I Do Not Trust You

by Laura J. Burns

  They ducked through an archway, and M was taken aback to see that they were in a subway station—one with a modern tunnel the Metro must still pass through, given that the signal lights were on. But it was abandoned, the platform dark, the walls covered in graffiti. Baptiste led them down some side stairs to the tracks, quickly ushering them through a busted metal door. M found herself on another set of stairs, this one much older, leading down into the catacombs below.

  “I told you, new friend, many layers,” Baptiste said, snaking his way through people lounging on the stairs, a cigarette sparking in the dark. The music was louder here. M heard a murmur of voices, peals of laughter rising above the throbbing bass.

  A huge cavern opened up before them, giant stone arches holding the roof high above wall-to-wall shelves originally meant to hold corpses in repose. Now they held nothing but candles, thousands of candles. In one corner a DJ had set up a booth running off a generator.

  “Children of the dark!” Baptiste bellowed, his voice echoing. He was greeted with cheers and laughs as he disappeared into the crowd.

  “There are at least hundred people here,” M said.

  Ash nodded, his body moving to the beat. “Usually there are more,” he said. “This must be a new DJ.”

  M cocked her head to the side. “That might be the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Because it’s the most normal.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, one side of his mouth tilting up in a lopsided grin. “I can pretend to be normal,” he said.

  “Drink, my little M.” Baptiste appeared again, shoving a flask into M’s hands. “You cannot be sober for your first experience in the catacombs.” His words were playful, but the look in his eyes suggested something else.

  Ash caught her eye and nodded meaningfully.

  There didn’t seem to be much choice, so she took a long swig. Whiskey, with a little something extra, burned her throat. She drank again, then handed the flask to Ash. He gave it back to Baptiste without drinking.

  Baptiste made a face, but didn’t argue. He danced away into the crowd again.

  “Why did I have to drink but not you?” M complained.

  “Baptiste has to trust you or he won’t take us where we need to go,” Ash said. “He already trusts me.”

  “What are you even talking about? The catacombs are great, but they’re not under Notre Dame. They won’t get us across the river and into the cathedral.” M blew out a frustrated breath. This was a waste of time.

  “They will, if Baptiste shows us where,” Ash told her. He leaned close so he could talk quietly. “Rumor is, there’s a tunnel below the riverbed, one that leads to a Roman ruin. Most people think it’s an urban legend. After all, why would there be Roman ruins in France?”

  M’s heartbeat quickened. “The pagan temple that St. Stephen’s was built on.”

  He nodded. “If anyone knows the truth, it’s Baptiste. Most of us thought he was the one who started the story, just to get people to pay him for tours.”

  “Most of us?” M repeated.

  “Baptiste said he’d show us the path. But he’s mercurial. He’ll only do it if he thinks it’s fun. So if he wants you to drink, you drink. And if he wants us to dance, we dance.” He held out his hand.

  “Are you kidding me?” M asked.

  Ash shrugged and turned away, melting into the mob of people swaying on the floor. M looked around. The candlelight gave everything an orange glow, but despite the many flames, the room remained dim. She smiled. The societies she’d studied with her father lived in candlelight. She’d never been able to experience it herself. If she closed her eyes and listened to the voices, breathed in the smoke, she could imagine she was in a banquet hall in ancient Greece, or a crowded public square in ancient Egypt. Except for the music. She began to sway to the hypnotic house beat.

  Hands grabbed her hips. M opened her eyes, startled. A guy with a buzz cut and a complicated beard was grinding against her, dancing. She elbowed him in the gut.

  “What the hell?” he gasped.

  “I’m—”

  “She’s not interested,” Ash interrupted, stepping in between them. He took her elbow and towed her into the throng of partiers. Keeping his arm around her waist, he went back to dancing, moving her with him.

  “Sorry,” M said. “I seem to have a habit of beating up people who touch me when I’m not expecting it.”

  “And you’re drunk.”

