Vampire a Go-Go(45)

Something was carved into the far end of the stone, almost up against the wall. It was about as big around as a drink coaster and worn almost smooth. Allen shifted around so he wouldn’t block the light. He examined it again.

The Freemason symbol with the pentagram in the middle. Exactly like Amy’s tattoo.

He jammed his crowbar into the crack, tried to pry up the stone. It barely budged. He grunted, his face almost going purple this time. No. He backed off. He would rupture himself.

He ran back upstairs. He spotted the big Irish priest, Finnegan, searching the altar with Penny. “Where is everyone?”

“Searching,” Finnegan said. “You find something?”

“Maybe,” Allen said. “But I need some muscle.”

They followed him down to the basement. He showed them the Freemason symbol, explaining how he’d discovered it.

“Okay, lad, get on the other side,” Finnegan said. “Put your weight into that pry bar when I give the word.”

“Right.” Allen jammed the crowbar into the crack, and stood ready.

Finnegan positioned his crowbar on the other side. “Now.”

They both grunted, sweat breaking out on their foreheads. Penny stood back.

The stone block was thicker than Allen had guessed, but they finally lifted it high enough to shove it aside, stone grinding on stone, a whoosh of air sending puffs of dust between their legs.

They slid the stone aside, revealing a three-foot hole down into deep darkness and a narrow set of stairs that could accommodate one person at a time. Finnegan shone the flashlight down but couldn’t see much.

Allen got on his belly, shoved his own flashlight into the opening. “A chamber. And a tunnel, I think.” He put his foot on the top step. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on,” Finnegan said. “Best we fetch the others first. It wouldn’t be polite to go off and get killed, letting the others wonder what happened.”

Allen felt something tug at him, some force urging him down the stairs and into the tunnel, but he resisted. “Okay.”

While Finnegan was gone, the compulsion to go ahead, not to wait for the others, nearly overwhelmed him. Part of him recognized this as Cassandra’s doing. He had to face it. There was still some intermittent hold on him, something that only kicked in at certain key moments. It was Cassandra’s will that he go down those steps. Don’t wait. He had a mission to complete for her, and every second he delayed increased his discomfort, a deep sense of uneasiness at a task uncompleted.

“Are you okay?” Penny touched his arm with soft, cool fingers.

Allen closed his eyes tight, opened them again, and looked at her. He realized he was standing rigidly, with a white-knuckle grip on the crowbar. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m a little nervous is all.”

Penny smiled crookedly. “Vampires and philosopher’s stones? I can’t imagine why anyone would be nervous.”

Finnegan returned with Amy and Father Paul. They all leaned over, gazed down into the dark black hole.

Father Paul said, “Okay. Everyone wait here. I’ll have a look.”

“No way,” Allen said. “I found it. I’m going too.”

“If he’s going, I’m going,” Penny said.

“If she’s going, I’m going,” Amy said.

Father Paul grimaced. “Fine. Don’t touch anything. Be careful.”

Amy smirked. “Did you really just say to be careful?”

Father Paul ignored her, flipped on his flashlight, and descended the stairs. “Let’s go.”

The stairs delved deeper than expected, heading straight down at first before turning into a tight curve and spiraling. Allen noticed that the passage had been carved from raw stone. It grew colder as they went.

The stairs terminated in a round, twenty-by-twenty-foot chamber, the walls carved smooth. Their flashlight beams played over the walls before coming to rest on the circular door in front of them, carved pillars on either side. A larger version of the Freemason symbol with the pentagram in the middle had been carved neatly and deeply into the center of the door.

A foot below the symbol was a phrase in another language.

“It looks familiar,” Allen said. “Not Czech.”

“It’s Latin,” Father Paul said. “‘Here dwell our dead, for nowhere else can they find rest.’”

“I think it’s a Mortality Motel,” Amy said. “Sort of a slang term the Society uses for these burial places.”

Father Paul shot her a questioning glance.

“I’ve heard talk about them,” Amy explained. “Often a Society member would get branded a heretic, all that witchcraft, you know. They couldn’t be buried in regular church cemeteries.”

