“Stay close,” Rafa says as he slowly descends. I closethe door behind us and follow, questioning my own judgment with every step.
More than forty feet below, a small, roughly hewn archway opens into a large domed cavern. There aren’t any stalagmites or stalactites or anything like that in here, but it doesn’t look man-made—the walls are rough ash-colored rock and the space inside is massive, like train-station-hall large. The stairway deposits us at the halfway point along one wall, giving us a panoramic view of the vast chamber stretching equally left and right. Small battery-powered LED lanterns are mounted at regular intervals along the walls, each secured to simple aluminum brackets hammered into the natural crevices of the rock. They're positioned about ten feet apart, creating what would be an evenly spaced ring of light around the chamber when illuminated. None are lit. In the center of the cavern, just a little to the right, is a carved marble pedestal with a shallow silver bowl resting on top. (It reminds me of a birdbath, but it’s probably an altar.) At the far wall opposite us, there is a raised platform, like a stage, and on it, slightly to the left, is an easel-like wooden lectern. Underneath my feet, a cool, refreshing, mountain-air quality wafts up into my awareness. It’s not physical, which means it’s a sign I’m near some kind of ley line, a natural wellspring of magic. According to Ms. Stryker, those can be great places to cast big magic.
But there aren’t any people here. No druids. Certainly no vampires. And no magic of any kind on the altar, not even residue. Someone could be prepping for some kind of ritual here, but the party has yet to get started.
So where’s the power I felt coming from?
I step around Rafa, just into the cavern, and my eyes are drawn like a magnet to the stand on the platform. It’s turned at an angle, and I can just make out a large closed book on it. I can tell the binding is some kind of green hide—it shines dully against Rafa’s crimson flashlight. That book is where the almond-scented, ozone-flavored magic is coming from.
I look for Collin to see how he’s reacting, and I find him behind me, literally staring down at his shoes. He appears absolutely miserable, like he wants to be anywhere but here. There are a million questions I want to ask him, but not with Rafa breathing down my neck.
Looks like I need to tempt fate a bit more.
“There’s a book over there,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “That’s where the magic is coming from. I… should check it out. Stay here.”
He takes a step forward, still sighting down the barrel of his shotgun. “It could be a trap, Alvin. Letmeget it for you.”
I quickly place my hand on his shoulder, stopping him. It’s actually quite cool that he wants to act as my human shield, and he’s not wrong to be worried about nasty surprises. I’ve heard enough of Ms. Stryker’s stories to know that evil wizards almost always protect their gear. As far as I know, Monster Hunters don’t have any special protections against magic—at least not human magic—but, as a paranormal, I should have some resistance. In theory. (At least, I think Mom said that once.) Will it be enough? I have no idea. But as much as I hate to say it, I’m the best man for the job here. And anyway, I need to be able to talk privately to Collin.
“No, Rafa. It’s got to be me.” I give him what I hope looks like a confident smile. “This is magic stuff. Keep a lookout here at the base of the stairs and let me do my thing.”
He lets go, and nods, again deferring to my expertise. (Hah!) He lowers his weapon, shifts it to his right hand, and starts to hand over the flashlight, but I wave it away and step into the cavern.
“I’m good,” I say. I want to keep my hands clear, and now that I’m in the actual chamber, I can tell the enchantment has an edge to it. It feels downright alien. Hostile.
Rafa stays where he is and shines the beam behind me, lighting my way. Several steps in, I realize I probably should have taken the torch—that would have been the most human thing to do, and I’ve seen that the Hunter does have his own night-vision goggles—but hopefully he’ll figure I’m able to see in this pitch-black room because he’s lighting the way. Whatever he thinks, it’s too late now.
I take a deep breath and cautiously approach the stand, half-expecting the book it cradles to leap at me with insect legs and hug my face. Collin trudges along next to me, his head still down.
“How you doing, Collin?” I murmur.
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here. This feels wrong.”
“Wrong like one of us could get hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
I pass by the altar. No runes or anything, but the bowl looks old. This wasn’t made by a machine—it was hammered by skilled hands. It shines with fresh polish.
Crossing another fifty feet or so, I cautiously step up a small staircase onto the platform. It has a plywood topsupported by 4x4 posts, all painted black. It looks like it was built recently—no scuffs, some sawdust around the screws, and it doesn’t make a sound as I place my weight on it. I creep to the left side of the stage, making my way around to face the lectern. The book appears ancient, but it’s not damaged. It’s biggish—about sixteen inches wide and twenty inches long. The binding gleams with a well-maintained luster similar to fine leather. It has overlapping iridescent scales, too large for snakeskin. As I move in front of it, I can now see there’s a design on the cover—an engraving in gold leaf of a large pair of cat eyes steepled over a complicated triangular knot thing?—
Holy crap! It’s the same book that was shown on the druid’s illuminated illustration! The one that supposedly could help set Collin free.
“Collin, do you recognize this? I think it’s what Tara had on one of those parchments.”
He’s just behind me. He glances over at the tome but immediately looks away, like it’s too bright somehow. “I… think so.” He closes his eyes and furrows his brow, before forcing himself to stare at it. After a moment, he says, “Yes. They wanted me to translate it. The vampires.”
Well,that’sinteresting. “So, what can you tell me about it?”
Collin just shakes his head.
“Are there any traps or anything?”
A shrug—and another miserable expression.
“I’m sorry, Alvin. I can’t help you. There’s something about its magic… We should just go.”
Boy, do I want to take that advice! The power feels low-key, but its ozone bite digs at me like an itch. It doesfeel dangerous. So, I just hover in front of the book, palms out, fingers flexing back and forth like a cartoon burglar over a bag of money.
