Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Christos strolled down the hall, hoping he was projecting a casual air.
The last thing he needed right now was undue attention.
He whistled softly to himself, hands tucked into his pockets and sandals clopping lightly on the marble, inconspicuously casting his gaze along each corridor he passed.
He had a sinking feeling about the conversation he’d had with Mags the day before, a persistent nagging in the back of his mind that he needed to appease before it drove him mad.
His girlfriend was many things: sweet, strong, beautiful…
but she was also clever and secretive. He loved Mags, and he could hardly begrudge her for how her past had shaped her.
Becoming crafty and adaptive had helped her survive her horrible situation.
Christos only wished at times like this that she didn’t feel the need to use those skills on him.
He reached the end of the hall and laid a calloused hand on the ornate double doors, hesitating.
The rich cherry wood was sturdy and warm-hued, carved with an intricate depiction of the Tree of Knowledge.
His lip quirked up at the irony and Christos shook out his mane of curls, trying to clear his thoughts.
A hard shove and the door swung inward to reveal the library.
A high, arched ceiling with massive skylights sent warm sunbeams cascading down on countless rows of towering stacks packed with books.
The smell of old parchment wafted over him, and Christos couldn’t help but breathe deeply, enjoying the calm that it brought.
He’d spent many hours at a desk in this room, studying the ancient texts and preparing for his ‘future’ when he’d succeed his father.
As if he could imagine fulfilling that role.
It would require his father to relinquish the throne first, something Christos knew he would never do of his own will.
His father would die before giving up his reign.
A sharp yipping greeted him as he slipped inside, and the Prince smiled at the gargoyle lounging on a cushion beside the door, wings spread behind him like a blanket and rough tongue lolling out.
Gently shutting out the world at his back, Christos knelt down to pat the creature on its stony head.
The little creatures were generally sweet-tempered, kept by many angels as pets for their companionship and usefulness, though some had been known to accompany their masters even into battle.
This gargoyle in particular was Raphael’s pet, Titanus, and he prided himself on guarding the library—even if that simply meant greeting and therefore announcing everyone who entered, now that he was getting on in years.
Christos snapped his fingers to conjure a treat for the gargoyle, patting him on the head once more to rise and make a beeline for his favorite librarian.
“Raphael,” he announced his presence to avoid startling the distracted scholar, but it was as if he hadn’t even spoken. Christos sighed and approached the desk carefully, stopping less than a foot from his former tutor.
“Raphael,” he repeated calmly, and only then did that bowed head snap up, alarm clear in those wide green eyes.
“Christos!” His pen skittered across this page, leaving a dark streak over the meticulously penned notes. He brushed his bangs from his eyes, leaving a smudge of ink on his cheek.
Christos arched a brow. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Raphael smiled, waving off the concern. “You have a bad habit of sneaking up on people.”
“Not quite,” the prince grinned. “Some of us are just more oblivious to the world.”
“Oh, come now,” Raphael chucked with a rueful grin. “You can’t blame an old man for being a bit scattered.”
“Old man!” Christos exclaimed. “You’re barely four thousand!”
“Compared to a young thing like you, we’re all just dirt walking around.” Raphael closed his book and stood, coming around the desk to greet him with an embrace. “What brings you into my domain?”
“Only visiting,” Christos said lightly. Raphael fixed him with a shrewd look.
“Is that all?” he mused. “You aren’t here to look at the vault?”
It was Christos’ turn to start. “How—”
Raphael chuckled. “We’ve had an increased interest in that old vault this week. You’re the fourth person to come asking about it. One of the visitors was your own Mary Magdalene. It wasn’t a hard conclusion to reach.”
“You’re quite clever.” Christos smiled. “I don’t suppose you know what everyone’s so interested in?”
“Oh, that’s not my business,” Raphael demurred. “There are so many artifacts in the vault, who could speculate?”
Christos hummed noncommittally, shuffling some papers on the desk absently. “Well, I’ll be heading that way then, if I might have the key?”
“Of course, Christos.” The librarian produced the ornate iron key from beneath his robes, extending the chain to the younger man. “You hardly need to ask so formally.”
