by D B Nielsen
‘Chillax girl. I’m just kidding.’ Fi led the way forward, veering off the path and into the overgrowth. ‘I did my homework. There were two stairways into the catacombs when it was first built. One staircase led down from the Chapel above – although that’s now sealed off, blocked at ceiling level, as the Chapel was badly damaged by German bombs during the war. It was cleared away long ago, but the area above the catacombs is covered in scaffolding to stop rain getting down to the undercroft area – so just watch your step.’
I looked around at what should have been a source of solace and refuge from the hustle and bustle of London, but found little comfort. The presence of history and its attendant death bore down upon us with an intensity that was disconcerting.
‘So we’re going to use the back door.’
We approached the back entrance through the thick overgrowth; our steps hampered by the tall grass and weeds. Before us, there was an ancient stairwell which obviously provided access to the catacombs. Climbing through the scaffolding, I noted the patterns of sunlight sliding along the brick wall; shadowed crosses which reminded me of Dickensian gallows.
Of course, at the bottom of the stone steps, the door was locked.
‘Did you remember to bring your skein of wool?’ Fi joked as she closed her eyes and remained still for several moments.
Watching her carefully, I asked, sarcasm lacing my voice, ‘What are you doing? Trying to remember where you put the key?’
‘Hush, Sage. I’m trying to concentrate.’
Well, that might take forever! I thought tetchily, nerves strained to the limit. Folding my arms over my chest in exasperation, I waited for her to get a move on.
Seconds that felt more like minutes ticked by. I waited.
I passed the time by reciting the funeral orations from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in my head. And I waited some more.
Finally, when I could take it no longer, Fi moved.
She moved so quickly that all I saw was a blur – her hand reaching out, touching yet not touching the wall, fingertips outstretched, the door swinging wide on silent hinges and the cool air trapped within the catacombs wafted out like a Victorian fog, a miasma of over a century’s worth of smog and damp rot.
It was dark and gloomy inside.
Following Fi into the black void of the catacombs, I tripped on the rubble strewn across the entranceway and floor, cursing. Yet Fi walked lightly and sure-footed before me.
‘Wait up!’ I hissed into the murky interior, which the sunlight failed to penetrate sufficiently to light a path beyond, at where I assumed Fi to be standing. ‘I can’t see a thing! Where are the lights?’
Footsteps doubled back.
‘Shhh! Be quiet! Bloody hell, Sage. It’s a glamour,’ she grumbled, reaching for me to pull me further inside. When I continued to look at her blankly, she sighed irritably and said in a low voice, ‘Look, remember with Satis House, you saw something beyond its ruined façade?’
I nodded, then gave a slight start when the door closed behind us soundlessly, blocking out all the light. Immediately, I felt overwhelmed and claustrophobic. A wave of nausea passed over me.
‘Close your eyes.’
‘Why? I can’t see anything anyway!’ I cried, staggering ahead in the darkness and only managing to bump into my sister. Afraid that I might be sick, I refused to listen to reason.
She held me by my elbow tightly, her fingers digging into the flesh. ‘Epic fail! For God’s sake, Sage! Do what I tell you! Close your eyes! Shut up! And calm down!’
I did. I closed my eyes, rubbing my elbow sulkily where I could already feel a bruise. But only because I really didn’t have much choice in the matter.
‘Now breathe slowly. In through your nose and out through your mouth. In and out. Slowly. In and out.’ Her whispered words held a mesmerising quality that enspelled me. ‘Imagine taking one of Mum’s rags soaked in turpentine and slowly, carefully, dabbing at the oil on canvas, stripping away the old coat of paint to reveal what lies hidden beneath. Imagine peeling away labels. Unwrapping presents. Breaking through the thick layer of frozen ice to the lake underneath. Now open your eyes.’
I opened my eyes. And gave a low gasp.
