Legacy of the Lost

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  “It’s like someone added this to connect two separate tunnel systems.” I looked at Raiden. “Like someone wanted to make the tunnels under Rome a usable way of getting around the city.”

  “It would certainly make getting around the city unnoticed a lot easier,” Raiden said.

  I nodded, thoughts wandering. My mom had known about this addition to the catacombs—known it was a viable route. Had the Custodes Veritatis done this? Were these their tunnels?

  I touched the handle of the gun lodged in my waistband, reassuring myself that it was still there.

  “We can always turn back,” Raiden reminded me.

  I shook my head. “No going back,” I said, stepping through the archway and into the narrower passage. I was done with running. Done with hiding.

  It was time to face the monsters lurking in the dark.

  30

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said under my breath, pausing in the middle of a long corridor lined with regular recesses for the decrepit bodies of ancient Christians.

  The narrow, rectangular grave cubbies were stacked four-high, and the walls were coated in a thick layer of decaying plaster that had crumbled away in places to reveal the brick beneath, like flesh pulled open to reveal bone. The air was stale and slightly musty, but at least it didn’t carry the sour taint of mildew like it had in the earlier tunnels.

  We had already traversed this corridor from one end to the other and were retracing our steps on our second pass. Broken, shriveled cobwebs swayed as we passed, disturbing the air. They filled the recesses so densely, it was almost impossible to see the skeletal remains hidden within.

  But we’d only broken a few webs in the corridor itself. Someone had been here recently. I was convinced that the ‘someone’ in question was my mom.

  And yet, I couldn’t figure out where to go from here. The map in the journal clearly showed a right turn near the corridor’s midpoint, which would bring us into the catacombs beneath Vatican City. I turned one way, shining my light up the corridor until I could see the place where it ended in a dead-end, then back the way we’d come originally, to the “T” where we’d taken our final left turn. I was standing as close as I would get to the midpoint without resorting to counting paces, but there was clearly no opening in the wall to my right. This was the first time the map had been wrong.

  I placed my hands on my hips, one gripping the journal, the other balled into a fist, and stared at the crumbling plaster coating a pillar between two columns of recesses. Maybe there was some trick to it—some secret latch that would trigger a part of the wall to open up or . . . or something.

  “You’re sure this is the right spot?” Raiden said, the light from his headlamp joining mine on the wall.

  I raised the journal and opened it to the page marked by my index finger. I retraced our route from Castel Sant’Angelo to our current location. There was a clearly marked circle right where we were standing, just like there’d been at Castel Sant’Angelo, where we had entered the tunnels through a drainage grate. That was the only other spot along our route marked by a circle. All of the other turns had been obvious.

  “It’s hidden,” I whispered, closing the journal and tucking it under my arm as my eyes scoured the wall.

  The light from Raiden’s headlamp shone on me. “What do you mean?”

  “Like the grate,” I said. “I think that’s what the circle means—the way through isn’t going to be obvious. We have to find it.”

  I focused on the cubbies in the wall. There was no saying what was behind all of those cobwebs.

  “Hold this for a sec,” I said, handing Raiden the journal.

  Hands freed, I squeezed between him and the wall and placed my foot on the bottom lip of the second lowest recess. Gripping the lower edge of the top recess, I hoisted myself up, coming face to face with a cobweb-coated skull. The plaster beneath my boot crunched as it crumbled under my weight, but the underlying brick held strong.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said softly as I reached over the skeleton, pushing through the dense weave of long-abandoned spiderwebs until my fingers brushed the rough plaster wall at the very back. I was immensely grateful for the thin barrier of leather preventing me from feeling the tickle of the cobwebs against my skin. I traced my fingertips around the outer edge of the back wall, searching for any hint of a crack or opening.

  I found none.

  After a quick sweep across the center of the wall, I pulled my arm back and hopped down.

  Raiden stared at me—or rather, at my arm—his expression a combination of sheer horror and near-vomit disgust.

