by Dee Davis
Another rock slammed into his back, the resulting force knocking him off of his feet, the flashlight tumbling from his hand, its light extinguished. Marcus pushed away the rubble, fighting to hold onto consciousness as more rocks pummeled his head and shoulders. Darkness pushed at the edges of his vision, the dust so heavy it was choking him.
He fought to his knees, but the world was spinning now, and he recognized the signs of regeneration. For a cut or a bruise the process produced only mild dizziness, but for something more lethal, he often passed out. Usually just for a moment or two. But he didn't have that kind of time.
Celeste needed him.
He tried to push to his feet, but his mind and his body were not of accord, the blackness spreading across his vision. The last thought he had, before sliding into unconsciousness, was that if he'd been another kind of man, he'd have prayed. Prayed for Celeste.
But damn it all to hell, he wasn't that kind of man.
Chapter Nine
The rock fall stopped almost as suddenly as it had started, the dark absolute. Celeste gingerly shifted, checking body parts, making sure that everything was working. She'd somehow managed to ride the falling rock, staying on top of it so that she'd sort of surfed her way down to the bottom.
She was scratched and bruised, and her elbow was bleeding like crazy, but there didn't seem to be anything seriously wrong with her. "Marcus?" she called, her voice sounding tiny after the crashing stones. "Are you all right?"
She remembered hearing him scream her name, but then nothing more. "Marcus?"
No answer came out of the dark, but she quashed the panic that rose inside her. He had to be all right. She needed him in her life. Needed him to goad her, to laugh at her—to make love to her.
Fighting to stay calm, she felt the rocks around her, praying for a miracle, and it seemed that God was on her side. She closed her hand around the cold metal of her flashlight and flipped the switch, blessed light illuminating the particles of dust still filling the air.
"Marcus? Can you see the light? I need you to make a noise and let me know where you are. Marcus?"
The chamber was deadly quiet, the only sound her blood pounding in her ears. "Marcus, say something. Please. Help me find you."
She struggled to her feet, her legs shaking but holding firm. One step and then two, she dodged her way around the fallen debris, moving the flashlight in slow arcs across the floor. There was nothing on the first pass, or the second, her heart ratcheting up with each swipe of the light. But then on the third, she saw a hand.
Scrambling over the debris, she blindly started pulling rocks off of him, using strength she hadn't even known she had. Her muscles ached from the effort, her palms scraped as she moved stone after stone until he was free.
Dropping to the floor beside him, she felt his wrist for a pulse, but couldn't find one. His hands and face were covered with blood, and she fought tears as she cradled his head in her lap. Using her sleeve she tried to wipe the blood away, but there was too much, and the deep gash at his hairline just kept pumping more.
But pumping was good. It meant a heartbeat.
She pressed her finger against his throat, moving it until she found the pulse she so desperately sought.
He was alive.
He was still alive.
Tears of relief fell unheeded, their tracks cutting through the dust and blood still on his face. "Marcus," she said, her voice stronger now. "Open your eyes. Come on. Please. Open your eyes."
She brushed back his hair to tend to the gash, surprised to find that the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, as if it had already begun to heal. Or maybe she'd just misjudged it. Even the smallest head wound bled like crazy. Either way it was no longer her main concern. Waking him was.
"Marcus?" She stroked his hair again, staring down into his face. "Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes."
She felt the movement before she saw it. His muscles bunching and tightening as if waking from sleep. Then his eyes flickered open. "Celeste?"
"I'm right here."
"You called me 'sweetheart.'"
Color flooded her face. Considering she'd thought him dead not five minutes ago, he looked remarkable fit. And despite the absurdity of the notion, she found herself angry. "I was worried. I just said the first thing that came into my head."
He grinned, then sobered, and despite her protest, sat up, visually searching her for signs of injury. "All you are right?"
"I'm fine. You're the one who was knocked out. Not me."
"I never should have let you climb up there in the first place." His hands were everywhere, gently probing and squeezing, checking her for injury. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Damn it, Marcus, I told you, I'm fine. You're the one with the gash on your head. When I found you I couldn't even find a pulse." Restating it send chills running through her. "I thought... I thought you were dead."
His arms slid around her, and she buried her face in his chest, reveling in his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat.
"I'm fine, princess. Just a few cuts and bruises. We were both very lucky."
Celeste nodded, and then pushed away, embarrassed at her show of weakness. "I didn't mean to overreact, I was just so afraid."
"Me, too." The simple words held all kinds of meaning, but now wasn't the time to try to interpret them. She reached up to smooth back his hair, to make sure the gash really had stopped bleeding, but he covered her hand with his, leaning forward to kiss her, the touch so gentle it was almost a whisper.
As if he were paying homage.
And then he moved again, pushing to his feet, holding out a hand to help her up. She took it and once they were standing, pointed the flashlight toward the arch leading to the catacombs.
Remarkably, except for a small scattering of rocks, it was free of debris.
"Looks like the bulk of the damage was to this end of the room." Marcus turned back to survey the rubble behind him.
