Chapter 26 The Crypts #2
She was now certain that although she had not been possessed this time, something in these crypts was trying to harm her.
Why else would it have responded to the copper coins?
Whatever it was, it was likely drawn to her in the same manner as the spirits aboveground.
And yet, the ghosts—more often than not—had some purpose in finding her.
It seemed to her that the creature in the crypts had only one intention: to harm her. But why?
“Where did you hide the parchment?” came Rami’s suspicious voice, breaking her thoughts.
She was glad of the shadows within the crypts, hiding another infuriating flush. St. Silas tactfully didn’t answer.
She paused. “In a hidden pouch,” she responded vaguely. “Where else?”
She could see St. Silas’s shoulders silently shaking ahead of her, and she longed to bare her teeth at him.
Leena had the lingering apprehension that whatever had tried to choke her was following them, and that the copper coins had deterred but not vanquished it.
She felt a real fear that the crypts held more than the Avon family’s final resting place.
She tried not to alarm the others, but she furtively threw glances around her with every turn of the passage.
It was the footsteps that had Leena jumping forcefully.
All three of them instantly halted.
There was no mistaking it—footsteps not far behind them.
St. Silas hissed for both of them to extinguish their lamps, keeping only his lit. For a wild moment, Leena thought it was the creature coming back to fulfill its purpose with her, but no. As she listened closely, the footsteps sounded human. Rhythmic and heavy.
They ran.
Struggling to keep their own footsteps quiet, St. Silas led them farther through the maze of passages. The sound of oncoming steps was farther away now, but still present, the stone walls echoing them as if they were coming from all directions.
Ahead of her, St. Silas swerved around tight corners, across identical paths, and down a flight of stairs. Not once did he waver in his direction. Behind her, she heard Rami stumble.
“Don’t turn back,” Rami warned as he picked himself up, abandoning his lamp.
St. Silas finally halted in front of a doorway.
Leena could not control her own raspy intake of air as they stopped behind him.
Unlike the other wooden or metal doors they had passed, this one was carved from pale limestone—the same material used for the entirety of Weavingshaw’s exterior.
The Avon crest was carved into the center.
A wolf. A Deathgrip. And, between them, a circle and a cross.
I complete what is mine.
“We’ve arrived.” In spite of their sprint, St. Silas’s breathing remained even. “Welcome to the Avon family graveyard.”
He rammed the door open with his shoulder.
The lock must’ve been broken years ago, for it gave way easily.
The expansive chamber was made of the same limestone, spanning the floor and vaulted ceiling.
Only the tombs were made of dark stone, and there were at least eighty of them dotted across the room, safeguarding the decomposing bodies of the nobility.
They were eerie in their stillness.
Grim statues of old Avon lords watched them, their faces frozen in expressions of disinterest and old-blood superiority, spider’s webs collecting across their bodies. A silver shield carrying the family crest gathered rust by Leena’s feet.
“We bury our dead in the ground, wrapped only in sheets.” Rami looked around in distaste. “We see it as a homecoming.”
Leena understood what he meant. The word for death in Algaraan also meant return.
This place felt unnatural, a stalling of time.
It was as if the aristos thought they could curb the decay of death by enclosing their corpses in marble.
In her peripheral vision, she saw St. Silas’s head turn searchingly as he took in the chamber, his chest rising and falling.
Leena also searched for spirits, but it was oddly barren for a place full of the dead. At the far end of the chamber, she spotted a pianoforte, the black and white keys gleaming in the dimness. Why was there a piano in a crypt?
She squinted…Yes, she could see a sitting figure playing it, but no sound emerged from the instrument.
Finally, a spirit.
She could never mistake the distinctive features of Moira—not after the events of the possession.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Either the footsteps were following them, or they had the same destination. It didn’t matter which at this moment; the priority was to remain undiscovered.
“We have nowhere else to go.” Rami reached for the hilt of his sword, looking at the closed limestone door in apprehension. “Could we hide behind the tombs?”
St. Silas pulled out his pistol, also aiming at the door. “They’ve come with lanterns. Our shadows will reveal us.”
Leena turned frantically to Moira. “Help us.”
Both men looked at her in surprise, but she ignored them, her entire attention focused on the spirit.
Moira regarded her for a long moment as if debating her request. Then she tilted her head toward St. Silas.
