“Noted,” Braughton said with a nod. “I, on the other hand, put the odds at fifty-fifty.”
Liz raised an eyebrow, a small smirk on her face. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, it either is a trap, or it isn’t. Two options, so fifty-fifty.”
The smirk changed to a smile. “I know it’s been a while since you learned math, but I’m pretty sure that’s never been right.”
The two rode in what was now a more comfortable silence for several minutes. It was Braughton who broke it.
“I can think of another reason why you should stay behind,” he offered.
“Oh, really?”
“Just look at all those books. There’s a reason they were collected, and we need to find out why.” Liz looked back at the box. “Just think of all the questions they may answer, or secrets they might hold. Think of all we can learn.” There were so many of them to go through, but she couldn’t deny he was right. She could barely contain the urge to start sorting through them right now. No need to let him know he was right though.
“I’ll bet lightning is mentioned in at least one of them,” she said as she faced forward in her seat, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-one
Lightning was not mentioned in any of the books she had thumbed through yet, but thunder was. Unfortunately, it was in describing the particularly raucous flatulence of the monk who penned a detailed five volume account of his daily bodily excretions, entitled “On Finding Relief Through Release”.
“They are definitely authentic,” Monk remarked as he examined the Order’s seal imprinted on the back cover.
“And completely disgusting,” Liz said, snapping one closed. “I’ll bet he didn’t even wash his hands after ‘doing his business’. Just sat right down and started recording the experience.”
Monk laid the volume he was holding down, casually wiping his hands on his robes. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “While it’s nice to recover part of our stolen history, I have to admit these particular texts, while quite revealing, don’t illuminate much of our past.”
“So, you’re saying they amount to nothing more than a big pile of sh-,”
“Exactly.”
Liz let out a frustrated exhale. “What about the rest of them? Have you found anything in any of the other books?”
“They are all old,” he offered. “Some of them even possibly older than the Order itself.” He held up an ancient tome, bound in crumbling leather. “This one, for example, seems to be from an ancient scribe who spent years trying to find rhymes for un-rhymable words.” He carefully turned a few pages before mumbling to himself, “I don’t care how you say it, that does not rhyme with ‘orange’.”
Liz groaned. She wasn’t fairing any better in her search. The books were undeniably old, but being old didn’t make them valuable.
Why had she let him go alone? She had practically collapsed into bed on their arrival, barely able to even pry the address of the warehouse from him. When she awoke a few hours later, refreshed and restored, he was long gone. If only he had taken even half an hour to look through these books, he would have come to the same conclusion she had.
“He is totally walking right into a trap.” She punctuated it by slamming the “Barber’s Guide to Bloodletting” onto the table.
“Most likely,” Monk agreed, pulling another stack of books from the box.
“And there’s no way for us to get in touch with him?” Monk shrugged his answer. “So, you use computers, and shop online, but no one carries a cell phone?”
“Remember, most of my brothers have taken a vow of silence.”
“It’s not like anyone uses them to talk anymore,” she mumbled as she thumbed through another book. Monk smiled, but remained silent. She watched him idly flip through a book, place it aside, pick up another, and begin again. He was so calm. She really just wanted to shake him.
Why wasn’t he worried? They had no way of warning Braughton, no way of even knowing if he was alright, but Monk seemed content to just pick through books all night.
She stood up from the table, and began pacing across the small library. Concerns about Braughton wouldn’t let her focus on anything else. He could need her help right now, and she’d never know. Or would she? Would she feel something if he was in danger, or hurt? Could she find him like she had at the cabin?
Liz sat back down at the table and closed her eyes. Her breathing, which she hadn’t even realized had become so rapid, began to slow.
Breathe in, breathe out.
She cleared her mind, pushing out her frustration, uncertainty, and fear, until there was nothing. Then she pictured Braughton, focusing on him, reaching for him. She waited. She listened. Silence. Maybe he was out of range? Could that be a thing?
This wasn’t working. Liz’s head dropped on the table with a solid thud that drew a raised eyebrow from Monk. He picked up another stack of books from the box, a half-smile on his face as Liz began to softly bang her head against the table. It quickly faded when he looked back in the crate.
“I don’t think you need to worry about Braughton anymore,” he said, eyes fixed on the space his last stack had come from.
“Why is that?” Liz asked, not bothering to lift her head from the table. “Because you think he can take care of himself, or because you don’t think I’m right?”
“Oh, I have no doubt you’re right. This is a trap.”
“So why-,” she stopped. She had raised her head to look at Monk, but her eyes fell instead on the small black box he held in his hand.
“Unfortunately, it looks like the trap is for us.”
A tracker? Of course it was. How could she have been so stupid? Now who was the one that was blinded? She wanted to just start banging her head against the table again, but Monk stopped her.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
‘No’ was on her lips, but then she did. It was muffled, coming from above. It sounded like bells ringing. Strange, all this time in a monastery and she’d not once heard the ringing of bells. Not in the morning, at mealtimes, or even the call to Mass. Hell, not even at the top of every hour! Yet, their sound now was unmistakable. She looked up to ask Monk what it meant, but his grim face said it all.