I was standing in the well-lit, vaulted spine corridor of the catacombs. Illuminated, it was far different from what I had been expecting. It was as if the concealment had been stripped away to reveal the sepulchral beauty beneath. Everything – every surface from the crisp, white walls to the flagstone floors – was as fresh and bright as if it had just been newly-constructed. And in the very centre of this space, dominating the main gallery, there was a hydraulic lift which would once have been used to lower the coffins from the Chapel above to the vaults below.
I was speechless.
Inside the catacombs, where I expected to see the rotting, rusting remains of the hydraulic lift, the catafalque still appeared to be intact and in use by the Anakim. I couldn’t quite comprehend it. At the time of its installation in 1839, the coffin lift was considered an engineering marvel, worked by hydraulics which made its operation silent – a distinct advantage considering its use. But here was the original lift in working condition. Only the top of the catafalque on which the coffin was placed was moveable and could be swivelled to allow easy removal of the coffin in the catacombs. The system used a single pump, which I assumed allowed the Anakim to lower the cages containing the Rephaim prisoners into the catacombs.
Better not to think about such things, I chided myself.
Getting my bearings, I noted that there were a number of vaults with intricate wrought iron gates opening onto this central corridor. Laid out with three corridors off each side, the underground structure was roughly rectangular in shape; the central corridor directly underneath what would have been the old Episcopal Chapel.
‘Let’s move,’ Fi whispered, urging me onwards.
There were still coffins stacked upon wooden shelves within these corridors but there was no need to maintain the dead, and so there was no façade or illusion. Instead, the coffins that were not buried in the ground during the Victorian period were required by law to be lead lined, so as we ventured further into the catacombs, we found coffins in various states of decay as befitting those found within the Victorian vaults all around the city of London. The wood surrounds and their velvet decorations were, in most cases, rotted away or had been vandalised long ago, only leaving the lead cores untouched.
‘I’m really sick of catacombs. I don’t know why the Nephilim like them so much,’ Fi muttered to herself, which made me smile in wholehearted agreement.
At the far end of the central tunnel, the corridors branching off to the left and right were flooded with greater light than the others. As far as I could see, each of these had a number of bays on either side, some containing gated vaults. But at the far end of the right side, there were modern, glass sliding doors whilst, over to the far left, the large, steel doors were similar to those found in a bank vault.
‘It’s too quiet,’ I murmured, realising instinctively that something seemed out of place and dreadfully wrong. ‘Where is everybody?’
Fi shrugged, her face mirroring my confusion, and motioned for us to head towards the glass doors at the furthest end of the right-hand corridor. I walked lightly on my toes, ensuring that my footsteps would not alert any guards. It seemed odd that the corridor was airless and narrow yet the overhead, recessed LED lighting drove every shadow from the space. I was suddenly struck by the seeming familiarity of this place – it reminded me of a hospital wing. And I knew – even before I saw the signs denoting it an isolation ward with its infection control – what these rooms held within them.
Through the transparent glass doors a horrific sight met my eyes – the two Nephilim who had been sent to protect me at the British Museum were restrained by numerous security straps to their hospital beds. I became conscious that these were men whose slumbers were morbid and terrifying, muttering uneasily in strange tongues, suddenly crying
out in their sleep, and whose waking hours were far worse as they were now harmful to themselves and to others. Around me was that underworld of dreams and nightmares haunted by submerged memories of death and warfare and other unbearable, intolerable shocks and terrors. These Anakim were trapped in their petrifying, horror-stricken darkness, where the chaos and panic of ghastly experiences were re-enacted amongst the livid faces of the long deceased but unforgotten. Theirs was a twilight world, neither alive nor dead but, most certainly, doomed.
‘Come on. Let’s go. There’s nothing for us here.’
Fi urged me away, back down the corridor, retracing our steps till we stood before the warded locks of the huge steel vault doors like something out of a science fiction film. St. John had informed me that the rooms were soundproofed but not that it would take more than an army to break into them. I looked, but I couldn’t see any handle, lock or key. Or any hinges, for that matter. The steel portal itself looked normal enough but seemed to be only accessible from the inside.