“There’s an iron lever here.” Finnegan gestured to the left of the door.

Father Paul said, “Pull it.”

Finnegan grabbed the lever and pulled with both hands. It made a rusty, scraping noise as he pulled it down. There was the distant, muffled sound of grinding machinery, and the circular door rolled aside. There was a whoosh, and all of their ears popped, a gust of stale air escaping from the door crack.

“It’s been sealed a long time,” Amy said.

Penny stepped closer to Allen. “I’d rather it stayed sealed.”

They entered, all of them clustered together. Father Paul stepped on a stone, which shifted. More muffled sounds echoed throughout the cavern.

“Uh-oh.”

Allen said, “‘Uh-oh’? What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

On high shelves lining both sides of the hall, tiny flames sprang to life. The group flinched at the sudden pops of flame.

“What is it?” There was a bit of panic in Penny’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Father Paul said. “I think I just hit the light switch.”

Amy said, “Oil lamps. A spark spell to light them. Very simple to set up a remote-control trigger.”

Penny raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’ve yet to see you do one bit of magic.”

Amy gave her the middle finger.

The flickering lamps provided ample light, and they took a good look at the long hall. A vaulted ceiling arched twenty feet over their heads. The hall was fifty feet wide and twice again as long. Unadorned tombs cut from plain stone lined the walls. Clay urns sat on low pillars throughout the chamber. A dozen empty suits of armor stood along each wall, holding up swords in eternal salute, lamplight playing across dull metal breastplates.

Finnegan lifted the nearest urn carefully from its pillar, removed the lid, and peeked inside. “Looks like it’s full of dust.”

“Ashes, I would imagine,” Father Paul said. “I think you have somebody’s remains there.”

“Bloody hell.” Finnegan promptly returned the urn to its pillar.

“There.” Allen pointed to the large tomb all the way at the other end of the hall. Some instinct drew him on.

They followed Allen to the tomb. Again it was plain, except for a single word carved into the center of the lid: Roderick. Allen felt his heart beat faster.

Finnegan stepped forward. “One more time, lad.”

They jammed their crowbars into the slight crack of the tomb’s lid. The great slab of stone was unbelievably heavy. Allen felt the muscles strain along his arms and back. The Irishman’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato. Once the lid started moving, it went fast, tumbling over the other side, crashing to the stone floor with a racket to wake the dead.

No, I hope not, Allen thought. Let’s not wake the dead.

They crowded around the open tomb.

Within lay the mortal remains of Roderick, astrologer at the court of Rudolph II. Bones. The remnants of a dark robe. Roderick laughed at them with hollow skull eyes. In his thin, skeletal hands, he clutched a lead box the size of carry-on luggage. The heavy box had crushed his chest, nestled in his rib cage like it was a bird’s nest.

“Well,” Father Paul said in a voice barely above a whisper. “There it is.”

They all stood frozen a moment, the weight of history demanding a little respect.

“Let’s get the show on the road then.” Finnegan reached for the box.

“No!” Allen had not meant to shout. The idea of somebody else taking the stone suddenly panicked him. “I’ve come a long way for this. Let me.”

Finnegan looked to Father Paul, who nodded.

Allen reached inside and grabbed the box by the handle on either end. Heavy. He tried to lift it. Really fucking heavy.

Finnegan said, “Lad, maybe I should-”

“No, no,” Allen said. “I got it.”

With a final heave, Allen was barely able to lift it out. Roderick’s skeletal fingers slid from the box. The skull’s mouth opened.

And screamed.

The shriek was painful. They clapped their hands over their ears-all except Allen, who refused to let go of the box. The scream seemed as much in his mind as in his ears. After an eternal five seconds, the scream stopped.

And something else moved.

The suits of armor along the walls began to take lumbering steps toward them, their swords lifted high.

“Oh, shit,” Penny said.

Finnegan and Father Paul drew pistols. “I think Roderick sounded the burglar alarm.”

The suits of armor creaked and clanked, seemed to be working out the kinks, moving faster to cut off the group’s escape route back to the surface.