by Sandra Hill
They’d just passed a monk—roughly five hundred years old, give or take—standing upright in an alcove, fully clothed with a monk’s cowled robe over his skeleton. The empty eye sockets seemed to be glaring at them for disturbing the deadly quiet.
“And so we find the origin of the hoodie,” Zeb joked.
Regina heard Inga and Dagmar giggle behind them a ways. Zeb’s voice did carry. They better be careful or they would wake the dead, or some hidden Lucies.
And then Inga said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if there were demon vampires hiding in some of these crypts?”
And Dagmar countered, “Not!”
They both giggled some more.
Hard to believe that these two dingbats had once been prostitutes.
Changing the subject a bit, Regina said, “I’m becoming quite the world traveler, though basement of a Roman crypt is a new one for me.”
“I, on the other hand, have seen my share of graveyards, mausoleums, or even the pyramids,” Zeb remarked.
“Actually, until a few years ago, vangels traveled back and forth in time and all over the world,” she told Zeb. “Then Michael assigned us to set up permanent headquarters in modern times, and we could move forward in time only as humans do. He said there was enough corruption in the contemporary world to keep us more than busy.” She was babbling nervously.
Zeb said, “I can’t argue with that. I contributed to a lot of that sin.”
“That was before you changed teams. You have a clean slate now.” Clean except for their not one, but two, recent indiscretions, which she wasn’t about to bring up.
“Hopefully.” Zeb gazed at the frescoed walls and decorative stone tombs they were passing, ones yet to be discovered, the so-called “lost tombs,” those six and more stories beneath the surface of the earth. “This really is amazing. To think, someone . . . probably a slave, or lots of slaves . . . carved this all out ages ago, long before power tools. I feel a little like Indiana Jones, coming down here.”
Actually, Zeb looked better than Harrison Ford ever did, even with a bald head. “Yeah, but Harrison Ford was in catacombs under Venice, which were nothing as grand as the real deal here. And he was looking for the Holy Grail. We’re just looking for demon vampires,” Regina pointed out.
“You’re probably right. The Vatican is very strict about opening these tombs to the public. Of the fifty or so known catacombs, they allow tourists in only a few, even though there are even actual churches belowground in some cases. And all those known catacombs are on higher levels than where we are now. Talk about digging all the way to Hell!”
“You sound like a travel brochure.”
“Maybe I’m as nervous as you are.”
“No one is as nervous as I am.”
A half dozen voices behind her chimed in, “I am!”
That made her feel a little better.
“Anyhow, I doubt the Papacy, even a hip, modern Pope like Francis, would ever permit a film company to tramp around down here, Indiana Jones or not. And definitely not a troop of angel vampires,” Zeb remarked.
“Not to mention presumably pagan Vikings, except for you.”
“I thought I was going to become a Viking-by-marriage?”
“No, that was a vangel-by-marriage.” Had she just indirectly agreed to this crazy wedding idea? She felt her face color.
He turned and winked at her to show that he understood her obvious dismay and that he’d been just teasing. Which caused her to blush even more. Those blasted long eyelashes of his!
Zeb took her hand as they entered one slightly wider channel. It wasn’t meant to be an intimate action, but it felt that way to Regina. And, yes, she smelled fresh rain, not the dust and cold stone of the ages.
After they’d left Nigeria and before they’d teletransported to Rome, Regina had used Nicole’s laptop to do a bit of quick research. She’d discovered that the catacombs had been carved by slaves beginning almost two thousand years ago out of tufo, a soft volcanic rock which hardened on exposure to air. Mostly, there were wall graves, arranged vertically, one on top of the other, like stone drawers, each holding one or several bodies. But there were also burial rooms for families that allowed for meals to be eaten belowground with the dead. Seriously! And chapels. All with beautifully decorated frescoes and sculptures.
The immensity of this was exemplified by the Catacomb of St. Domitilla, which, alone, was spread over nine miles and contained four million skeletons and an amazing fresco of The Last Supper. Not to mention its own basilica.
