I ignore Luke’s will-melting smile. And the way the word bedroom sounds when he says it. He should be illegal.
“Where’d Mag go?” I ask.
“To talk to your brother.”
Reminding me of our most immediate problem: Jared. Who is being perfectly rational and doing what he’s supposed to, except in this case that’s not going to work.
Like I don’t have enough on my hands with:
It’s not even like I’ll be able to tell anyone about this. It’s not like there’s a paycheck in it, either. “Dear World: There was this time I ended up globe-trotting to a grandiose estate in Portugal to save the world and, oh yeah, apparently I’m on Heaven’s away team … front a girl some credit?” That’s the kind of thing that only gets you streamlined admission to a psych ward.
I design adventures for people; I don’t go on them. I am the least qualified “world saver” in the history of world saving. I know. I’ve read a lot of history. I’m undoubtedly going to screw this up.
But.
It’s not like Luke can do it. He admitted as much. I could pray—and I will—and I could wait for a sign, but shouldn’t I assume this is that? I’ve also read enough to know it doesn’t matter if you want to be chosen. There are the people who throw up their hands and let bad things happen and there are the people who stop them.
If I’m being drafted into the battle between good and evil, I want to be the second kind.
I let a breath heave in and out, which is what someone in a book would do. I stash the first aid kit inside my messenger bag.
“How do we get Jared to stop asking questions? Any ideas?”
“You don’t,” Jared says, appearing in the doorway. He crosses his arms. Mag’s behind him. “Where were you thinking of going? You’re supposed to stay here, helping me run the business this weekend.”
Ah, great. Damn.
“Jared, it’s a long story. A long, kind of inexplicable, unbelievable story. But you are perfectly fine to let us go, I swear.” I cross my fingers over my heart.
When I glance over at Luke, his eyes are closed. Right, probably not a big cross fan. They pop open and he catches me looking. He winks again. Not like I didn’t ask for it by winking back at him before.
But my knees still threaten to dissolve, and I turn back to Jared with the knowledge my ears are likely still the shade of overripe strawberries at the grocery.
“Callie, Jared’s right,” Mag says.
For a second, I wonder if I misheard.
They fold their arms, mirroring Jared. “This is all going too far. You’re going to get hurt.”
Mag agrees with Jared. They don’t want us to go either.
I can only imagine the wounded expression on my face.
Jared goes on. “If Mom was here, she wouldn’t let you leave. You clearly planned something you shouldn’t be doing with Luke. Mag said as much. This is exactly why Mom asked me to come supervise this weekend. You’re staying home.”
“I can’t believe this,” I say to Mag, my emotions kicking up a betrayed fuss. Then to Jared, “Have I ever in my life done anything that you would’ve needed to stop?”
Jared shakes his head. “That’s the point. You’re overdue.”
“Listen to him,” Mag says.
Jared gives Mag a look I can’t decode.
“I can’t believe my best friend sold me out,” I say.
Mag studies the floor.
I don’t know what to do. Jared isn’t wrong. Mom wouldn’t allow this; whether I’m an adult or not, I still live under her roof at the moment.
I stop to wonder what would have happened if she’d been there tonight. If they’d taken her.
Horror.
No, I’m no hero. I’m at best the hero’s research assistant. But I got dragged into this and there’s nobody else to see it through.
“Luke?” I ask, pleading. “Can you do something about this?”
“No, he can’t,” Jared says. “I’m sorry, but I’m putting my foot down. You aren’t going anywhere.”
I take a step back. I’ve never seen Jared this forceful.
“That’s enough,” Luke says, lifting a finger and holding it in front of Jared’s lips. Jared’s eyes go as big and round as the supposed Area 51 flying saucer. Mag starts to step in front of him, but Luke holds his other hand up in front of them. “Both of you, stop. As Callie says, we are going to be leaving now. We will return soon enough.” He looks at me. “Catch Mag.”
I barely have time to react as he waves each hand, one in front of Jared’s face, the other in front of Mag’s, then reaches out to guide Jared to the floor as he wilts toward it. I lunge forward just in time to keep Mag from collapsing, and do the same.
My brother and my best friend lie beside each other, unconscious.