Celeste turned, too, aiming the beam of light at the corner where the cross had been, but the corner was gone. The cave-in reformed that part of the room so that any sign of the wall there had been obliterated. It was impossible to tell if it had been destroyed or was merely buried behind the mountain of rock. Either way it was totally inaccessible.
"We've lost it." Despite the dire nature of the situation, her disappointment was acute. They'd come all this way. Survived the cave-in only to lose the prize.
"Maybe not." Marcus's voice sounded uncharacteristically awed, and she turned to question him, the words dying on her lips as her gaze followed his.
The little altar had also miraculously survived the melee. Even the fresco of St. George was still intact. The only apparent change was that the entire structure had slid about four feet or so to the left, along the wall. But it wasn't the altar's state of grace that had caused Marcus's tone. It was St. George and his still-silvery sword, the tip now firmly pointing at the dark opening in the wall behind where the alter had once stood.
*****
The opening was narrow. Only a couple of feet, the short passageway on the other side, not more than a half a foot wider than that. Like everything else in the catacombs, it had been constructed long ago—and then forgotten.
Until Hans Weisbaum had rediscovered it.
The batteries on the remaining flashlight were dimming perceptibly. Marcus had been glad of the fact just after the cave-in. The shadows had helped to hide his regeneration from her. She'd noticed how quickly the blood had stopped, but she hadn't had enough light to see that the wound had in fact disappeared altogether. It was worrisome, but in the height of her anxiety, she'd no doubt written it off to her panic.
He knew he was lying by omission. But he also knew what the result would be should she learn of his ability to heal his wounds. Especially lethal ones. Reflexively he reached for the small of his back, the faintest twinge of pain reminding him that were it not for his father's genes he would be dead many times over.
> And he wondered not for the first time what it would feel like to know that there would be an end. Mankind spent so much time trying to prolong life. If only they knew how desperately lonely it could be.
He shook his head, wondering when he'd become such a philosopher. But he knew the answer. Or at least the reason. She was standing right in front of him. All women were dangerous. But the ones like Celeste were the worst. They dug their way into to a man's soul and immediately started cleaning house.
Well, his house was in perfect order. He wasn't interested in changing things. And even if he was—
Well, he couldn't.
Glancing around, he saw, with relief, a set of torches at either side of the door.
"You think those will work?" Celeste asked, eyeing the resin-soaked jute.
"I don't see why not. It's perfectly dry down here. And if they do work it'll be a damn sight better than the flashlight."
As if in agreement, the bulb flickered and then dimmed even further.
Marcus produced matches and in short order had the torches burning, the brighter light making the new passageway seem larger. They traversed it in short order, stopping at the opening at the other end. Behind them the other room had disappeared into the darkness, and standing next to her, Marcus felt Celeste shiver.
But then she squared her shoulders, and without a second look stepped through the opening into the room ahead. Containing a smile, Marcus followed, holding his torch high to illuminate the room.
A natural cavern, the space was about ten feet wide and almost as deep, with no visible ceiling above, although the darkness indicated it was up there somewhere.
"Where are we?" Celeste whispered.
"Somewhere underneath Hallstadt, inside the mountain. My guess is that this cave served as an ancient burial site. Or maybe even a sacred place. Look over there." He waved the torch in the direction of the closest wall. "See the carving. Definitely old."
"The ruby could be anywhere." She turned in a circle, the light following her as she moved. "If it's here at all."
"It's here. Hans Weisbaum as good as pointed the way himself."
"All right." She nodded, accepting his pronouncement without argument. "So where do we start?"
"Look for niches. Anything that might lead to a second room or a small hiding place. I'll check the carving. Maybe George and his dragon are in here somewhere, too."
It wasn't until they'd reached the far side of the cavern that they hit pay dirt—an anteroom, barely five feet square and just tall enough for the two of them to stand upright. But inside, painted with copious detail, was a second fresco of St. George.
This one clearly not old at all.
"You think Hans painted it?" Celeste asked, running her fingers over the painted rock, searching for a lever or an opening of some kind.
"Seems possible. We know he had artistic ability. And we know that he was determined to lead us somewhere."
"Starting with the photograph." She frowned. "But it doesn't really make sense, does it? I mean one would think he'd want to hide the ruby so that no one else could find it. So why the clues?"
"Maybe because he believed his daughter would want it someday. He did leave her the photograph. Or maybe he just couldn't stand the thought of the Devil's Delight being lost, so he left his own sort of map." He reached out to trace the figure with his finger. "There's no sword."
Celeste frowned, her disappointment showing. "Or anything else that appears to be highlighted differently from the rest."
Marcus turned slowly, letting his eyes run the gamut from floor to ceiling, finally stopping to face the opposite wall. It was unadorned, flaws in the rock making it seem to move in the flickering torch light. He stepped closer, studying the shadows, something about them feeling off.
"Celeste, I think there's something here," he said, more to himself really than to her. The wall was deceptive. What appeared to be solid rock was really two overlapping layers of stone, the fissure in between them running almost parallel to the opposite wall. Impossible to see unless one was specifically looking.