Then there was the Bone Chapel, or Capuchin Crypt, whose chapel was lined with the bones of 4,000 monks, including several still in priestly, hooded garb, arranged upright in alcoves, staring down at any visitors who stepped into the chamber. Eerie!
If that wasn’t enough, this arrangement of crypts and chapels was repeated on at least four different known layers or stories, connected by narrow steps. Truly, the catacombs earned their title of City of the Dead.
Regina and Zeb and their vangels were, of course, nowhere near the public areas. In fact, they were so far down, there were several stories of tombs between them and those already discovered.
Finally, they emerged into a large clearing, which was actually an underground church or chapel. “This is it,” Zeb said, looking at a map in his hand which he’d drawn up after talking with Cnut earlier today.
They all walked hesitantly into the immense circular space, and were stunned at what they saw.
On second glance, Regina noted that the room was not really circular, but twelve-sided, with a diameter of roughly a hundred feet. Above was a vaulted ceiling that rose into a high dome. On the center hub was painted the Resurrection, or Christ rising to Heaven, surrounded by angels.
“Holy shit!” Zeb muttered, and pointed to one particular section of the fresco. “Is that who I think it is?”
Yep. Good ol’ Michael was peering down at them from behind a cloud. The artist must have had a personal acquaintance with some of the heavenly hosts. Heck, maybe the artist had been an angel.
The magnificently detailed frescoes on the spokes depicted the twelve disciples. There was no natural light here, of course, but the beams of their flashlights and headlamps reflecting off the colored stones that lined the panels appeared like stained glass windows, just as they would have by candlelight when this artistic masterpiece had been created.
“Oh, Zeb!” was all she could say.
“Don’t touch anything,” Zeb said when one of the vangels was about to pick up a gold chalice. His voice echoed around the room, the acoustics designed to enhance the chants of the clergy who once worshipped here. “The oils in the skin would cause these objects to degenerate or lose their historical integrity. Just our being here would horrify archaeologists.”
Regina gave him a glance of surprise. Of all things for him to be worried about!
“I’m just sayin’,” he replied with a blush coloring his cheeks, evident even in the dimness of their artificial lights. She loved when she could make him blush, which wasn’t often.
Some of the vangels had already dropped to their knees and were praying. The room had that effect on them all.
Beneath the twelve spokes were niches carved into the wall. Small wooden chests sat in each of the openings, the kind that might very well hold the bones of the saints, or some religious article that belonged to them. Certainly the apostles themselves weren’t buried here; Regina didn’t think so anyway.
“I bet there are relics of the apostles here,” Dagmar whispered, to no one in particular, but her voice carried.
Regina recalled that some of these old domed churches had “whispering galleries,” certain spots in the space where sound was deliberately echoed.
“You may be right,” Zeb agreed. “The Christians were big on having churches built on even one tiny bit of bone. Some of them were ridiculous, like a toe of the baby Jesus.”
Zeb’s jest seemed almost sacrilegious in this “holy” place.
“I can still smell the incense they used here,” Inga said. She sniffed the dry air. “Like cloves, it is. No. Cinnamon.”
Zeb looked at Regina and grinned.
“If it starts to rain, we’re in trouble,” she said to Zeb.
“You’re right. I don’t think having sex in the middle of a church with the angels and Jesus and twelve disciples looking down on us would be a good idea.”
“What? Who said anything about sex?”
“Yeah. Who said anything about sex?” Cnut asked, coming into the chapel space, from a doorway on the opposite side.
Regina was pleased to see that Zeb was still blushing, as much as she probably was.
Cnut was in full vangel warrior garb, like all of them, but he stood out because of that Ragnor Lothbrok hairstyle he’d adopted lately, shaved on the sides with a dark blond braid running from his forehead to his nape, then tied off with a leather thong. Rather nice, actually, and a wonderful contrast to Zeb’s almost bald head, which was, truth to tell, equally attractive. Actually, more so.