Luke stands, then makes a dusting motion with his hands. “We’re good.”
The average human heart beats a hundred thousand times a day, and mine must be pounding hard enough to do all of them at once. “Did you … break them? I … I love them both.”
“They’re asleep. That’s all,” Luke says. “They’ll be fine when they wake up.”
“When they wake up and call my mother.” I still can’t believe Mag sided with Jared.
Hurt as I am, I go over and pull two pillows off my bed. I kneel and slide one beneath each of their heads.
“Callisto,” Luke says, watching me as I rise, “you are so good.”
I fidget, uncomfortable. How does he know my full name? Also, why in this world is the devil’s employee so determined to keep flirting with me? It must be an opposites-attract kind of thing.
Not that I’m attracted to him. My body has had a few immediate, intense physical responses to him. That’s all.
Not even I’m buying the lies I’m telling myself.
“Are we going or what?” is my outward reaction.
“Your wish,” he says, and maybe he finishes the thought, but I’ll never know because he takes my right hand in both of his and my body feels like it ignites and then we aren’t in my bedroom anymore, we’re back in that darkness with those screams.
The black goes on and on, the walls of a vast coffin, and the shrieks are fingernails scraping my eardrums but with more than sound, with despair and pain and every emotion I ever pushed down because it was too strong for feeling.
When it finally ends, I’m not ready. I’m afraid to open my eyes.
I’m afraid of everything. Of what I’ve gotten myself into. Of whether I’ll get back out.
“Callie? You should be right as rain,” Luke says, and his deep voice is so voice-like, so contained in space, that I latch onto it like the lifeline it is. “Though I’ve never truly understood that phrase,” he continues. “I suppose it depends on whether you like the rain. Do you? Like the rain?”
No matter that my lifeline is the minister of Hell.
I open my eyes. There’s an avenue of statues behind Luke, grand and tall, gods and goddesses flanking a broad path amid trees. We’re surrounded by hilly terrain, the moon and stars above lighting the dark so that it seems almost like day compared to that other screaming darkness.
I’ve never been any farther away from home than Tennessee or Ohio, or one summer, Myrtle Beach. Places we can drive in a day. Now here I am standing in Portugal.
And my best friend’s not with me. Mag, who dreams of passport stamps but sided with Jared.
“Well?” Luke prompts, frowning with worry, still gripping my hand in his. “Rain, yes or no?”
I shake off thoughts of home for now. “I only like rain if I’m inside.”
If I’m not mistaken, he exhales. Like he’s relieved I’m okay.
I hesitate and gently extract my hand. “Why was the trip worse than before?”
“I suppose the distance.” He’s frowning again. “I’ve never … I wasn’t aware it would have a different effect on you. I’m usually traveling solo. Apologies if it was uncomfortable.”
How can someone like him not know something like that? “That’s almost like a ‘sorry you were offended’ apology. A nonpology.”
“Apologies aren’t my strong suit,” Luke says, agreeably. “But I’m glad you’re all right. What’s the plan now?”
Duh. I must be recovered. “I get the spear ASAP. Where’s this chapel?”
But it hits me the second I say it. He didn’t tell them the spear was in the chapel. He told them the spear was under the chapel.
This could be a problem. I want to laugh or weep or go back into the screaming dark void. I have a mortal fear of being trapped in the darkness below … things. My own special claustrophobia. Tales of catacombs send me into panic sweats. The words “the deeps” are legitimately the most terrifying I’ve ever heard.
Though my brain knows logically the spear probably isn’t that far down, it feels like I’ve just been informed I must journey to the center of a hollow Earth, where I’ll likely be slowly crushed by everything that’s above or, you know, trapped forever, unable to reach the surface.
Eurydice not making it out of Hades because stupid Orpheus couldn’t play his freaking lyre and keep himself from looking back.
Remembering I’m here with someone from Team Hades doesn’t help.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I hate him for being perceptive.
“Other than this whole situation? Nothing. Where’s the chapel? Also … can you give me any more information about where I’ll find it? Is there any security here?”
He motions for us to start up the path. “There is a security guy. But he’s asleep in his shack, so we don’t need to be too stealthy at the moment. He was reading The Da Vinci Code in translation and it must’ve knocked him right out.”