‘Should we knock?’ My tone was mocking.
I thought Fi would laugh or, at least smile in shared defeat. But she did neither of these things.
‘You know the words, Sage. Just say them after me. “Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas.” Watch for the bird. A kite to be precise.’
For a moment, I stared at my sister as if she’d gone mad, then did as she bid me. For once, I let her take charge. She seemed to know what she was doing – which was more than I did.
At first, nothing remarkable happened – until I felt the shimmer of cast wards as if the air particles surrounding us were charged as in a thunderstorm. Looking closer, I could see that the metal crawled with markings – symbols were in constant motion, writhing and twisting, sliding and rearranging themselves beneath the surface. It made me nauseous just to look at it.
‘Why a kite?’ I asked, as my eyes travelled over the steel door.
‘Kites are at the entrance to the Underworld,’ she explained.
She didn’t need to say more as I understood her perfectly – we were, after all, standing amongst the dead and, from my knowledge of history, I knew what they represented.
Concentrating hard upon the markings in front of me as they coiled and slid under the surface of the steel, their movements as subtle and as elegant as a dance, I swallowed back rising bile and watched in wonder as the markings glowed like starlight, sparking between the weft of space and time.
I saw it at the exact moment that Fi reached out, her fingers a blur of movement on metal. The solid steel door shimmered as if insubstantial, the other side visible through a gauzy veil like the entrance to a cave behind a waterfall.
And, as my twin sister pushed me roughly through its opening, I gasped aloud at the sight of a dozen or more Anakim swivelling to face us, hostile faces blurring together behind tears that softened the edges of my vision. Because it was the one amongst the many – the only one that mattered – whose presence crushed any hopes that Fi was wrong. Jade green eyes held equal parts naked anguish and unqualified rage.
The sight before me broke my heart.
ON POISON AND PRISONERS
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There were four of them; three males and a female. Under the bright glare of the LED lights, every aspect of their naked, terrible beauty was illuminated. For a moment, I thought they were let loose within the room, close enough for them to attack, but then I realised that they were confined within glass-walled cells which gave the illusion of freedom only to cruelly take their liberty away.
These Nephilim were wild creatures captive within transparent cages – where once they were free to roam the world, they were now held within separate prison cells, warded cubes where the floors and ceilings were deeply marked with pentagrams to ensure that there was no escape. The cells were monastic and austere – there was nothing to stimulate the prisoners; no books, no television, no music, and no contact with each other. The strengthened glass ran the length of one wall, sufficient to observe these creatures, and only faced towards the room where we stood, which was all that separated them from us – without the glass barrier there would not have been nearly enough distance to suggest the slimmest possibility of fleeing them. Between the cells were solid fortifications, seemingly constructed of tonnes of reinforced concrete and steel and soundproofed – a fact made apparent as one of the four screamed soundless, voiceless, vicious obscenities at his Anakim captors.
I couldn’t look at him. I just couldn’t.
But, of course, I couldn’t look away either. I stood, staring, mesmerised.
In turn, Fi was hypnotised beside me, like a child at a zoo or circus spellbound by the exotic animals, as in a dream or trance, unable to break eye contact with the inhuman sight before her.
And there was no place for them to hide or escape from our observation as, within their claustrophobic cells, the overhead lights chased all trace of shadow from the corners, inhibiting privacy and dignity to pitifully reveal the desperation and anguish behind their violent submission. These Nephilim looked as if they too were sick like the poisoned Anakim in the other room, yet they were also so wonderful, so luminous, so icily burning.
One of the males skulked enraged, cruelly pacing up and down behind the glass barrier, padding on silent, fuming feet. He was a dark, dangerous vessel, a distorted image of senseless rage. His eyes unblinking, staring out at his captors – at me – with enlarged blackened pupils that made me tremble as if I could feel his foul breath upon my skin. I knew what he would do if he broke free. It was there in the savagery of his fiery eyes as they intensified to the insanity of an inner prison blood-blackness.