“Follow me into the sacristy. I need to discuss a change in plans.” Cnut motioned with a forefinger for Regina and Zeb to follow him.
Before they left, Zeb repeated his warning to those left behind. “Don’t touch anything. When this level of catacombs is discovered sometime in the future, if it is, we don’t want to have left evidence that we were here.”
“That includes the candles,” Regina said to Inga who was about to pocket one of the votive candles sitting in a rack of several dozen. At one time, every Catholic church had these candles that parishioners could buy and light with a small donation to get special favors.
“Where are your vangels?” Zeb asked Cnut.
“Back in a large, half-cleared space about a quarter mile from here. It was probably going to be another worship area eventually,” Cnut answered.
They stepped into the small sacristy, a room used to store church vestments and sacred objects and, of course, candles. Lots of candles. Even after all these years, the room smelled of beeswax.
“Don’t touch anything,” Zeb repeated, for their benefit now, too. “Sorry,” he added when she and Cnut looked askance at him, as if they needed that kind of reminder.
“It’s just that vestments like that laid out over there have remained relatively intact, but will probably degrade just from our breathing in here, let alone touching,” Zeb said defensively.
Regina wasn’t knowledgeable about the combination of moisture, temperature, and whatnot that affected historic fabrics, but Zeb was probably right. “I hope we’re not going to be fighting the Lucies here, on this level,” she told Cnut. “It would be a shame to destroy that beautiful chapel.” She waved a hand to indicate the space they’d just left.
“No. That’s what I wanted to discuss.” Cnut pulled out two rolled-up pieces of stiff paper and spread them over a table in the center of the sacristy that was probably intended for folding vestments or filling holy oil cruets. He also turned on a high-intensity, battery-operated lamp that he must have carried with him so they could see better. Regina recognized the two maps, which Zeb had been responsible for drawing up while they were still back at the castle. Not that Zeb had ever been here before, not for centuries, anyhow, but he’d seen many diagrams, he’d told the VIK. And he had a good memory! Add to that the fact that when he’d gone rogue demon, he’d secreted many documents out of Horror and copied them for his own insurance.
The parchments showed in detail the labyrinth of catacombs, not just the ones known to the public or the Vatican, but the “lost ones,” as well. “There isn’t any way that we can fight the Lucies down here. First of all, they know these passages better than we do.”
“You got that right. Hector has maintained a headquarters here for about four hundred years,” Zeb said. “Calls it Terror.”
“What an odd place for a demon headquarters, though. Below the Vatican. Hardly an unholy place,” Regina observed.
“Are you kidding? All those sinners coming to Rome for forgiveness . . . a gold mine for Lucipire harvesting,” Zeb told her.
“That’s sick.”
“That’s life.”
“If you two lovebirds are done squabbling,” Cnut interjected.
“Huh?” she and Zeb said at the same time. And both blushed.
“There are no secrets in vangeldom, my children,” Cnut said and winked. “As I was saying, we can’t fight the Lucies in these catacombs because they know the passages better than we do, even with maps, which are only as good as Zeb’s memory. But also, if they’re in demonoid form, the spaces are too tight for fighting. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve taken down a ton of the beasts, but it’s been one at a time. Slowly. And no sight of Hector. We have to lure them aboveground.”
“How many Lucies does he have with him?” Regina asked.
“I can answer that,” Zeb said. “Unless things have changed dramatically the past six months, he doesn’t have any more than a hundred Lucies, and only a few of those are haakai. For obvious reasons. The logistics of these catacombs don’t require large numbers.”
The first map showed a cross-section of the catacombs, down ten levels. The other map showed diagrams of the tunnels on each of the levels. “This is where I think Hector has his headquarters.” Zeb pointed to a large clearing in the center of a series of corridors on the eighth level. That was two levels above them. Regina and the vangels were on the tenth “story” down.
“I have close to seventy-five vangels stationed outside the perimeter of Rome along the Apian Way. Let’s use the twenty-five I have inside and your forty or so to push the Lucies out. See all these X marks. Those are exits, twenty-seven in all. That’s where we’ll have two vangels posted at each one. There are no other means of escape.”