  I glanced down at my arm. My glove was coated in a thick layer of sticky cobwebs. I looked from my arm to Raiden and back, and grinned mischievously. “What’s wrong?” I asked, reaching out with my cobwebbed hand. “Is wittle Waiden afwaid of a wittle spiderweb?”

  Raiden took three skittering steps backward. “Uh uh. Do not touch me with that thing.”

  I wiggled my fingers at him and watched him shiver. Big, tough Raiden really was afraid of spiderwebs. No wonder he’d wanted me to go first through this part of the catacombs.

  Laughter bubbled up my throat and burst out of my mouth. I covered my lips with my clean hand to hold it in, but the first bouts of laughter continued to echo off the walls up and down the tunnel, softening to an eerie howl that sounded so creepy it made me shiver. The sound continued longer than I ever would have imagined, making the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end and drowning out any remaining humor.

  After a long, watchful stare down the length of the catacomb, I exchanged a quick look with Raiden, then turned back to the wall, less eager to violate the deceased’s resting place than before. I quickly searched the middle two recesses just as I had the top one, then dropped to my knees to search the bottom recess.

  I felt the difference immediately. The cobwebs didn’t break. In fact, I was fairly certain that they weren’t cobwebs at all.

  The webbing here seemed to be made of some sort of ultrathin, silken elastic material, like something someone might use for a high-end Halloween decoration. It wasn’t remotely sticky, like the other cobwebs.

  “It’s fake!” I exclaimed quietly, craning my neck to look up at Raiden even as I reached deeper into the cubby.

  Raiden knelt beside me, bowing down to look into the webbed recess.

  The back wall wasn’t where I’d expected it to be, and I thought I may just have found the opening. We would have to crawl through. I felt a momentary pang of pity for Raiden, but it faded quickly; at least these webs weren’t genuine.

  I placed my right hand on the floor of the recess to steady myself and reached further in until my entire upper body was hovering over the resident skeleton. The fingers of my left hand skimmed the back wall, and my heart sank. This wasn’t the way through, after all.

  I started to pull out of the recess.

  Something skittered over the back of my right hand, something large enough that I could feel it through the leather glove, and I shrieked. Reflexively, I swapped hands, slamming the other down to support me as I shook out the one violated by some unknown form of creepy-crawly. My palm landed directly on the skull of the departed.

  The skull gave a little under my weight. It didn’t break; it sank into the floor.

  I froze.

  There was a faint click, the entire floor of the recess dropped, and I was falling.

  I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

  The scream ended with a grunt as I hit solid ground. I landed on my shoulder and hip, the impact sending twin bursts of pain through my body and pushing the air out of my lungs. I lay there for several seconds, simply trying to regain my breath.

  “Cora!” Raiden called from above. “Cora, are you all right?”

  It seemed to take forever, but I finally managed to suck in a breath. Groaning, I rolled onto my back as far as I could without crushing my backpack and stared up at the opening in the ceiling maybe six feet
overhead. I could see the light from Raiden’s headlamp through the mass of fake cobwebs, but I couldn’t make out his face. The trap door hung down from the ceiling, swinging gently, skeleton and all. Apparently that was fake as well.

  “Yeah,” I said, voice hoarse. “I think I’m all right.” I rolled my shoulder forward and backward, then gingerly touched my hip. Both were tender, but nothing seemed to be broken. “I’m all right,” I confirmed.

  “Good,” Raiden said. “Let me see if I can figure out how to reset the trap door. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “No prob,” I said as I shifted onto my hands and knees. I grabbed the handle of the Glock, resituating the gun in my waistband, then stood and took a few cautious steps, staring down at the floor as I checked the stability of my hip. It had taken the brunt of the fall and was definitely sore, but my leg still felt sturdy enough. I had no doubt that, in a few hours, the bruise would be magnificent.

  I tried to wipe the spiderwebs off my gloves, but the webbing was too sticky. Sighing, I pulled off the gloves and tucked them into my back pocket, then turned my attention to the new tunnel.

