Not Your Average Hot Guy

by Gwenda Bond

  I guess the park guide thought this was a suitably engaging story for the kiddies and we’d all be quietly rapt for the whole tour. Unfortunately for her, I started sobbing as soon as we walked inside the cave entrance and I could see the complete darkness ahead. The church leader had to take me out. Mag went on the tour, but when they came out, they just said, “Want to sit in the back on the way home?” We never sat in the back of the church van; the older kids always claimed that perk. I nodded and nothing more was said.

  Here’s hoping I don’t end up the Floyd Collins of Portugal.

  Kneeling in front of the stone altar, I set my phone down and grope around the edges looking for any promising quirks. I work my way from the bottom up, slowly but surely, not finding a single unusual seam or opening, nothing that would indicate a hidden compartment.

  Until I’m almost done, that is. My searching has gone from careful to fumbling, my breathing growing shallower. I’m running out of time and the guts to stay down here.

  The top surface gives the smallest bit against my frantic fingers. Or does it?

  I pick up the phone and examine the altar more closely. Yes, there’s a slab on top. I’ve dislodged it a fraction.

  It can’t be something so simple, can it? But maybe it can. No one’s down here rummaging around during the day, nor would they have been when it was a working estate. Holding the phone to my chest with my chin, I try my best not to think of Floyd Collins. Of how all those people desperate to help were out of reach when he needed them, like Luke is for me.

  The slab slides free. Inside is a gritty emptiness. The phone shows me nothing but stone.

  I sweep my hand along the bottom and realize the stone doesn’t quite touch the side on the right. I work the edges of my fingers around the stone there and then I pull.

  It gives.

  I set down the phone and work both hands into the crack in the far-too dark and finally manage to dislodge the panel.

  I lift the half-inch sheet of thick stone aside. Underneath, there’s an opening with a book set inside it. I reach in to pick it up and realize I’m wrong. It’s not a book.

  It’s designed to resemble one, or, actually, more than one.

  I lift the object out carefully. The wooden box is a kind popularized in the late 1800s. It’s carved to look like books lying lengthwise on top of and at the bottom of a row of books showing their spines.

  An Italian puzzle box.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, talking to the only entity I expect to be listening in here.

  Shining my light over the box, I make out the words Pilate and Nicodemus painted in Latin, along with words I don’t know. Strange symbols.

  Right. Longinus’s name didn’t come from the New Testament proper. It came from an extra-Biblical text. The Gospel of Nicodemus, the Acts of Pilate.

  Hesitating, I touch the top of the box and let the fact this is happening wash over me.

  The knowledge I am underground comes flooding back too. Lucky me.

  The box isn’t that heavy. I could lug the whole thing outside. The cult is coming, after all.

  But what if I get it outside and this is a decoy? That seems like the kind of thing someone who’d build an estate like this might do. I refuse to not be up to this, to fail in front of Luke. I need to prove to Mag they were wrong not to trust me. And, of course, defeat evil.

  So I hold the phone under my chin again, and decide to work the puzzle. Boxes like this still exist. This place dates from around 1900 so it makes sense for it to be a classic design.

  It is. I slide the carved book spine along the bottom to the left, which in turn lets me slide the panel at the far right out. I tip the box forward, and a key clunks out of the side compartment onto the stone. I move the top of the box forward to meet the rest and press the middle spine down to reveal the keyhole. I insert the key in the lock and turn it.

  Bingo.

  I open the lid.

  A narrow something wrapped in cloth is wedged inside. I lift the object out and unwrap it. The fabric is old, rough against my fingers. What it protects is …

  Another key, larger, old-fashioned, and iron.

  Not the Holy Lance. But where there’s a key, there must be a lock.

  I stand and begin searching the altar again, looking for something I missed. Wedging myself between the wall and the back of the altar, the key in my fingers and my phone held by my chin, I see it.

