The Tunnels
Charlotte
We have been walking for hours, and although we have covered a good amount of ground, including half-flooded tunnels and old drainage routes that doubled back on themselves, we wasted far too much time discovering that several of the maps were, as we were warned, inaccurate.
Still, we have not found the crack in the veil.
I sigh, frustrated, pushing damp strands of hair away from my face. Even my Schattenblüte outfit is beginning to itch now, clinging uncomfortably to me; it’s soaked with the water from down here, and the dirt sticks to me disgustingly. I want to shower and get into something dry and clean.
The tunnels beneath the Desert Storm Pack are worse than the grounds above.
Old, dark bloodstains mar the stones where the water never rose high enough to wash them away.
Some are a little more than damp smudges now, faded by time, but others remain disturbingly clear.
The worst are the ones marked with deep scratches, gouged into the tunnel walls as if someone had dragged their nails through stone while trying to get away.
This pack…
I feel uncomfortable here.
And Ares can deny it all he wants, but he hates it here, too.
He walks ahead of me, his shoulders tight beneath his jacket, and for a man who complains as easily as he breathes, his silence says more than any of his insults ever could.
“Let’s stop for the night,” he says suddenly, his deep voice echoing along the damp walls.
I look up sharply.
There are only two nights until the Blood Moon ball, and I don’t want to miss it.
“We can keep going for another hour,” I say.
“It’s late. We’ll take a break, sleep, then come back and make a head start tomorrow. We need to find a place to crash, too.”
“We can just sleep in the car,” I reason.
His brow cocks. “Didn’t expect that from an Arden.”
I frown. “I’m not a Rossi.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I freeze. That sounded far worse than I meant it to.
There are, admittedly, a few Rossi women with very high standards, but it’s not a crime, and I do not particularly wish to be overheard insulting incredibly strong women. “I mean,” I begin, already regretting the words that had slipped out. “I have slept in worse places before.”
“Oh, I got what you meant, Princess.” His mouth curves into a smirk. “Hearing someone mock a Rossi, I’m not complaining.”
“They aren’t all like that,” I add defensively. He snickers, and I straighten, pointing at him. “You had better not tell anyone I said that.”
“Now that you’ve told me not to, I might just wanna.”
“Then you better not ‘wanna’.” I glare back at him.
“Alright, I won’t tell anyone you mocked the Rossi divas if you get your ass up and we get out of here for now.”
I purse my lips. “An hour.” I am not about to let him use anything I said to gain leverage.
He narrows his eyes, about to argue, when I feel something through my power. “Listen to me, Arden, it’s fucking late; we’ll make a head start tomorrow-” I lift a finger to his lips, but don’t touch them, not with being down here in this disgusting place. See, I’m thoughtful.
His mouth shuts, though judging by his expression, it costs him.
My aura stirs around me, faint and green, threading carefully into the water beneath our boots. I close my eyes, breathing past the stink of old stone, blood, damp rot and whatever else has been sitting in these tunnels for decades.
There.
Something brushes the edge of my senses. It’s not too clear; it feels buried too deep for me to reach properly.
“I can sense something,” I whisper. “Can you try to feel and reach it with your powers?”
His mouth curls into a smirk. “Are you admitting I’m more powerful, Arden?”
I stare at him. “Just do as I said, Westwood.”
“Admit the Deimos line is superior first.”
I scoff before I can stop myself. I hate that I am even responding to his idiocy, but he has a remarkable gift for getting under my skin.
“Stop being a Deimos brat and do what I said.”
His eyes sharpen with dark amusement. “A Deimos brat?”
He steps towards me, and I almost step back, but I hold my ground.
“That’s rich coming from a Solaris runt, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “Your god’s the one who couldn’t take a fucking no. Ah, yeah…” His smirk turns victorious. “The one I helped defeat.”
He winks at me. This bastard actually winked!
My stomach knots in a way I am not comfortable with.
His words are not wrong. He did help defeat Helios with his brothers.
I know that. Everyone knows that. It is not as though that event hasn’t been recorded for the history books.