He turned to study St. George behind him. Sure enough, the edge of the man's sword was just visible from this angle, an intentional use of torchlight, the sword held perpendicular to the man's body—the tip pointing directly at the fissure.
Marcus squeezed into the crack, inching his way forward, aware that Celeste had followed behind him when the light of her torch joined his. It was tough going, but only for a couple of feet, and then the fissure opened into another antechamber, this one about twenty feet long and half again as wide, the far end still shrouded in shadow despite their torchlight.
"Oh, my God." Celeste's voice held a note of reverence, mixed with awe. "This is amazing."
It was beyond amazing actually. A collection worthy of some of the finest museums in the world. Hans Weisbaum, it seemed, had taken quite a bit more from France than just the Devil's Delight.
Just on cursory examination, Marcus recognized Vermeer, Picasso, Van Eyck, Botticelli, and Cezanne. There was a Donatello on a pedestal in one corner. And an intricately rendered nude that could only be a Michelangelo.
There were paintings and statues everywhere—probably at least forty or fifty—all of them seemingly works of great value.
"This is Holbein," Celeste said, stopping in front of a huge canvas depicting an Elizabethan couple. "I don't think it's ever been catalogued. How in the world did he manage all of this?"
"My guess is that you're looking at the treasure of St. Emilion."
"You're saying that Theloneous gave it all to Hans?"
He shook his head. "No. I think he gave Hans the ruby in payment for making sure all of this was kept safe."
"From the looters. That would explain why Hans left the clues. Once he was dead, he wanted it found. This is what it must be like to find a pirate's treasure," she marveled, her eyes wide as she took in the beauty of the art surrounding them.
Marcus, however, had seen his share of plunder, and instead of allowing himself to stop and absorb the beauty, he focused on the prize. The Devil's Delight.
It had to be here somewhere. He searched the left half of the chamber and then the center, with nothing to show but additional works by the likes of Tintoretto, Goya, and Matisse, finds in and of themselves surely, but not the prize he was seeking.
Celeste, it seemed, had also recovered her objectivity, methodically looking behind each of the paintings for a hidden cache. Smart girl.
But Marcus was betting on the far end of the improvised gallery. Unlike the other walls, this one was devoid of art. The glimmer of mica and crystals was the only decoration. It could be that Hans had simply run out of treasure. Or it could be that there was something more precious hidden there.
He was about six feet from the wall, when a shadow or maybe a sixth sense caused him to look down, his booted feet resting on the edge of a chasm that seemed to drop straight down into the bowels of the earth.
He bent and held his torch over the hole, but there was no bottom to be seen, the dark encompassing a lower chamber no doubt, or maybe an ancient riverbed. Following along the edge he realized that it ran the entire length of the cavern, separating the room effectively into two parts.
"I think I see it," Celeste said, slipping past him, her torch indeed illuminating something on the far side.
He reached on instinct, his heart in his throat, his hand closing around her wrist just as she stepped off into the void. Yanking her backward, he stumbled, then held firm, the two of them safely on solid ground. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, I think." She grimaced as she moved her shoulder. "Beats the alternative. I never even saw the gap. If you hadn't been there—" She shuddered at the thought.
"But I was." He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms, to feel for himself that she was all right. "And everything's fine now."
"Except that the ruby is over there. And we're over here." She held up the torch again, a blood-red glimmer refra
cting from a hollow in the wall across from them.
"Maybe there's a way across. I can't believe that Hans would desert us now." Marcus walked the along the edge of the rift, searching for something that might constitute a bridge. About three feet from the far wall, he found it. A protrusion that on first glance looked like the end of a root, but in reality was twisted hemp. Calling for Celeste, he placed his torch in a bracket on the wall and then lay on his stomach and reached down for the rope.
"What have you found?" Celeste asked, holding her torch so that he could better see.
"I'm not certain, but I'm guessing a bridge." He pulled the rope hand over hand, until the knotted jute began to come into sight.
"It is a bridge. Or at least a rudimentary version thereof," Celeste said, excitement coloring her voice. "See. It's attached on the far side."
Marcus pulled it taut and secured it to an iron ring apparently driven into the side of the chasm for just such a purpose. "Right then, I'll cross first, shall I? Then if it's safe, you can follow."
She opened her mouth to argue, shot a look down at the crevice, and changed her mind. "All right, you go. But be careful."
It wasn't as hard as it looked, no worse than climbing the rigging of a schooner to reach the crow's nest. But there were a couple of dicey moments when the rope groaned and tipped dizzily downward.
But in just moments, he was safe on the other side. "Hang on," he yelled. "There's a torch on this side, too. Let me light it and then you can come across."
After placing her torch in a bracket, she started across the divide, the little bridge swaying back and forth drunkenly.
"You're doing fine. Just keep coming."
About halfway across, there was a pop as one of the knots broke, the right side of the bridge listing downward as a result. Celeste lost her footing and for a moment dangled over the edge, then with a quick swing of her feet, she managed to right herself, darting across the rest of the bridge with a grace that belied the wildly wobbling structure.