  At the very base of the altar, easy to miss, the stone is interrupted by a small wooden block with a keyhole. I shimmy down the wall, and try the key. I have to put some muscle behind it, but the block gives. The compartment inside seems empty at first, until I feel around on the bottom of it. There’s a round wooden object. I stash the key in my pocket and pull on the wood.

  The compartment is cleverly angled, so that as I pull and keep pulling, I have to move. Once I’ve got the wooden spear shaft out, it hits me at my chest. About four feet long. I step around the altar, my hand trembling around it.

  I’m holding the Lance of Longinus. The Spear of Destiny.

  Hesitating, I set it aside, then replace the box and the top of the altar. I don’t want it to be clear someone’s been here when the cult arrives. I pick the spear shaft back up.

  I really must be here for a reason. Who else would know what I know? How many other people could have worked that box out so quickly?

  If it’s a test, maybe I passed.

  I feel a little cocky about it: that I overcame my fear, that I have the Spear of Destiny in my fingers, and have, well, saved the freaking world.

  Almost smiling, I turn to leave, deciding how much gloating to engage in when I get outside.

  I’m blinded in a sudden flare of light. I lift my hand to block a half-dozen flashlight beams shining right at me. There’s another way into the chapel basement apparently.

  Of course there is. Secret passages. Tunnels.

  Solomon Elerion melts out of the line of his followers. “You,” he says.

  I dive for the stairwell, gripping the lance like my life depends on it. Because now?

  I’m pretty sure it does.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUKE

  This is one of the most memorable nights of my existence, and that’s no small thing. Not when you consider how many times I’ve been to the High Unholy Days—a sort of demonic Mardi Gras that we have below.

  Anyway, it turns out even the most thrilling day has room for a little something that I hate and which plagues me: boredom.

  Yes, I’m bored. Waiting out here for Callie, who’s been gone for-seeming-ever.

  The security booth guy is still asleep and I spot an opportunity to entertain myself. It’s a short walk past the palace and down the hill to the main entrance. As far as my senses detect, we’re still ahead of our foes. So it’s not like I’m abandoning Callie to a dire fate.

  When I reach the shack, I discover a pasty, mustached gentleman so deeply asleep a thin line of drool leaks from one corner of his mouth. “Charmed, I’m sure,” I say softly. It’s the copy of The Da Vinci Code open on his chest alongside the decorative badge that makes some minor torment too tempting to pass up.

  How do I know so much about pop culture? I have to study it. We all do. To corrupt humans, one must understand them, at least according to Porsoth. That includes all their current obsessions. I had to pass a test on cultural ephemera before I was cleared to go out on my first official Earth jaunt for attempted soul snagging. The administrative types don’t want the Satanic horde being too obviously out of touch. You should hear the older demons moaning about having to keep up and then getting fire-and-brimstone gleeful when new Beyoncé drops.

  The Knights Templar/Mason/Illuminati nonsense—well, mostly nonsense—that serves as Dan Brown’s stock in trade is an oldie but a goodie.

  I give the guy a hard tap on the shoulder. “It’s you! Thank all that’s holy!” I say, slipping into Portuguese, and perhaps overselling the enthusiasm but go big or go home. “Th
ey told me you’d have a symbol that would make you easy to identify.”

  The guard blinks up at me with the glazed lag between waking and sleeping.

  “The book. Clever touch,” I say. “I’m glad you have a sense of humor. Now, let’s get going. We have to move. Now.”

  “What?” He’s finally coming to. “What time is it?”

  “Late.” And then I add in my most ominous tone, “Almost too late.”

  More blinking. He reaches up to swipe away the drool. “Who—who are you?”

  “You could say I’m … Robert Langdon,” I say, preening a bit. “The real one.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not the book version—I only inspired him. We should have kicked Brown out a lot earlier. He got everything wrong about me. I’m obviously much more competent and handsome. My name is Jacques. Pleased to meet you…” I offer him my hand.

  The guard stands, the book falling to the floor of the shack. He frowns at me but reaches out to shake. “What are you doing here? We’re closed.”