  “Maybe a little.” She closed her eyes again, and the floor went liquid beneath her feet. She leaned back, stretching her arms high. Ash’s hands slowly shifted to her lower back, supporting her. Her body hummed. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling as though her body had gone liquid too. Hers and his. Melding. Pulsing with the music. “I can still take you, though, so don’t get any ideas,” she mumbled, lips brushing against his neck as she spoke.

  Ash chuckled. “You wish.”

  He let go of her and spun away. M stumbled a little, feeling as if he had taken part of her body with him. She opened her eyes and drew a few deep breaths, attempting to clear her head. There’d definitely been more than alcohol in that flask.

  Her gaze found Ash. He looked like the music come to life—every movement fluid. She found herself wishing she was still wrapped around him, one with the music and with him.

  It was hard to believe the posh Brit, the crazy cultist, the always-annoyed travel companion of the past few days was the same guy. Ash’s face relaxed into a smile, the most genuine one she’d seen on him.

  He noticed her staring and gave her an exaggerated wink, making her laugh in a heady, hazy sort of way. Focus. She needed to focus. And not on hazel eyes and unexpected smiles and the feel of his body against hers. She was supposed to be finding her way to Notre Dame, finding a valuable artifact, or at the very least tricking Ash into telling her where Dad was. But now he was fine and she was impaired.

  Baptiste materialized at her side. “Fun, yes?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, knowing it was what he wanted to hear. And it was, but it was also overwhelming. She swallowed, trying to clear her confusion. She had to shake this off. “I’ve been all over the world,” she went on. “Drop me in some tiny village in Indonesia and I’m fine. But this…”

  “You traveled with your parents? They did not bring you to parties in boneyards?” Baptiste took a swig from the flask and offered it to her.

  “No, she needs water.” Ash was next to them now, holding out a bottle of water. “M? Drink.”

  She took the bottle and drank the whole thing, shooting him a grateful smile. Wordlessly, he handed her a granola bar from his pack. She ate it quickly.

  Baptiste looked out over the swaying crowd. “It is becoming tiresome,” he decided. “Let’s go.”

  He strode off toward the back of the room, cutting his way through the dancers without waiting. “Are you okay?” Ash asked her.

  “I will be.” But she couldn’t move. The room was slowly spinning around her, all the dancing bodies spinning with it.

  Ash took her hand and pulled. “We need to follow him.”

  “He was right,” M said, hanging on to Ash’s strong fingers like a lifeline. “It’s a completely different experience without parents.”

  “What?” Ash sounded amused.

  “Everything. Traveling. Boneyards. Everything.” M laughed, realizing how dumb she sounded. “I just mean … parents keep you safe.”

  Ash didn’t look at her. “Some parents do.” His jaw was clenched again, more like his usual self than the Ash of tonight.

  “Wait. What do you mean?” She pulled him to a stop, hand still clasped in his. She stared searchingly into his eyes.

  He stared back. “I—” he began.

  “This way, little ones,” Baptiste interrupted. He stood near a grave alcove close to the floor. “We crawl through here and find our way to a different level, yes? A very different level.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Almost there,” Baptiste said. He
sounded tired. M figured he must be coming down from the Molly. Thankfully, she was coming down too, from whatever had been in that drink. They’d been tromping around the catacombs for what felt like hours. At first, it had been fun to follow him through more of the twists and turns of the tunnels, although as they moved farther from the party it felt strange to be so alone among all the bones. Once in a while they’d come across a few explorers or somebody painting graffiti on a wall, but that was it.

  In one small room with exaggerated arches carved into all four walls, Baptiste had stopped short and pointed. A painting of Ash was in the center of one arch. It was a good likeness, instantly recognizable as him, though with longer hair. One of his eyes had been replaced with the symbol for the Eye of Horus. “Remember him?” Baptiste had asked.

  M had kept her flashlight beam on the painting, but she could still see Ash’s confusion. He physically recoiled from the image. “I didn’t know we were near this room,” he had whispered.