  It was a long corridor, which was nothing new, but the walls were covered in brightly colored frescoes depicting what, at first, I thought were various biblical scenes, what with all of the saintly figures standing with golden halos behind their heads. But I didn’t recognize a single scene from either the Old or New Testaments. I frowned, figuring these were scenes honoring some long-dead saint or martyr.

  My fingertips skimmed over a gold-leafed halo that glimmered in the light from my headlamp. Only the Catholic Church could have protected these frescoes from damage or the gold inlay from looters over the centuries. I was no expert on Christian art, but even I could tell these frescoes were ancient and priceless. We had to be within the Vatican’s territory now.

  I didn’t recognize any of the artwork from the research I’d done on the catacombs beneath Vatican City, so I figured we were in the secret portion, beneath the Vatican Library, the part that belonged to the Custodes Veritatis, exclusively.

  I moved down the corridor slowly, studying the elaborate friezes painted on the walls. The bright, cheerful colors and luminous gold leafing felt out of place in this secret, underground space. The images were so beautiful—so intricate—it was a shame that they were hidden down here, where so few could appreciate them.

  Every ten yards or so, unlit torches rested in wrought iron wall sconces straight out of the middle ages, and I wondered when they’d been lit last. The stone behind and above the torches was black with soot from frequent burning, a sign that these passages were still in regular use by the Order.

  Up ahead, the corridor ended with a sharp right corner maybe sixty yards away. I’d memorized the map my mom had drawn of the Order’s secret underground lair, and I was fairly certain I would find the vault door at the end of the next corridor, just around the corner ahead.

  I glanced over my shoulder, peering back at the hole in the ceiling. Raiden was still up in the catacombs, messing with the trap door.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. Surely it couldn’t hurt to just take a peek around the corner, just to get a glimpse of the vault door. I would be doing my due diligence, really. How else would I be able to make sure we were alone down here?

  Taking a deep breath, I drew the Glock from my waistband. My palms were sweaty, making my grip on the gun feel slick and slippery. I wiped first one hand on my jeans, then swapped gun hands and wiped the other.

  As I made my way farther up the corridor, I imitated Raiden’s cat-like prowl as best I could, though my pace was half as fast as his—and half as quiet. I paused to study the wall sconce for a moment—the torch appeared to be of the genuine, fire-burning variety and smelled of kerosene—and then I continued on my way.

  I was nearing the end of the corridor, not more than a half-dozen paces from the corner, when I heard it—the distinctive beep of a two-way radio.

  I froze, heart pounding.

  And then I heard the beep again, followed by a low, masculine voice. It had come from up ahead. Around the corner.

  A guard.

  He was making his way up the passageway, toward me. He was speaking in Italian, and it took my brain a few seconds to translate his words.

  “Seriously, guys, stop playing around. Who’s down here?” After another radio beep, he continued, “I can see your light . . .”

  Instinctively, I covered my headlamp with my hand, fingers frantically searching for the button to turn it off. A few seconds later, I found the button and pressed it firmly. The lamp went dark. Belatedly, I realized that single move probably gave me away as an intruder. Not that the guard wouldn’t have figured out my shouldn’t-be-here status soon enough, anyway . . .

  The guard fell silent. Now that my headlamp wasn’t flooding the corridor with artificial light, I could see the beam from his flashlight reflecting off the wall up ahead. It bobbed with each of his steady steps.

  I inched backward, afraid to move any faster for fear of making noise. Which was stupid, because the guard already knew someone else was down here. Someone who very clearly didn’t belong.

  I shot a quick glance over my shoulder, looking for Raiden. But the trap door was still open, the corridor still empty.

  My heart pounded, and my brain was screaming for me to turn and run as fast as I could. But something held me in place. Not fear. Something else. Something that made my heart pump faster and my breaths come quicker.

  It took me a moment to recognize exactly what I was feeling—anticipation.