“I will owe you a debt. Please help us,” Leena pleaded.
Slowly, Moira nodded. Then the spirit walked toward one of the gray tombs near the entrance, her hand banging soundlessly on a stone cover.
Leena understood.
“The tomb,” she gasped. “We can hide in there.”
St. Silas remained rooted to the spot even as Rami ran toward the tomb. “No,” he ground out.
The approaching footsteps, accompanied by a glow of bright light, were more distinct now, directly behind the door.
“Help me lift the cover.” Leena threw her entire weight on the heavy lid.
A leak in the chamber ceiling had damaged the outer facade of the tomb, making the deceased’s name impossible to read.
It could not have been Lord Avon’s tomb because, when they managed to slide it open, the interior was empty.
Still St. Silas stood motionless where he was, pistol clenched tightly in his hand. “I’d much rather fight.”
Leena threw him a sharp glance, but there was no time to ask any questions. “What are you doing?” She grabbed him by the arm and tugged him toward the tomb, but he would not budge. “St. Silas!”
“…the tomb—” His voice was strangled.
“Will be our final resting place if we don’t move now.” Leena spoke between her teeth, pulling at his hand with all her strength. “Don’t force your haunting on me.”
At this, he startled and stared down at her. Swallowing harshly, he nodded. Leena wasted no time in following him, squeezing herself into the tight space, wondering how they’d manage to fit all three of them in.
“Come on, Rami,” she urged, her breathing harsh.
Rami shook his head even as he started to move the cover above them. “Someone has to push the lid over you.”
“No—”
“I owe you both, for that night with the Black Coats.”
“Rami—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, with the glint of a feral grin. “I’ll find somewhere to hide.”
“Rami—”
It was too late. He pushed his weight against the stone lid, plunging them into darkness save for a tiny slit for air. Rami extinguished the last remaining lamp, then came the sound of scattered footsteps running.
Silence.
Leena counted her own wild heartbeats.
One. Two. Three—
Sudden brilliant light speared the space between coffin and lid.
Voices.
Leena prayed furiously that Rami was hidden.
She was aware that she was pressed closely against St. Silas as the tomb seemed smaller than average, designed to fit a small person—a child?
St. Silas took up most of that space. Her cheek lay against his hard chest while she continued to count with the rhythm of his breathing.
He was warm, in a way that made Leena want to tunnel closer to him until he had suffused her entirely.
Without realizing it, her hands were gripping his shirt as if her body was afraid to be torn from his, and she had to consciously unlatch her fingers.
Seven. Eight. Nine—
Leena was not expecting the distinctly rough voice that echoed in the chamber to be that of Mr. Martin, followed closely by Lord Kilworth’s. She stifled her gasp against St. Silas’s shoulder.
“…Orley offers the best guarantee. I won’t go over his head for some harebrained scheme of yours.”
A cultured accent, slippery as oil. Kilworth. “Why go through a middleman? Why sell the Tar to the Black Coats when it was your boat that took the risk to smuggle it, and it was my capital that bought it in the first place?”
Leena’s brows shot up. Tar? They were smuggling drugs?
Martin snorted. “Can you package that Tar and convert it from powder to liquid? Bribe the soldiers to look the other way? Will it be yourself who is selling it on the streets?” He cleared his throat—a loud wet sound that echoed. “Stick to hunting, Kilworth. Do not overextend yourself.”
A tense silence.
“That’s Lord Kilworth, Martin,” His Lordship corrected disdainfully.
A pause, then Martin’s reluctant apology.
“Show me the supply,” Lord Kilworth interrupted. His footsteps sounded very near their tomb. Leena held her breath, wondering where in this vast chamber Rami was hiding, and whether it was good enough to keep him out of trouble.
A scuttle. A harsh grunt. Then the sound of stone grating against stone—the lid of a tomb being pushed open.
“It’s all here, and it’ll fetch a good price.” Martin’s voice was low, but Leena didn’t miss the admiration in it. “I know it would’ve saved us some time had we kept the supply in the smugglers’ caves as you requested, my lord, but the low oxygen in the vaults will keep the Tar exceptionally pure.”
Leena looked at St. Silas.
She expected him to be listening with his usual predatory intent; what she didn’t expect was the change that had overtaken him. Even within the thin slash of light creeping through the slit, Leena saw that his face was stripped of color and his body was as rigid as a corpse.