“Politeness supersedes politics,” Christos quoted his mother fondly, accepting the key and striding off toward the rear of the library.
He skimmed his fingertips lightly along the shelves as he walked, his other hand caressing the swirls and ridges of the old metal key.
The tactile sensations were a pleasant momentary diversion, and Christos made a note to find time to visit his workshop later.
It was always better to be working when he was restless; some of his best pieces were made trying to soothe his anxieties.
His steps went from muffled to echoing as he stepped from the newer, carpeted area of the library and into the older portion.
The shelves here were worn and warped with age, the stone floor cold beneath his feet.
Christos amended his mental note to use his workshop time to build some new shelving for this section.
As he wound through the ancient stacks, the bound tomes gave way to scrolls, then to loose stacks of papers tied with twine. A dusty smell permeated the air and made his nose twitch. He lifted his hand to rub the itch and cringed slightly at the thick dust caked on his fingertips.
Wiping the dust off on his linen pants, Christos elected to keep his hands firmly in his pockets until he reached the large, gilded vault set into the library’s rear wall.
He eyed it critically for a moment, assessing the gaudy embossing and ostentatious gleam of the doors, then slipped the key into its slot and twisted.
The inside was much plainer, and Christos wondered if it shouldn’t be the other way around, to deter prying eyes, not entice them.
Then again, his father loved showing off.
He shut the door, glancing around the entrance foyer, at the more delicate and especially rare manuscripts housed on shelves that were literally hewn from the rock wall of the cavern. It was cooler here, and Christos shivered at the chill.
Two branching hallways swept off to either side of an alcove that housed a lone statue.
Christos winced and couldn’t repress a second shudder at the sight of himself, suspended on a cross by iron nails.
His scarred palms itched as he shifted from one foot to the other.
His hair was longer then, his form sallow and more emaciated.
But that was his delicately carved face tightened by pain, and the crimson paint represented his blood leaking down gashed ribs.
There was a very good reason this relief was stashed away in here: it made him sick to look at it.
Wrenching himself away, he turned and headed down the leftward hall, putting the memories and the phantom pains behind him. He was here to appease his subconscious, not to torment it.
Priceless images hung in the hallway, painted sceneries and carved masks and delicate woodcuttings.
Some of these had been done by Christos himself and relegated here for safekeeping.
He paused at an emotional rendering of Mags and his mother, painted sitting side by side, hands folded together as they laughed at some shared joke. His father’s work.
The man certainly had a sensitive side; it was a shame so few people could claim to have seen it. He wanted to pray that Mags hadn’t done what he suspected, but that would be rather counterintuitive. At that point he might as well march into his father’s throne room and announce it.
A noise behind him made him jump, and for a moment he panicked, wondering if he had somehow done exactly that. But when he turned it wasn’t his father approaching. Christos relaxed at the sight of Michael’s eternally steady expression. Clearly, he wasn't about to be dragged away for judgement.
“Michael,” he greeted warmly, but the tightening of the warrior’s jaw made his smile falter. Maybe this wasn’t such a casual visit. It would be a bit too coincidental if it were, he supposed, but he could still try at nonchalance. “What brings you down into the vault?”
“I have a feeling you are well aware.” Michael said with resignation, arching a brow in question and thoroughly derailing the flimsy facade.
Christos sighed. “You would be correct.”
“You don’t think she would…?”
“There’s only one way to be sure, isn’t there?” He gestured to the archway he had been about to pass through. “Care to join?”
They continued deeper into the vault and eventually reached another sealed door.
This one would not be opened by a simple key, and Christos swore when he saw there was already a sigil smeared in blood above the handle.
Michael’s expression darkened, and he yanked a small knife from a sheath on his hip.
Using the tip to prick his thumb, he traced the existing sigil carefully and left a trail of fresh gold over the dimming silver. The doorway seemed to shiver with light, then the heavy stone swung soundlessly inward.
“After you.” Michael tipped his head toward the dark space beyond, and Christos stepped wordlessly inside.