  Baptiste had glanced at M. “A mutual friend of ours did this portrait. It was shortly before Ashwin left us.”

  “What happened to the friend?” M had asked Ash. But he had turned away, the blank expression she’d seen him wear when he got especially stressed taking over his face.

  “He is still in prison, I believe.” Baptiste had shrugged. “This is where we descend.” He had led them to a spiral staircase hidden in the corner, and as they continued their journey, none of them had spoken of the painting—or the friend—again.

  The rest of the way they were alone, no other explorers to be seen. Soon enough, even the graffiti disappeared. The passageways were no longer well made, but rather a crisscrossing series of access tunnels for pipes and rough-hewn holes bored through the rock, leading to other access tunnels, and sometimes sewage tunnels.

  “Did you blast these holes yourself?” M asked Baptiste as they crawled through one.

  “No. But my old friend said he knew who did. The man who taught me to navigate this labyrinth,” he replied. “I don’t know if I believe him. He was a bit touched in the head.”

  “Well, somebody made them,” M said, shining her light on the walls. “I wonder why.”

  “People use the tunnels for crime. Drug deals, opium dens the police can’t find, getaway routes,” Ash said from behind her. “They connect the passages for their own purposes.”

  “And sometimes they do it and change the shape of this maze,” Baptiste added. “I don’t like when they throw off my memory. I haven’t come this way in a long time.”

  After a few hours, M had begun to doubt he really knew a way under the river.

  But now they stood in front of a crack in the wall of a low-ceilinged tunnel that was filled with knee-high water. “Through here.” Baptiste waved vaguely at the fissure. “It drops down into the foundation of the Pont au Double, then there is a passageway beneath the riverbed. My old friend told me it was dug to allow them to pull construction supplies through when building the bridge. Who knows?”

  Ash eyed the crack warily. “Have you been through it?”

  “Once. I was tripping.” Baptiste chuckled. “There were statues on the other side. Columns. Or pieces of them, at least.”

  M wasn’t thrilled at the idea of crawling underneath a river. Who knew whether this fabled tunnel was still intact? Still, they’d come this far. “Let’s get it over with,” she said.

  “Good luck, children.” Baptiste turned away.

  “You’re not coming?” Ash looked as appalled as M felt.

  “It is late, I am tired.” Baptiste patted Ash’s cheek. “Do not stay away so long this time.” He headed off the way they’d come. “And do not lead others here! It is my secret!” he called over his shoulder.

  Watching his flashlight beam grow smaller in the distance, M realized with a sick feeling that she wouldn’t even be able to lead anyone else here because she hadn’t been noting the turns they’d taken. She usually kept track of her route without even trying, but between the whiskey, the strange vibe coming from Ash, and the uncomfortable feeling of being out of her element, she hadn’t been paying attention. Would they be able to find their way out without Baptiste?

  “Do you know how to get back to the surface?” she asked Ash. She couldn’t tell how well he really knew the catacombs. He’d clearly spent a lot of time here back in the day.

  “No. But I’m sure I can find a way,” he said.

  She was amazed to realize she believed him. Ever since they’d left Boston, she had been relying on only herself. Well, and Mike. But Mike wasn’t here. Ash was. And he’d been the one handling everything tonight. He could handle this, too.

  “It will be fine. So what if it’s an unmarked tunnel rumors say will take us underneath an entire river?” she joked.

  “Not just rumor. Baptiste says it.” Ash’s lips twitched in a smile. “And he’s extremely trustworthy.”

  “You can’t even say that without laughing,” she pointed out.

  They both turned to the crack in the wall. It didn’t look like a tunnel. It looked like a broken wall.

  “I’ll go first,” Ash said. He had to turn sideways to squeeze through the fissure, and M had a flash of Baiae. Would they have to deal with another long, nearly impassable tunnel now? But in a matter of seconds, Ash called, “I’m through. It’s okay!”

