Testing Pressure
Page 2
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The arched Catacombs entrance was blocked by an old church pew. Stepping around it, Cian passed the “Every Day is Christmas” inscription, and descended the narrow cement stairs that led to the caverns below. He pushed through the iron gate and it creaked in the still air, straining against dead vines which had clung to it for years.
The darkness welcomed him. His thickly wrapped boots ground into the dust and rubble on the floor; broken glass crushed beneath his towering weight. The gate closed behind him with a violent bang, and he started down the twisting, narrow halls. Graffiti lined the walls, and debris was strewn everywhere: leftovers from the unwitting homeless who strayed in here by mistake, never to see light again.
Which of Nomos had been the first to find it, he did not know. It was probably one of the Ancient Ones; they had roamed and searched the world for years, waiting, preparing. Others whispered that the Dark Leader himself had created the spot, working under some guise that fooled the world. Cian found it during his own time of wandering, and had now been meeting the Priestess here for years.
It was a perfect gathering place for the Nomos.
He passed several open doorways in the vast, underground labyrinth that seemed to open into great, swallowing nothingness. Inside the rooms lurked shadows; some of these shadows were more of his kind, cloaked and wrapped in the same drapes as he. In other rooms were some of the Winged Ones—great flapping beast-like Nomos that fluttered and beat their wings as he strode past. In some of the rooms glowed fires; it was underground, and they always struggled to stay warm. Especially if they were in need of blood. In some of the rooms, the Silent Ones just stood, waiting for darkness to descend upon the world outside. Some sat on couches, smoking, drinking. Some chanted, reciting incantations that conjured up dark, unspeakable things.
This place had become their monastery.
Tortured screams echoed through the darkened corridors. Cian pulled his hood back and flicked his long, dark locks away from his white, porcelain face. In the darkness, the living tattoo twisted around his features like a writhing snake.
He was the Marked One.
He wound his way through the passages and started up a small flight of stairs; at last he came to the room he was looking for.
Lilith, the Priestess, was inside.
She sat with her back to the door, warming her pale hands by the fire, her long, dark fingernails glistening in the blood-orange light. Around the room, candles flickered and burned. She was not alone; two other Nomos stood with their heads down flanking the doorway. The Priestess’ hood was up; she did not show her face. When she finally spoke, she lifted her head slightly: “Speak.”
“We have found him,” Cian said.
“Good,” she whispered. After a long moment, she turned and looked at Cian. He could see her black eyes glistening beneath her hood, reflecting the glow of the fire. “Bring him,” she said.
The Marked One nodded, turned, and left the room. He ventured back through the corridors and up to the accursed, sunlit surface. He would be able to withstand the light; he and some of the others had made a fresh kill that morning. One of them had gotten away, but no matter. Soon the world would die and all but the Nomos would perish with it. And then, there would be no more light. Their time had come. Cian stepped out into the surrounding woods and the gate banged closed behind him.
“Leave me,” the Priestess said and the two hooded figures exited the room. Left alone, she went to a tall chest along one wall and ran a single finger along a long, curved blade. Nearby sat the ceremonial cup.
These were hers to tend and keep.
Lilith smiled, her dark, smooth lips pulling back to reveal white, hungry teeth.
“At last,” she whispered to the empty room and began to laugh.
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