Page 83 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

That made her feel a little better.

“Anyhow, I doubt the Papacy, even a hip, modern Pope like Francis, would ever permit a film company to tramp around down here, Indiana Jones or not. And definitely not a troop of angel vampires,” Zeb remarked.

“Not to mention presumably pagan Vikings, except for you.”

“I thought I was going to become a Viking-by-marriage?”

“No, that was a vangel-by-marriage.” Had she just indirectly agreed to this crazy wedding idea? She felt her face color.

He turned and winked at her to show that he understood her obvious dismay and that he’d been just teasing. Which caused her to blush even more. Those blasted long eyelashes of his!

Zeb took her hand as they entered one slightly wider channel. It wasn’t meant to be an intimate action, but it felt that way to Regina. And, yes, she smelled fresh rain, not the dust and cold stone of the ages.

After they’d left Nigeria and before they’d teletransported to Rome, Regina had used Nicole’s laptop to do a bit of quick research. She’d discovered that the catacombs had been carved by slaves beginning almost two thousand years ago out of tufo, a soft volcanic rock which hardened on exposure to air. Mostly, there were wall graves, arranged vertically, one on top of the other, like stone drawers, each holding one or several bodies. But there were also burial rooms for families that allowed for meals to be eaten belowground with the dead. Seriously! And chapels. All with beautifully decorated frescoes and sculptures.

The immensity of this was exemplified by the Catacomb of St. Domitilla, which, alone, was spread over nine miles and contained four million skeletons and an amazing fresco of The Last Supper. Not to mention its own basilica.

Then there was the Bone Chapel, or Capuchin Crypt, whose chapel was lined with the bones of 4,000 monks, including several still in priestly, hooded garb, arranged upright in alcoves, staring down at any visitors who stepped into the chamber. Eerie!

If that wasn’t enough, this arrangement of crypts and chapels was repeated on at least four different known layers or stories, connected by narrow steps. Truly, the catacombs earned their title of City of the Dead.

Regina and Zeb and their vangels were, of course, nowhere near the public areas. In fact, they were so far down, there were several stories of tombs between them and those already discovered.

Finally, they emerged into a large clearing, which was actually an underground church or chapel. “This is it,” Zeb said, looking at a map in his hand which he’d drawn up after talking with Cnut earlier today.

They all walked hesitantly into the immense circular space, and were stunned at what they saw.

On second glance, Regina noted that the room was not really circular, but twelve-sided, with a diameter of roughly a hundred feet. Above was a vaulted ceiling that rose into a high dome. On the center hub was painted the Resurrection, or Christ rising to Heaven, surrounded by angels.

“Holy shit!” Zeb muttered, and pointed to one particular section of the fresco. “Is that who I think it is?”

Yep. Good ol’ Michael was peering down at them from behind a cloud. The artist must have had a personal acquaintance with some of the heavenly hosts. Heck, maybe the artist had been an angel.

The magnificently detailed frescoes on the spokes depicted the twelve disciples. There was no natural light here, of course, but the beams of their flashlights and headlamps reflecting off the colored stones that lined the panels appeared like stained glass windows, just as they would have by candlelight when this artistic masterpiece had been created.

“Oh, Zeb!” was all she could say.

“Don’t touch anything,” Zeb said when one of the vangels was about to pick up a gold chalice. His voice echoed around the room, the acoustics designed to enhance the chants of the clergy who once worshipped here. “The oils in the skin would cause these objects to degenerate or lose their historical integrity. Just our being here would horrify archaeologists.”

Regina gave him a glance of surprise. Of all things for him to be worried about!

“I’m just sayin’,” he replied with a blush coloring his cheeks, evident even in the dimness of their artificial lights. She loved when she could make him blush, which wasn’t often.

Some of the vangels had already dropped to their knees and were praying. The room had that effect on them all.

Beneath the twelve spokes were niches carved into the wall. Small wooden chests sat in each of the openings, the kind that might very well hold the bones of the saints, or some religious article that belonged to them. Certainly the apostles themselves weren’t buried here; Regina didn’t think so anyway.

“I bet there are relics of the apostles here,” Dagmar whispered, to no one in particular, but her voice carried.

Regina recalled that some of these old domed churches had “whispering galleries,” certain spots in the space where sound was deliberately echoed.

“You may be right,” Zeb agreed. “The Christians were big on having churches built on even one tiny bit of bone. Some of them were ridiculous, like a toe of the baby Jesus.”

Zeb’s jest seemed almost sacrilegious in this “holy” place.

“Well, some of them were real, too,” Dagmar countered.

“I can still smell the incense they used here,” Inga said. She sniffed the dry air. “Like cloves, it is. No. Cinnamon.”