The Westwood brothers are formidable, and their reputation has gained them international fame.
They entered the Realm of the Gods, and they fought a god. And yes, they won.
To many, they are seen as almost gods already; three of them are chosen and favoured by gods, but some people already see them as the embodiment of those very gods. They may be tall, handsome and powerful, but they are not gods, no matter what anyone says.
Still, I lift my chin. “It sounds like a fabricated myth. I mean, maybe to some extent, but really? You? Defeat a god? Keep dreaming, Westwood.”
His eyes narrow. “You know I fucking did.”
I imitate his shrug, then his wink. “It is not true unless I saw it, and I didn’t.”
A slow, dangerous amusement crosses his face. “Ah. I get it. Hurting the Solaris god offends his subjects.”
I open my mouth to reply, but before I can say anything, Ares moves.
One second, he is in front of me, irritating, arrogant and far too pleased with himself.
The next, he is a blur of speed and power.
My back hits the wall before I even understand what is happening.
His arm is already raised behind my head, taking the force so my skull does not meet stone.
Water surges around us in a violent arc, crashing up from the shallow stream at our feet and forming a thick, rippling wall between us and the tunnel.
His body presses close, shielding mine.
Too close.
Close enough that I feel his hard muscles against me, sense the heat beneath his damp clothes, the storm in his aura as it coils around us.
For one startled second, I forget to breathe.
Then I see it, on the other side of the water, a shadowy figure, tall and distorted, a form that I can’t place to any beast. It stands exactly where I had been moments ago, its shape flickering behind the wall Ares raised between us.
A low snarl tears through the tunnel, sending a shiver running through me, and then it bolts back into the darkness.
I stare after it, my heart pounding.
“I did not sense that,” I murmur.
Ares’ eyes remain fixed on the tunnel, blazing silver. “Well, clearly the Deimos senses are superior.”
This time, the arrogance does not feel quite as unbearable, perhaps because he has just saved me. Or perhaps because his arm is still braced protectively beside my head, and his body has not yet moved away from mine.
I clear my throat. “Then I owe you a small thanks.”
His gaze drops to me.
A mistake.
Because now I notice how close his face is. The water wall throws shifting reflections across his features. His expression is hard, but beneath it there is a focus I do not quite know what to do with.
Then he suddenly steps back.
“And are we not going to kill it?” I ask, looking down the tunnel as I try to regain my composure.
“Not unless we want the whole place to collapse.”
The same thought reaches me just as the words leave his lips. He’s right. A fight down here could bring the entire tunnel down on top of us.
“Yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “I figured. Dumb question.”
“You are blond.”
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn to look at him.
“And what the hell are you?” I ask icily.
His hair is not brown. Not truly. Dark sandy blond at most.
“My hair is brown.”
“It is sandy blond.”
“It isn’t.”
“I would call it more blond than not,” I say, stepping towards him. “Do not insult me for being blond when you are one stormy mood away from being called golden blond.”
His mouth twitches. “Touché.”
“I am warning you, Westwood.”
“So calling you a dumb blond gets to you?” he taunts.
“Oh, you are such an arsehole.”
He lets out a low, throaty chuckle that settles somewhere irritatingly beneath my skin. It is infuriating how pleased he looks, as if annoying me is more satisfying than any actual victory.
“So the ice princess’s controlled facade can be broken,” he murmurs, leaning down slightly.
My pulse quickens, and I hate how his eyes flick to mine almost knowingly.
The bastard.
Then he steps back with the expression of someone who has just discovered buried treasure.
“Let’s stop for the night,” I say, refusing to entertain him any further.
“Finally.”
He turns and leads the way down the tunnel, moving as if he knows exactly where he is going.
For a while, I let him.
Then we reach a split.
Three tunnels branch out in front of us, all damp, dark and unpleasantly similar. Ares steps towards the left tunnel without hesitation.
I frown. “Wait,” I say. “Let me check the maps.”
“Those maps aren’t accurate.”
“They are more reliable than your ego.”