“And what’s your plan for forcing them toward the exits, instead of taking a stand inside,” Zeb wanted to know.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Cnut said with a decided twinkle in his blue eyes. He went over to a pile of canvas bags stacked in a corner. Out of one of them he took what looked like a plastic pistol along with some tubing and a heavy plastic bladder.”
“A water pistol?” Regina asked with disbelief.
“I know what this is,” Zeb said, picking up the bladder, which must be filled with some liquid because it made a sloshing sound. “A CamelBak. Navy SEALs carry this on their back, with the tubing over the shoulder so that all they have to do is turn their heads to take a drink.”
Cnut was grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary and a few mice as well. “You know how Lucies hate holy water. Sprinkle a little on them and their skin starts to sizzle. Sprinkle a lot and their skin can actually catch on fire. What if we arm all the vangels inside with these water pistols and a gallon of holy water in reserve? The Lucies would run, not stand and fight. At least, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Zeb was examining one of the units, which he’d put together, and then grinned as he squirted it at Regina.
Regina swiped her face with a sleeve and said, “Grow up, cowboy.”
“I think this just might work,” Zeb said with a smile. “Not for any length of time, of course. The water would run out. But just to get the Lucies running toward the exits? I love it!”
Zeb and Cnut gave each other high fives.
“Where are you going to get all these gallons of holy water?” Regina asked. Someone had to be practical here.
“There’s a natural spring behind the chapel altar, and one of my vangels is a former priest. He’s blessing water as we speak.” Cnut was obviously pleased with himself.
“And what’s that big X that’s circled on the map?” Zeb asked.
“That’s my mark, and that’s the exit I think Hector will emerge from. It’s the widest, allowing for him to bring a troop of Lucies with him,” Cnut explained.
“So, you’re the one who gets to confront Hector?”
Clearly, Zeb was not pleased. He hadn’t been given first shot at Yakov and now Hector was taken out of his crosshairs, too.
Hey, Regina wasn’t too happy, either.
“Damn right I am,” Cnut answered Zeb. “After being staked out here for two days, I get first dibs on Hector.”
Neither Regina nor Zeb disagreed with him, not out loud, anyhow.
Regina frowned as she studied the maps, though. “What’s to stop the Lucies, including Hector, from just teletransporting out of here once they recognize the threat?”
“Ah, I know the answer to that,” Zeb said, exchanging a glance with Cnut. Both men looked at the pistol. “Holy water, even a sprinkle on a Lucie’s skin, prevents the ability to teletransport, as well as burning them.”
She nodded. “One more thing. Sorry to be the doubting Thomas here, Cnut, but even if we vangels have been quiet as mice, both inside these catacombs, and on the outside, wouldn’t Hector have been long aware of our presence by now? Especially with you being here for two days already.”
“Probably, but not as quickly as you might think,” Cnut answered. “We have two levels of unexcavated catacombs separating us that act as a sound buffer. As for the outside, believe me, my vangels are well disguised as tourists and Catholics making a religious pilgrimage. You should see Armod. He’s leading a troop of Michael Jackson impersonators. Believe me, they’ve been thrilling the crowds with their antics.”
“I thought vangels were supposed to lay low and not attract attention,” Zeb said.
“In most cases, that rule holds true, but if you’d ever seen Armod moonwalk, you’d never in a million years suspect he was a vampire. Or an angel,” Cnut replied with a laugh.
“Or a Viking, for that matter,” Regina added, also with a laugh. “Remember last Halloween when he had all the children . . . Gunnar, Gunnora, Izzy, Mikey, and Mordr’s five kids . . . made up as zombies, and they entertained the whole castle with their rendition of ‘Thriller’?”
“How could I ever forget? Gunnar had guts dripping from his mouth.” Cnut pretended to shiver with distaste. “It was actually spaghetti and red sauce,” he explained to Zeb.