“They’ve found us,” he said almost to himself, as the bell continued to toll above. “Destroy this,” he said, tossing her the black box, and heading for the door. “You’ll be safe down here,” he said over his shoulder as he exited the room. “I’ll be back once they’re gone,” he added as he disappeared behind the door. She heard a key turn in the lock, and then nothing. Silence. Not even the bells.
Liz blinked. Monk’s exit had been more than hasty, and she was unsure how long she sat and stared at the door before that blink. Why was she just sitting here? There were who knew how many vampires out there, and she was at least partly to blame for leading them here. Why should she be safe when no one else was? She stood, crossed the room, and reached out for the door, but why couldn’t she grab the handle? She looked down and saw the tracker still in her hand.
She threw it down, the modern device no match for the ancient stone floor, it shattered into thousands of pieces. She reached again for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Without the key, the only way she was getting through that door was by breaking it down.
She pushed tentatively at the door a few times, then lowered her shoulder and gave it a decent hit. Her teeth rattled more than the solid door did. She might be stronger than a normal human, but she didn’t stand a chance against the door. There had to be another way out.
What were the chances there was a secret bookcase in this secret library, she wondered as she started moving books on shelves against the walls. As her hands moved from one book to another, her mind wandered to what must be happening above. There was no way the monks were prepared. It must undoubtedly be a slaughter.
She refused to indulge the violent visions threate
ning to overwhelm her mind, and instead thought again of Braughton. Where was he now? Maybe the warehouse was just a distraction. He could already be on his way back. How close could he be? She stopped her hands and closed her eyes, trying again to find him.
She was still greeted by nothing but silence. Then she heard something. A scream. It was faraway, and somewhere above her. She opened her eyes. That scream was from somewhere here in the monastery.
She returned to the bookshelves with renewed vigor, raking books off a shelf at a time. She bent down for a bottom shelf and a sharp stabbing pain exploded in her neck. The intensity surprised her, and her legs felt wobbly when she stood back up. She staggered unsteadily back to the table, collapsing more than sitting in a chair.
She rubbed her neck, expecting to find a puncture, but felt nothing. The pain lessened, becoming bearable, and then turned to numbness. She would have been relieved, but the loss of feeling was spreading.
As the tingling numbness spread, she felt her limbs grow heavy and her thoughts became sluggish. She must have pulled something, a muscle or nerve. She just needed to put her head down for a minute, just long enough for the feeling to pass. Her head landed gently on the wooden table, her eyes fixed on the door. She must have really rattled something loose when she bashed against it, she thought. She was going to give it another try, in a minute, after her eyelids stopped trying to close. She blinked long and slow, and in the darkness between open and closed she felt the pull. She felt Braughton.
Her eyes opened and she smiled, or at least she thought she was smiling, it was hard to be sure. She let her lids slip closed again, but instead of darkness, it was as though her eyes opened in another room.
Her head was resting on her arm, but she was lying on a concrete floor. In front of her was a metal door instead of the wooden one she had been staring at, and in her outstretched hand was what appeared to be an empty syringe. Except, it wasn’t her hand. It was Braughton’s. She had found him. But where was he?
She tried to move, to look around, but the numbness had followed her here, making her nothing more than an observer. A pair of black combat boots walked into view, and paused in front her face. One foot lifted up and gave a shove against what she assumed would be her shoulder. With no sensation of movement, her view swept upwards until it settled on the ceiling. Exposed metal rafters and rows of fluorescent lighting, definitely the warehouse.
A face appeared over her, blocking out some of the ceiling. No, not a face. There were eyes, fierce and piercing, but the rest was hidden behind a mask. Did she recognize him? There was certainly the feeling she had seen him somewhere before, but where? No, she didn’t recognize him, Braughton did.
The face above leaned closer, and Liz noticed scars peeking out from behind the mask. Hands appeared on either side of the face and removed the mask, revealing a face consisting more of scar tissue than skin. He grinned down at her with a smile made larger by deep scars at the corners of his mouth.
The feeling of recognition became even stronger. Braughton hadn’t merely seen this face before, he knew who this was. There was a name, she could almost see it. Apparently the man above saw the spark of recognition, and started making a grunting noise. It took her a moment to realize he was laughing.
“Nighty-night, Braughton,” said a voice from beside her. She searched for the source, but still had no power of movement. When she looked back, the man above had raised his foot again. He brought it down hard and fast, squarely in the middle of her vision, which would have been Braughton’s face.
Her eyes popped open and she expected to see the wooden door again. Instead, there was nothing but blackness. She still couldn’t move. Was she still connected to Braughton?
Slowly the darkness began to take shape, lightening at the edges, like she was peering into a hole, or a tunnel. Then she heard a noise, like a small voice. She listened closely and realized it was calling out a name. It was the same name she was reaching for earlier, and she followed the sound.