“My ego didn’t get us lost twice.”
“Neither did I.”
He glances over his shoulder. “You told me to take the tunnel with the broken arch.”
“Because the map showed it connected to the eastern channel.”
“It connected to a dead end full of rats.”
“Not my fault; the wall had collapsed after the map was drawn, which is hardly my fault. Let’s go right.”
“Na, the right tunnel route is shit.”
I inhale slowly through my nose.
Patience.
I am full of patience.
No, I am not.
I open the tablet, wiping moisture from the screen with my sleeve.
The old map flickers beneath my touch, the lines of the tunnels glowing faintly.
It shows the left passage reconnecting with the main drainage route, but the angle is wrong.
The central passage is unmarked, and the right one should have collapsed decades ago.
“Left looks correct,” I say carefully, because I hate that he may be right.
He smirks arrogantly. I immediately regret speaking, and he leans over me.
“Say that again.”
“No.”
“Come on, Princess.” His voice is lower, and I hate how it sounds.
“I said it looks correct. That is not the same as saying you are correct.”
“Ain’t it?”
Urgh, Selene and Helios, give me strength to bear this unbearable man.
I follow, muttering under my breath, because, naturally, the one time I would like him to be wrong, the tunnel does reconnect exactly where he said it would.
Unfortunately for him, his victory lasts less than five minutes.
The passage narrows, then dips sharply into black water that reaches halfway up the walls. The air coming off it is foul and stagnant.
Ares stops. I look at him. “This was left, wasn’t it?” I ask innocently.
He narrows his eyes, and despite the inconvenience of him getting it wrong, the satisfaction of him being wrong feels so worth it.
He stares ahead, jaw tense. “Right, one wrong. Careful, Arden. You sound happy.”
I smile sweetly. “Not at all, just stating facts.”
We backtrack, but the return takes longer than it should because the tunnels seem determined to punish both of us for our confidence. Ares is right twice, I am right twice, and neither of us is gracious about it.
By the time we finally reach the ladder shaft, my boots are soaked, my hair is damp, and mud has splattered the lower half of my outfit.
Ares looks no better. His jacket is wet, his hair darker with rain and tunnel water, and the scrape on his leg has bled through the torn denim again; I notice it hasn’t healed as quickly as it should have. For an alpha… that’s concerning.
“Don’t.”
“It should have healed by now,” I say.
“It’ll heal,” he says dismissively.
The broken ladder is still useless, so Ares climbs first, using the side brackets and the cracks in the wall more than the remaining rungs. When he reaches the top, he hauls himself out into the rain, turns back immediately and holds his hand out to me.
“I can climb,” I clarify, glancing at his hand and then at him.
“The ladder’s still fucked.”
“I know.”
“Then take my hand, Arden. I’m not asking you to fucking marry me.”
“I’d say no,” I say quickly.
“Do you wanna get outta here or not?” he growls.
For a moment, I consider arguing purely on principle, but the thought of somewhere dry to sleep makes me concede, and I take it.
His grip closes around mine, firm and warm despite the cold, and he pulls me up with infuriating ease. I land beside him on the muddy ground, closer than necessary, his hand still wrapped around mine for half a second too long.
Then he lets go. The rain that pours down feels clean compared to the tunnels, and I take in a deep breath of the air. Neither of us says it, but we’re both happy to be out of there.
Once we reach the car, he pauses. “Find the nearest place to stay. We’re not sleeping in the car.”
And despite feeling relieved about that, I don’t show it. “Too good for it, Westwood?”
“I’m too wet, too hungry, and too pissed off to fold myself into the driver’s seat and pretend that I’m fine with it,” he growls. “We’re getting a hotel. Or an inn. Or whatever miserable place exists near murder land with a roof and hot water.”
I wipe the rain from my face with my sleeve, getting in. “Sounds… fair.” Sounds excellent, actually.
“Careful, Princess,” he says, climbing into the car. “You sound like you’re agreeing with me.”
“Do not get used to it.”
He starts the engine and glances over at me. “Too late.”