  Thoughts that weren’t my own flitted through my mind.

  . . . stand your ground . . .

  . . . take him out . . .

  . . . shut him up before he has a chance to alert the others . . .

  . . . you know what to do . . .

  . . . do it . . .

  . . . do it now . . .

  I recognized the voice from my dreams. It was Persephone.

  Feeling strangely out of body, I moved closer to the wall. Closer to the corner. It was like I was an avatar in a video game and someone else was dictating my movements through a controller. I couldn’t do anything to stop myself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I felt drunk with adrenaline, and the sensation was intoxicating. I wanted more.

  I crouched down, setting the pistol on the floor behind me, then leaned forward, planting my hands on the cool stone. Muscles coiled and veins humming with tension, I waited. My lungs pulled air in, fueling my blood with oxygen. My senses sharpened, becoming laser-focused. I closed my eyes, listening to the guard’s slow approach.

  His breathing was harsh in the stillness of this place. The sound of boots scuffing the stone floor was grating to my ears. I had a vivid mental picture of him creeping along the adjoining corridor. He was almost to the corner. Almost to me. Almost . . .

  I opened my eyes. The instant the nozzle of his rifle peeked around the corner, I struck.

  My hand shot out, and my fingers curled around the barrel of his rifle. I yanked on the gun, twisting it sharply.

  The guard yelped as I pulled the rifle out of his grasp, tugging him around the corner in the process. Like it was second nature, I flipped the gun in my hands and smashed the butt into the guard’s face.

  His surprised expression went slack as his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, twisting slightly on his way down.

  I flipped the rifle back around so the butt was tucked under my armpit, right where it belonged, and aimed the business end at the guard’s forehead. My index finger hovered over the trigger, but I didn’t squeeze.

  I couldn’t shoot him. It would give us away to the rest of the guards.

  Slowly, I raised the nozzle of the rifle and shifted the gun so I was holding it across my body, eyes narrowing in thought. I needed to move the guard. To restrain and hide him. But where?

  “Cora?”

  I spun around, easily shifting the rifle back into the ready position.

>   Illuminated by the beam from the rifle’s flashlight, Raiden stood directly beneath the trap door, one foot in front of the other, frozen mid-step. He raised his hands defensively. “Whoa . . . whoa . . .”

  I blinked, my lips parting, arms locked and rifle aimed at Raiden’s head. I was still in that strange, out-of-body state of mind. Not in control. For three long heartbeats, I was paralyzed, unable to lower the rifle, no matter how badly I wanted to.

  I started trembling. The breath whooshed from my lungs, and the tension drained from my muscles. I crouched down and practically dropped the rifle on the floor. I couldn’t get it out of my hands fast enough.

  I stood and backed up a step, nearly tripping over the unconscious guard. I glanced down at him as I stumbled to the side, hugging my middle.

  Raiden closed the distance between us in a matter of seconds. “For a moment there, I thought you were going to shoot me,” he said, stopping just out of arm’s reach. He hesitated for only a second before reaching out, gripping my shoulder, and pulling me against him. His arms wrapped around me, engulfing me in a snug embrace.

  I felt tiny all of a sudden. Tiny, and safe.

  I let out a breathy sound against his shirt that was part laugh, part cry and curled my arms around his back. How was I supposed to tell him that, for a second there, I’d thought I was going to shoot him, too? How was I supposed to tell him I didn’t think I’d been the one holding the gun? That it had been my hands, but it hadn’t been me?

  “You took down that guard?” Raiden said, more of a statement than a question.

  I nodded against his shoulder. If he asked me how, I wouldn’t have an answer.

  The same way I’d taken out the baddies on the boat and the same way I’d bested him in the hotel room—in the mental backseat, while someone else controlled my body. I’d heard Persephone’s voice; that had been a first. And it left me wondering if she was the one who had been sliding into the driver’s seat, allowing me to do things I shouldn’t have been able to do.