Chapter Twenty-two
“Samuel?” He paused to listen, then louder, “Samuel!” Still no response. Where was he? Braughton had no idea how far down the tunnel his voice carried, or who (or what) might be listening, so he dared not yell any louder.
The only thing they had to judge the passage of time down here were the torches, and they only had one left. Samuel suggested they stop and rest for a bit. Having heard no sounds other than their own footsteps, and feeling tired from having their sleep interrupted, Braughton agreed.
Samuel took first watch, and Braughton didn’t argue. Samuel extinguished the torch, to both preserve it and to keep anything following them from being able to see them. Braughton’s eyes were closed before his head even settled on his pack.
How long had he been asleep? More importantly, how long had Samuel been gone? He had no way of knowing either answer. All he knew for certain was that Samuel was gone.
He couldn’t have gone far, his pack and the torch were both leaning against the far side of the tunnel. Seeing them reminded him Samuel couldn’t see at all in the tunnels without the torch. Rather than pursue the uncomfortable subject of why he could see when Samuel could not, Braughton focused on why Samuel would have left. Peering further down the tunnel, Braughton thought perhaps there was some light there after all.
The warm glow of torchlight flickered faintly in the distance, and leaving all their supplies behind, Braughton followed it like moth to flame. The tunnel sloped gently down to an archway where it intersected another tunnel running the opposite direction. The other tunnel was filled with some sort of liquid, which was reflecting light filtered down from grates above it into his tunnel.
About two feet down from his tunnel’s junction with the other, a narrow ledge ran the length of the cross tunnel, a little less than a foot above the murky sludge. Someone had been on it recently. Following the ledge with his eyes, Braughton spotted a ladder just over ten yards away. It led up to one of the grates, and the grime covered rungs were wiped clean in a few spots, which made Braughton smile. Samuel must have come this way.
Braughton eased himself onto the ledge and began shuffling towards the ladder. His mind shifted between wondering how deep the muck below was, and why Samuel had left him to go off alone. A small stream of tiny bubbles broke the surface of the goop, raising another question: what caused those? He quickly put that question away, focusing instead on the other two, safer questions.
He reached the ladder without incident, placed a hand on one of the rungs, and released a mental sigh of relief. Too soon. Voices and footsteps marching in sync were approaching from above.
Guards. Two of them, most likely just doing rounds. If he was still, and quiet, they would pass right over him. As they drew near, he held his breath, and waited. Their shadows passed over the two grates before his, and then came to the one right above his head. A heavy foot came down on the grate, followed by the screech and clang of metal as it dropped down to its normal resting place.
“Dammit!” one of the guards called out as he stumbled forward. Braughton echoed the curse under his breath. He nearly added more as large bubbles breached the surface of the muck, and was that a ripple?
“What was that?” asked the other guard as they both stood over the grate, peering down into the darkness.
“The grate was loose,” guard one said, stepping on it again. He stepped on each corner, testing it, but it didn’t budge. “Wonder how that happened?”
“Norville swears he saw a tentacle poking through one of those grates one time,” guard two offered.
“Yeah, well, I swear Norville is full of what’s down there,” guard one shot back, though he did move back a few steps.
“Should we have a look inside then?”
Guard one eyed the grate suspiciously and shook his head. “Nah, if I come home smelling of that, the wife won’t let me in the house.”
“I thought it was when you came home smelling of beer that
she wouldn’t let you in.”
“Yeah, well, there’s that too. Now let’s get moving before we’re missed.” Both guards turned and began marching down the hall again, this time avoiding stepping on any of the grates.
“Mine’s perfume,” Braughton heard guard two announce.
“Your what is perfume?”
“Smell.” Confused silence. “If I come home smelling like perfume, my wife won’t let me in.”
“Why would you go home smelling like perfume?” was the last thing Braughton could make out before the pair rounded a corner, and their fading footsteps drowned out their conversation.
Braughton didn’t make the mistake of letting out a sigh of relief this time. Not yet. He hadn’t seen any more bubbles, but gentle waves lapped against the sides of the tunnel, and he would have sworn they weren’t there a moment ago. Before his nerves could get the better of him, he swung onto the ladder and raced towards the top.
Perhaps his foot slipped on the grime-crusted rungs, or maybe he really did feel something slimy curl around his ankle and give a tug. Either way, he noticed no resistance as his shoulder plowed into the metal grate, and his hands barely touched the stone floor before his feet followed closely behind. He slammed the grate shut, and raced down the hall in the opposite direction of the guards.
Got to get out of the hall. Got to get out of the hall. He repeated it over and over, matching the tempo of his pounding footsteps, but there was nowhere to go. Then he saw a corner ahead. He glanced behind, relived to see the hall empty, and pushed himself to go a little faster. If he could just make it around the corner without being seen, he might have a chance.
Braughton dashed around the corner, and came to a skidding halt. In front of him was a cavernous room, lit with torches that cast more shadows than light. The stale smell of sweat and fear rolled over him as he entered the room, and he realized, probably for the first time, exactly what a castle dungeon was.
Shackles of Sunlight Page 17