  “I’m here for you, mister…” I pause and shake my head. “I suppose your name doesn’t matter. You are the Holy Grail. The one we’ve been looking for all these years.”

  That perks him right up. “Funny. So you’re a prankster. I can get the police here with a call.”

  “You need proof,” I say, shaking my head as if I’m the thick one. “Of course you do. We couldn’t risk warning you in advance. But I’m happy to oblige.”

  The guard’s fully awake now, and questioning everything. “You seem a little young to be the ‘inspiration’ for Robert Langdon.”

  I spread my hand across my chest as if mortally wounded. “Watch.”

  I wave my fingers as showily as possible, and then I make it look like I’m pulling smoke out of the security guard’s chest. He gapes as the flow forms into a chalice. The wispy cup hovers in midair.

  It’s a parlor trick, but sometimes that’s all you need.

  “What?” He hesitates. “Me? I’m special?”

  I solemnly nod. I’m about to send him on a wild clue chase when I hear Callie bellowing: “Luke! LUKE, WHERE ARE YOU?”

  That does not sound good. I do a sweep, sending my senses out as far as I can. We’re still alone. Just me, her, and the guard. I don’t know why she’s freaked out but there’s no doubt she is. That makes me need to go at a run.

  “Hold that thought,” I say to my mark.

  But his steps follow behind me as I dart back up the hill to the chapel.

  Hell’s bells.

  Callie has got some kind of long stick extended as if to ward off the cape-wearing crew of cultists fanning out in front of the chapel. She’s essentially surrounded—or she will be momentarily.

  The Order of Elerion is here. I presume they used something in their stockpile of magical items to travel so quickly. But how do I not feel their presence even when I see them in front of me?

  I’ve screwed up. Again. And I put Callie in direct danger.

  “Luke!” Callie screams and searches over her shoulder.

  I speed up. “I’m right here!”

  “Who are they?” The security guard sounds baffled and awed. “Are they here for me too?”

  That he kept up is good. Maybe he’ll come in useful. It’d be the first time tonight one of my bright ideas panned out.

  “Yes, but we have to save the girl first,” I tell him.

  I reach Callie’s side and catch Solomon Elerion’s sinister smile opposite us. It’s like facing down a rabid hellhound when you’ve got the only bone in the world he wants. No masks this time, but he and his minions are no less loathsome for that. I need to get control of the situation.

  When I touch Callie’s arm, a heavy presence of pure power radiates over me. The same kind of sensation as when Father enters a room, with the nearly opposite effect. My knees weaken, but I want to turn my face to Callie and bask.

  Light. A powerful light. It’s like she’s holding a small sun.

  That’s not a stick, it’s the lance. She has it.

  But there’s something … off. I concentrate harder.

  “Where were you?” she demands. “Zappity us out of here.”

  “Not so fast,” Solomon says.

  I stay put, meaning so does Callie. I know exactly where this damned if I do and damned if I don’t situation is headed, not that she’ll understand. But I can’t zappity us. Not yet.

  I made a deal.

  There are rules to that sort of thing. The kind you don’t break unless the other party releases you from the obligation, not unless you want to end up being roasted on an eternal spit by hell-flame. The kind even a Dark Prince can’t duck.

  “I suppose I should act surprised,” Solomon says. “But I thought we might see you again. That you might be up to some sort of trick. And so we took precautions to conceal ourselves.” Solomon frowns. “So … are you working with that guardian? Who are you, really? You came when we called, but I don’t think you’re Rofocale.”

  “Maybe the book was a fake,” a woman behind Solomon says. “He doesn’t seem impressive enough to hold such a position.”

  “It wasn’t a fake. The little guardian has the spear.” Solomon shrugs. “No matter. Now she will give it to us.”

  Callie barks out a hysterical laugh. “You’ve been smoking too much incense if you think I’m handing this over. No. You’ll have to take it. And I don’t think you can. Luke, stop them.”

  I close my eyes, imagining how much her hatred for me is about to grow. From a seed to a sequoia.

