Chapter 21 Sorcha #2
He clears his throat, his voice a low echo in the chapel’s silence.
“‘Let it be known that this legacy is not one of land, but of blood. The Order of St. Bartholomew is a shield against the darkness, and its Warden must be a Gannon, bound to a founding bloodline.’” He looks up at me, his green eyes dark.
“Screw the mafia, this is a fucking secret society.”
My blood spikes. What the fuck have we walked into here?
He flips a few pages. “There’s a list of names. The original members. And a list of traitors.” His finger stops on one name. “Kavanagh. Exiled for avarice. Vowed to reclaim what he believed was his by right.”
“So this isn’t about the college,” Ciar says. “It’s about a secret society that does… what, exactly?”
My gaze drifts around the chapel, the shadows suddenly feeling deeper, older.
We haven’t just inherited a piece of property.
We’ve inherited a war. Reginald Kavanagh is just the latest soldier in a centuries-old fight.
“Good question. Secret societies have always confused me. What is the purpose of any of them?” I look at Axl, who probably has something to say about it.
His family seem the sort. Old English nobility and all that.
He flips the small book shut with a snap that echoes like a gunshot.
“They’re mostly just clubs for rich arseholes to complain about taxes and grope waitresses,” he says, his tone dismissive.
“But the old ones, the ones tied to blood and land… they’re about power.
Real power. The kind that rewrites history and decides who lives and who dies, all over a few glasses of expensive port. ”
“So what’s in the rest of the book?” Ciar asks, his gaze fixed on the leather-bound secret in Axl’s hand. “Just a list of members and traitors?”
“Let’s find out,” Axl says, his thumb tracing the worn cover.
He flips it open again, his eyes scanning the faded script.
We huddle closer, the beams of our torches creating a small, intense circle of light in the vast, oppressive darkness of the chapel.
He moves past the names, his finger tracing a line of text.
“It talks about a sanctum. A meeting place. ‘Beneath the heart of the Warden’s seat…’” His voice trails off as his eyes meet mine.
“The Warden’s seat,” I repeat, a cold dread snaking its way up my spine. “Don’t tell me Ardal Gannon had a fucking throne.”
“Not likely. It talks about a shield against the darkness. This was a religious time in the world. The church, especially the Catholic Church, held a lot of power. The fight against darkness was probably evil, and the Warden’s seat would be in here.” He glances around. “The pulpit.”
Axl doesn’t spare me a glance. He’s already moving, his torch beam cutting a path to the ornate wooden structure. Ciar is right behind him, a grim shadow refusing to be left out.
Cillian and I join Axl at the pulpit. He runs his hands over the carved wood, searching for a seam, a latch, anything out of place. I shine my torch beam into the dark interior of the structure, looking for anything that isn’t just old, dusty wood.
“Here,” Ciar grunts. He’s braced himself against the side, his fingers pressing into a section of the baseboard where the wood meets the stone floor.
There’s a low groan, the sound of stone grinding against stone.
The floor behind the pulpit shifts, a section of the flagstones sinking into the floor to reveal a set of steep, narrow steps leading down into absolute blackness.
The air that rushes up to meet us is ancient, cold, and smells of damp earth and old secrets.
Axl looks from the stairs to me. “Shall we?” he asks.
“Not again,” I grumble. “All we seem to do is lurk about under the earth’s surface.
” But my complaint doesn’t stop me from slipping into the hole and bracing my feet on the top step.
I shine my flashlight into the darkness and cautiously take the next step down.
The guys have to wait for me to move to descend behind me, so I try to pick up speed so the three of them are on the staircase with me.
“I should’ve gone first,” Ciar grunts.
“Why, so when you fall arse over tit, you don’t take Sorcha with you,” Axl quips.
“Fuck you,” he growls.
“Shut up, both of you,” I hiss over my shoulder, my voice a harsh whisper in the confined space. “Someone might be down here.”
The banter dies instantly, replaced by the soft scuff of our boots on the worn stone.
The air grows colder with every step, a damp, subterranean chill that seeps through my jacket and raises goosebumps on my arms. The beam of my flashlight cuts a shaky path through the oppressive blackness, revealing walls slick with moisture.
I have no idea if we are in the same underground as the chambers beneath the altar. It’s hard to tell when you can’t see shit.
The steps end abruptly, opening into a circular chamber.
I step off the last one onto a floor of smooth, dark stone, my beam sweeping across the space.
It’s not large, maybe twenty feet across, the ceiling a low, domed arch supported by carved stone pillars.
In the centre of the room is a round table, also carved from a single piece of black stone, surrounded by five high-backed chairs cut from rock with a sixth at the head that, correct me if I’m wrong, looks like a fucking throne.
On the wall opposite the stairs, a shield is mounted, emblazoned with a coat of arms I don’t recognise.
“The fuck is this?” Axl murmurs, stepping up beside me, his light joining mine.
“The Warden’s seat,” Cillian says from the base of the stairs. “And his council.”
My gaze lands on the throne. It is the one directly facing the entrance. It has a shamrock carved into its headrest.
Ardal Gannon’s fucking throne.