He spun from wall to wall, his stride raking down the stars and night sky as he hunted his prey in the darkness of his mind’s eye. The darkness consumed him wholly, fuelling his senseless, remorseless hatred. Then in a sweeping, blurry movement, he threw himself against the glass with such force his forehead split open and blood sprayed across its crystal clear surface in glittering teardrops, smearing its transparent purity.
He didn’t even blink.
He didn’t seem conscious of his injury.
There was something feral at work within him.
I had no memory of increasing the distance between us. I only became aware of my terrified response when I felt the solid metal of the steel door press into my back, hard enough to leave bruises.
There was a buzzing in my ears and I realised it was Fi’s hot, strident voice directed towards the Anakim. But I wasn’t paying her irate words any heed. All my attention was fixed on the four prisoners of war.
The other two males were beyond both lucidity and vitality – silent and sullen, reduced to baser instincts. One was sprawled in the corner of his cell, limp and listless, lying like the homeless winos who were passed on the streets, neglected and ignored. The other was huddled, back turned to us, rocking on his haunches, hugging his body tightly as if by doing so he could disappear within himself. His was the madness of forgetting; the monkey-chattering craziness of a mind ravished. The inability to distinguish the boundaries between past and present, day and night, illusion and reality was his endless nightmare as he infinitely unravelled the threads that wove himself together.
It took me a moment to realise that the prisoners were probably drugged.
‘–and beaten into submission.’ Fi’s livid voice cut through my shock. She gestured indignantly to a nearby trolley holding all sorts of surgical equipment – scalpels, syringes, gauze bandages, a staple gun, and other medical tools I couldn’t even name.
‘What kind of monsters are you?’ I asked from between clenched teeth. ‘Don’t you have any humanity? Any feelings?’
‘And the female – how could you?’ Fi accused coldly.
‘What happened to you all?’ I rushed on angrily. ‘You have no humanity in you! You’re three thousand-years-old, part-angel, part-mortal, and you’ve lost the very essence that makes you human! Do you even remember what it means to feel com
passion? Empathy? To forgive? Our whole lives go by while you play your immortal games. You just blink an eye and millions of mortal lives die or are born – and you don’t care! You’re like the gods of old, like capricious children who sport with us, you sit on Mount Olympus and manipulate humanity as though we’re clay puppets to be moved about, discarded, and broken – like chess pieces.’ I ended on a plaintive cry. ‘Why? For God’s sake! Why did you do this?’
‘We didn’t.’ Anak’s solemn visage drew my gaze. He looked the same as I remembered him – an extraordinarily handsome middle-aged man with bronze hair and skin whose commanding presence inspired confidence and earned him respect – though, perhaps, more sober and world-weary. As the leader of the Anakim, he was the first to break their silence. ‘We Anakim are not animals. They did this to her.’
There was a deathly silence. I could not respond. I could not even utter an apology.
What the Grigori had done to their children – to the female – was unthinkable.
Naked, she was covered in blood and dirt, though this was not able to diminish her luminous beauty. She was the ghostly, iridescent image of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Still proud, she tossed her silvery-blonde hair back, and stared at our gathering with ice-blue coloured eyes, sharp shards filled with contempt. I was struck by her marked resemblance to Louis Gravois despite the multiple lacerations that openly wept blood from both wrists, ankles and neck where she had obviously been bound.
But the most horrific wounds were only made apparent as she turned away from us, her movements gracefully dismissive.
The sickening evidence of the Grigori’s viciousness was displayed most cruelly in her dismembered wings – or what remained of them. This was like taking a butterfly to bits. The mutilated, bloody protrusions where once a pair of sweeping, lustrous wings had been made my stomach churn. It looked like she had been butchered – little more than what passed for raw meat and cleft bone was left. I almost dry retched as I saw the broken, skeletal pinions, immobilising her and preventing her flight. It was worse than any form of emasculation done to the males – the gift of her celestial heritage was now only threads of mangled muscle and skin.