay the dank cellar. Cobwebs cloaked the wine barrels and jumbles of dusty crates. Bran located a pile of very old rushlights. He lit two with knife and flint, and we headed deeper into the vast subterranean vault. When we finally arrived at the farthest wall, an arched and ancient door stood partially ajar. Our light revealed a sweeping arc in the dust where it had recently been opened.

Beyond, a stone tunnel sloped sharply downward. Bran held his torch low to the ground. “Footprints. Recent.” he whispered.

I ground my teeth as claustrophobia slithered around my chest.
Tunnels. Why does it always have to be freaking tunnels?

Unlit torches lined the walls beneath the low, barreled ceiling of the undercroft. The overpowering reek of mold and damp earth made my lungs constrict. Close beside me, I felt Bran tense at the scritch of tiny claws on stone.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Simply not a big rat fan.”

I gave an undignified snort that guttered the flame.

“What's so funny?”

“You. Cringing at a few teensy mice.”

“For your information,” he said, offended, “I wasn't cringing. I was merely worried we'd step on the sweet little fellows. Grind them to red paste beneath our boots.”

“Lovely image,” I said. “Well, just hold on to me, then. I'll protect you.”

A little thrill pulsed through me as his grin gleamed white in the darkness.

The cold intensified as we moved down the endless system of corridors, following the scuff of footprints marring the long-undisturbed dust. When muffled voices sounded around a corner just ahead, Bran doused the torches and led us behind a low wall of stacked barrels next to a small alcove.

“I tell you, it's here,” an irritated voice said.

Bran mouthed the name:
Becket.

We edged closer to peek through the cracks. Thomas Becket's back was to us, barking to two men in black and silver. I stifled a groan when I saw one of them was the odious Eustace Clarkson.

Perfect.

“But, Father,” Eustace complained, “Lady Celia said—”

“Lady Celia is gone. And though she claims the stone is not here, I am no longer certain she spoke truth. The old nun, Hectare, made her final confession to Father Jerome, right before she died.”

A stab of sadness hit me. Sister Hectare was gone, and the world was a little darker now. Bran's fingers laced with mine and squeezed.

“Since I happen to know a thing or two about some of dear Father Jerome's . . . habits,” Becket went on, “he gave me every word of the old crone's confession. Apparently, she believed there is an object down here. Something precious. So, you shall search this place. Inside and out. Bring it straight to me and tell not a soul. There will be a reward for whoever finds it.” Thomas Becket hesitated. “For the church, of course.”

Bran and I exchanged a questioning look. What could he mean? Not the Source. That was a place, not an object.

Becket swept by us without a backward glance. Eustace Clarkson glared after him.

“Oh, we'll find it, Father,” he spat. “And make a pretty penny, too.”

“But you heard him,” the other guard, all greasy black hair and cretinous expression, said. “The stone belongs to the church.”

I reared back, nearly dislodging the stack of crates.
The stone?

“Bah,” Eustace sneered. “You want to live your life bowing and scraping to those above you? Then do as I say. Go that way.” He pointed in our direction. “And I'll search down there.”

Eustace Clarkson stomped off down the corridor in the opposite direction. The other guard sighed, crossed himself, and headed straight toward us. There was no place to hide. As soon as he passed the barrier, he'd see us.

Bran pivoted. I saw the motion as he silently drew the curved blades from his belt.

“No,” I whispered. But it was too late.

Greasy-hair turned the corner. Bran launched himself at him, knocking him to the ground. The man's sword spun away to land at my feet. I froze as the men growled and grappled in the dust. For a moment, Bran had him pinned, but the larger man shoved Bran away and slithered out from under him, then flipped him on his back and pressed a thick knee down on his neck. Bran's arm's flailed. His face turned purple as he gagged.

I slipped from the shadows, heart slamming as I picked up the guard's sword. It was heavier than I expected, the leather grip still warm. I hefted it in both hands, trying to get the feel of it. But before I could do a thing, Bran's fist came up and slammed into the guard's temple.

The man toppled over and fell away, unconscious. Bran scrambled up, gasping and choking. I ran to his side, peering over my shoulder into the blackness, sure that Eustace had heard.

“We have to tie him up,” Bran rasped, hand at his bruised throat.

We dragged the man into a shallow chamber. Bran sliced off several strips of my underskirt and, with deft movements, soon had the unconscious man bound and gagged.

“Hurry,” he said. “They'll find him soon enough.”

He picked up the guard's stuttering torch and we hurried down the tunnel. When Eustace Clarkson's boot prints veered into a left passage, we went right.

We passed through archways and down damp stone steps. Cobwebs draped the ceiling, and water dripped from everywhere. The passage here seemed much older, cut into the very bedrock of the earth. When the tunnel narrowed until I could touch both sides, fear began to nip at me.

We'd made it to the crypt. Tombs lined both walls from floor to ceiling, like file cabinets of death. The names were mostly worn away, though some showed the carved words. As we moved deeper, twisting and turning, we saw that some of the seals had crumbled away completely, revealing grinning skulls and flashes of other bone.

Finally, we reached a dead end. This time, Bran's frustration showed. He slammed his boot into the offending wall. “Damn! I was so certain this was the right way!”

“It's okay,” I soothed. “Hang out here for a second, I'll backtrack and check the other tunnel.”

Hurrying back the way we'd come, I saw that the passage we hadn't chosen was also blocked.

I returned, brushing cobwebs from my hair. “Hey, we'll need to double back at least . . .”

Bran's lit torch hung in a rusted iron holder. Bran himself was gone. He was gone. And I was alone.

M
Y VOICE SHOOK
, “T
HIS ISN
'
T FUNNY, YOU KNOW
.”

Silence.

“Bran?”

A crunch from deep in the tunnels. A random chunk of stone? Eustace? Bony fingers crawling from a grave? I yanked the torch from the wall and waved it out in front of me like a sword, pressing my back against the wall.

“Bran,” I hissed as the terror ate into me.

“Yes?” Bran's voice said from just behind me.

I whirled, torch raised to strike. He squeezed the rest of the way out—as if from the stone itself. I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Wha—how?”

Then I saw it. A cleverly constructed false wall that folded back on itself. You had to be at the perfect angle to even find it.

I lowered the torch. “Fabulous,” I snapped. “But if you ever leave me like that again, I may have to kill you.”

Three sharp turns and a descent down four flights of nearly vertical steps took us to another world. At the bottom, the floor morphed from slick gray stone to a mosaic that shone in jewel colors where our footprints dislodged the dirt.

Excited, I tugged on his arm. “The cave under my aunt's house has a floor like this. That's gotta be good, right?”

The torchlight revealed elegant fluted columns supporting a ceiling that swirled in black and white concentric circles.

“Roman?” I wondered aloud. “Or . . . no, I think it's even older than that.”

We stopped beside a dust-choked bronze sculpture. Waist high, it'd been cleverly molded into a cupped hand.

“There's some very ancient wood here.” Bran peered down into the sculpture's palm. “I think this was for fires.”

He set the torch to the dry kindling, and in moments light flickered, revealing the huge statue that dominated the chamber.

She was an angel. Or more likely a pagan goddess. Much, much older than the saints guarding the congregation above. The woman's blank eyes stared down into her own cupped palm.