The passageways twisted and turned. His shoulders scraped the sides, but he did not slow. Bernard kept to his heels or strode alongside when he could. Plainly Bernard had noted the trail ahead, too, while in turn marking their own path with drops of blood.
Rhun tuned out that crimson note, while trying his best not to listen to the frightened beat of Erin’s heart. Yet, despite her fear, she kept going, unflagging in her determination and will. Jordan’s heart also raced, but Rhun knew it was more in fear for her safety than his own.
Behind him, the beams of their flashlight bumped along, illuminating the way in short bursts. As they moved ever deeper, he noted tendrils of blackness snaking along the ceiling, looking like the smoky curl of living vines. The deeper they went, the thicker the tendrils grew, seeming to rise from the depths below.
He wafted a tendril to his face and coughed its foulness back out as he sniffed. It reeked of sulfur, but also of rotting flesh, of corruption, of the darkness of an ancient crypt.
He shared a worried glance with Bernard.
Then Bernard’s gaze snapped forward.
Distracted, with his senses addled by the dark smoke, Rhun almost missed it. A scuff of bare feet, a whisper of cloth—then the others were upon them, blades flashing in the dark.
Strigoi.
A trap.
Rhun and Bernard met the sudden charge with silver and swiftness, their movements a synchronized blur. The two had fought alongside each other many times in their long lives. They felled the first two easily enough—but more surged from tunnels ahead, stirring the darkness with their damnation, filling it with the hiss of their ferocity.
Luckily, the tunnels were narrow, limiting how many could reach them at any one time. Instead, the pack seemed more determined to hold them back, to wear the Sanguinists down. Perhaps, for Iscariot to be victorious, it did not require killing the Sanguinists. He merely had to hold them in check, to buy himself enough time to complete his task here.
Which offered Rhun hope.
If Iscariot sent these beasts to thwart them, there must be something worth thwarting.
Maybe we are not too late.
Rhun gritted his teeth and fought on.
Gunfire erupted behind them. A glance back showed more strigoi appearing to their rear. Either they had lain in wait, or others had circled this maze to come behind them. Jordan’s machine pistol tore through the first bodies. Erin had a pistol out, too, popping past the soldier’s shoulder.
“Help them,” Bernard said. “I can hold the front.”
But for how long?
Rhun turned and added his blade to the battle in the rear, the trio working efficiently together. Erin slowed them with well-placed shots to knees and legs. Jordan strafed heads, blasting apart skulls. Rhun took out anything that got close.
They held their own, but time ticked away.
Surely that was Iscariot’s goal.
Then past the mass of strigoi, figures in black robes swept into view, cutting through the rearguard, their silver crosses flashing in the darkness.
Sanguinist reinforcements.
Christian led them, blades in both hands. He cut a swath through the remaining strigoi to join them. Jordan clapped him happily on the shoulder.
More Sanguinists swept past to join Bernard.
Rhun followed.
Bernard pointed to the surrounding labyrinth of passages. “Spread out. Clear our flanks!”
Moving again, Rhun redoubled his efforts, slashing strigoi and forcing the party ever forward. Ahead the tunnel widened, revealing a subterranean river, a bridge, and a torchlit cavern beyond.
Rhun and Bernard drove the remaining strigoi over the edge of the river and into the boiling water below, where they were swept away. The Sanguinist reinforcements swelled behind them, bolstering their rear.
Erin joined Rhun, pointing through the sulfurous steam of the river. Vague shapes moved out there, but there was no mistaking the silhouette of a sacrifice.
“Hurry!”
Together, the team raced across the slick stone of the arched bridge.
As soon as Rhun’s foot touched the floor on the other side, the very air changed, going as cold as a tomb in the dead of winter. Erin and Jordan’s breath blew white as they gasped at the change. But far more chilling was the horrific sight that awaited them.
In the room’s center, a pale shape lay pinned under ropes atop a black stone. A cloud of dark fog enveloped him completely, churning and swirling, reaching the arched roof and stretching to every tunnel, snaking out tendrils, questing for the open air.
The place reeked of doom and corruption.
The familiar gray figure of Iscariot stood limned against that dread force, a triumphant expression on his face.
Beyond the altar, a woman hung from the wall, her dark skin shining, her eyes seemingly aglow.
“It is she!” Bernard said, clutching his sleeve.