  My words come out in a mumble. “Give it to them.”

  “What?” Callie asks.

  “Give them the spear.”

  Callie’s mouth works but no sound comes out. She’s speechless. There’s a first time for everything. Indignation makes her even lovelier.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t prevent them from getting it.”

  “He is some kind of devil,” one of Solomon’s minions says.

  The security guard chooses this moment to enter the fray. Turns out he speaks English and has followed our entire conversation. “He’s the exact opposite!”

  I want to bark out, Shut up. But I need to make Callie understand. “I can’t stop them from hurting you to get it,” I explain. My stomach—which has withstood seminars on torture techniques and cram sessions on the minds of psychopaths and how to best manipulate them—turns at the sudden image of them hurting her while I do nothing.

  And I can tell Callie isn’t going to do the smart thing. Her shoulders square, her spine straightens. Her face reflects the disgust she feels for me. She won’t act to save herself. I can’t say anything else to help her. I wish I could read her mind, but I’ve seen enough to doubt she’s secretly an accomplished martial artist.

  A smirking Solomon lifts his hand in a lazy wave, and says, “Take it from her.”

  Callie bolts.

  She’s fast, I’ll give her that.

  The security guard leaps into action, and it turns out he has a Taser. Electricity jolts through the first cultist pursuing Callie, but Solomon sweeps the guard’s legs out from under him. Of course, he’d secretly be an accomplished martial artist.

  I stand, useless, watching as two more cult members retrieve Callie, prying the small-sun-as-spear away from her.

  “Got it,” one of them says.

  I loathe people who state the obvious.

  “Should we bring them?” another says.

  At last, I’m able to act. “Our bargain is complete,” I say to Solomon. “When we meet again, you won’t be so fortunate.”

  I fly into motion and grab Callie’s hand before she can punch me or shove me away. Before they can try to get hold of either of us. The welcoming, shrieking darkness returns, and then is replaced by a different darkness. Wet darkness. There’s a drip, drip nearby.

  And above, far above, a thin velvet glimpse of sky.

  I brought us to the closest potentially safe place that popped into my head. The Well o
f Initiation.

  “I truly am sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t do anything back there or I would’ve.”

  Callie says nothing.

  I go on. “I do have a spot of brighter news though. Now my bargain with them’s complete, but they don’t quite have what they want.” I expect her to follow up immediately, but she doesn’t. “That is extremely good news.” Callie stays quiet and I begin to worry the journey into the well injured her. “Are you all right?”

  Finally, she speaks, “Are we in that pit?”

  Not what I expected. “It’s an inverted tower,” I say. Then, “Yes.”

  “I—”

  “Said you never wanted to visit it.” My sigh is heavy in the night air. “But you didn’t want to be taken by those guys again more, was my guess.”

  “Toss-up.”

  “Oh.”

  “How could you?” she says, and I’m comforted by the fire in the words. “How could you let them take it?”

  “Like I said, a bargain is a bargain. Particularly an infernal one. I couldn’t prevent them from getting it, not directly.”

  She wraps her arms around herself. “Did you know then? That I’d just be retrieving it for them? Without my help, they might’ve failed…”

  “I didn’t expect them to get here so fast. And they wouldn’t have. Failed, I mean.” I summon the heat of flame into my palm and give us some light. We’re surrounded by a pool of dark water with a path laid out in stones. The tower curls up around and above us in a spiral of old stone. “Callie, I’m sorry. But…” I search for what would improve this situation. Surely what I discovered when I concentrated up there will buy me some forgiveness. She must not have understood what I was saying before. “There’s no need to worry. It turns out Monteiro and his heaven-friendly set were cleverer than I expected—that was only the shaft. The spearhead is in his tomb. We can retrieve it before they figure it out. It won’t work without the pieces joined together.”

  Shadows flicker, playing across her face. For a moment, they reveal something like hope, right up until she shakes her head. “Like I’m dumb enough to trust you again.”