“That’s a little on the nose,” I say, feet crunching on the pebbled path. “But you didn’t answer my other question.”
He exhales a sigh. “Yes, I know. I can sense the spear’s presence beneath the chapel, but it’s not entirely clear. Usually when I know something, I know it fully. But sacred spaces are … fuzzy, I guess you could say. I sense them, but they withhold some secrets. I probably wouldn’t even have known the spear was there, had they not asked me to focus on it. But I can tell you the eccentric mastermind behind this place, Monteiro the Millionaire, and his set-designer architect loved to hide things. There are tunnels and secret passages all over.”
Tunnels and secret passages … The stuff of my best work daydreams and worst actual nightmares. But if I’m a guardian, then I have this in me: the ability to deal with this. No way I’m showing weakness. Yet. “Got it.”
I recognize the palace from the website. It looms over the hillside, a gray warning covered in statuary and gargoyles. Luke guides us onto a paved path, and we pass the house and head up a rise. Before long, he gestures at a much smaller, but still grandly embellished gray-and-white structure, a milky cross thrusting up against the night sky above an arched entryway shadowy as a cave.
“That’s the chapel,” he says.
I figured as much. “How do I get in?” I hate that it comes out as a whisper.
“Try the door,” he says, irritably. Then, “What I mean to say is, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I wish I could.”
The trees around us rustle in a light breeze. The air is pleasant, a faint sweetness to its scent. I wonder if there are night-blooming flowers nearby. There’s a peace to standing here.
“Callie?” Luke asks. “I don’t know how long we have before the cult gets here.”
Or I’m scared. Okay, I tell myself, you can do this.
Time to get moving, so I do. I can practically feel the sacredness radiate from the church as I approach it. Is that because I’m a guardian? Because Luke told me what’s here and I’m imagining it? I pause beneath carvings of two winged angels at the feet of the heavenly father. His hands extend in welcome.
I step through the arch, and I keep walking until my extended hand touches a door.
I press against cool, smooth wood. I’m already mentally inventorying the lock pick tools I tossed into the first aid kit, but …
The door opens at my push.
I don’t look back to see what Luke’s doing. I go forward, determined to do Orpheus one better.
Dim light filters in through stained-glass windows and I make out several rows of simple wooden chairs and an altar. The only sound is my own breathing. Taking out my phone, I thumb to the flashlight app and its glow helps steady me.
The main chapel is as filled with architectural flourishes as the outside. The floor in front of me is patterned with a giant red Knights Templar cross. Pentagrams mix in with crosses and other arcane symbols.
I make a slow circle and discover a spiral staircase to my side. It goes down.
Under the chapel.
Worth a shot.
The air gets danker the farther down I go, circling, circling, placing my feet cautiously on the steps. Then I’m in an underground chamber.
The ceiling is low, and down here, the design is plain. Black-and-white floor. A simple stone altar with two black crosses, one above and one below. Not much else.
I approach the altar, since it’s the only obvious starting point.
I wish Mag was here like I wish to keep breathing; they’d say something to make me laugh, distract me from this heart-thumping terror. I discovered my fear of being trapped or crushed underneath something in fourth grade, on a church youth group trip to Mammoth Cave in western Kentucky. It’s the longest known cave system in the world, and one of its earliest explorers, a slave named Stephen Bishop, described it as a “grand, gloomy and peculiar place.”
Maybe that being a perfect description for this basement is why I remember it now.
On that trip we went down these long staircases with steel guardrails that I gripped with sweaty hands to get to the cave entrance. Just outside the giant mouth, gaping open like a scream, our park service guide started talking about Floyd Collins. Floyd was a white historical cave explorer and in 1925, while looking for new turf to turn into a tourist attraction he got trapped inside, a twenty-seven-pound rock fell on one of his legs. Ironically he then became the tourist attraction. A media circus developed over the next seventeen days as men tried to tunnel to free him. It turned into one of the biggest news stories of the time.
But the passage collapsed and when they finally made it to him Floyd Collins had been dead for days. Eventually his body was recovered and then, horror of horrors, he ended up on display in a glass coffin.
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.