  M shimmied through the crack into an old stone tunnel. The roof was low, making her crouch, but otherwise it was a much better situation than the access tunnel they’d just come from. This space was five feet wide, with a smooth floor and dry walls. They were able to walk quickly. She tried not to think of the weight of the water above, pressing down on this subterranean passage.

  “You didn’t tell me you lived in Paris,” she said.

  “It was a long time ago.” Ash sighed. “Another life.”

  “A life where you were an art student?” she asked.

  “No. What? Did Baptiste say that?” He shook his head. “I wasn’t any kind of student. I was an out-of-control kid.”

  “I thought you lived in England.”

  “I did,” he said. “Until I didn’t.”

  “Nice,” she replied. “Very cryptic.”

  “I hope we’re almost there. I’m getting worried about battery power,” he said, frowning at the flashlight beam.

  M let the subject change slide. Curious as she was, she wasn’t here to get to know him.

  “We’re going up,” Ash said. “There’s a breeze.”

  M nodded. “I feel it.” She moved ahead of him, peering into the darker blackness ahead. “There’s a bigger room there.” She hurried forward, forgetting the strange effect of the catacombs, and the worry of tunneling under the river. Her flashlight beam caught on a ridged edge of whitish stone. It was a carved bit of marble—fluted, like a column.

  “It’s just like Baptiste said! This is a broken column.” She crouched next to it. “It’s only a small chunk, but it’s clear. And look!” She ran her hand over a lip of stone jutting out from below the column. “There was a step here.” M turned and studied the ground behind them. “I wonder if the river was used as a sacred place? There could have been a well dug here—” She pointed to a tiny curve in the rock floor. “The temple would’ve been built above the river and they would’ve walked down here to use the water in rituals.”

  “So it’s the Roman temple?” Ash played his flashlight over the floor, a jumble of rock shards and dirt. M heard the doubt in his voice. To her, it was a treasure trove. She saw pottery and statuary instead of shards. The dirt was simply evidence of the years this place had lain hidden, waiting for discovery and excavation. But there was no time to study it.

  “Yes. I can’t say temple for sure, of course. It’s not an early Christian basilica, though.”

  “And that’s what we need.” Ash pulled off his jacket and wiped his brow. He looked tired. “How do we get there from here? Ruins on top of ruins, all underneath Notre Dame. How does that work?”

 
“Well…” She took in the debris filling the room. “Usually all this would be flattened and broken, just sort of piled under the newer building. But this is an actual room with intact walls. Mostly.”

  “Which means?”

  “That it must’ve been used for something after the newer church was built. Storage or something. It wasn’t filled in. It’s essentially a room within the foundations of Notre Dame.”

  “But where is St. Stephen’s?” he asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

  “Above us, somewhere.” M rubbed her neck. “Maybe. There’s no reason to think the three buildings are neatly stacked. This ruin might be two hundred yards away from the ruin of St. Stephen’s. It could even be higher than St. Stephen’s—just because they were built on the same site doesn’t mean they’re literally on top of one another.”

  Ash groaned. “Then what are we even doing here?”

  “You tell me,” she said. “You could just help me rescue my dad instead. Then I’d give you the original map and we wouldn’t have to do any of this.”

  “Or you could try to understand what’s at stake, and give me the map to make sure the world doesn’t end.”

  “Listen to yourself!” M cried. “This is my father’s life we’re talking about! I’m not going to hand over my only chance to save him because you believe in some doomsday cult nonsense.”

  The beating of wings filled her ears, and M felt something soft brush by her. Ash ducked, covering his head. “Oh, calm down, it’s just a bat,” she told him.

  A bizarre sound filled the air—birdsong.

  “Since when do bats sing?” Ash asked.

  “They don’t.” She listened. “A wren. What’s it doing down here?”

  The little brown bird flew past again, swooping close to their heads.

  “There must be an entrance somewhere. But now it’s trapped, poor thing,” M said. “It must be terrified.”

  “It keeps looping back to us…”

  “Like it wants us to follow it…” She was mostly joking, though the little bird did keep circling them.

  Ash chuckled. “You know you sound crazy, right?”