I’m about to turn around and go back when I see a door farther down. The weight in my chest lifts.
A door means a room, possibly access to stairs. An exit. If there are steps, I don’t know where they’ll take me. But as long as I come out above ground, I’ll be happy.
Taking my hand off the wall, I cross the shaft and make my way to the door. The first thing I notice is the color. At one time, the door was painted red, but time has altered the color. The wood has dried, and the paint has peeled.
But when I draw close enough to look squarely at the front, my stomach drops, falling down to the dirt and gravel floor.
A symbol is carved into the wood. A symbol I’ve come to recognize. A large Gothic-style V with a snake in its center.
Why is this here? Grégoire Marteau valued this emblem, enough to wear it on his clothing and engrave it on his tomb.
Grégoire Marteau.
A man who liked drinking blood.
The handle of the door is old and rusted, but I find myself reaching for the lever. The metal is rough against my palm, the decay of time scratching my skin.
I press down and push.
But the door is locked.
Air rushes from my lungs, a release of tension. As much as I need to know what’s behind this door, I’m not sure I’m prepared. Not sure I can handle the shock of whatever a sick, disturbed man might keep hidden down here.
Shaken and afraid, I turn and walk swiftly toward the niche where Luci left me. She’ll come back for me. Noah will come back for me.
Someone will. They have to.
But what if they don’t?
I come to the three-way split and look in each direction, uncertainty making me light-headed.
Then the lights go off.
I cry out in the dark, the sound raw and primal, curdled by fear.
Finding the wall, I lean against it, trying to anchor myself in the sea of black. My breaths come too rapidly, and I start to feel dizzy. Pressing my back to the wall, I slide down, squatting with my hands on my face.
My calm unravels and my sanity frays. I need to hear my mother’s voice. I need her to tell me what to do, even if her words are only a memory.
But I can’t hear her through the static in my head.
I’m on the verge of crying when male laughter floats in the air.
I shoot to my feet. “André!”
No one answers, but scuffling sounds ricochet in the dark. Footsteps on the gravel.
Not caring who I find, I slink along the wall, straining to follow the sounds. The only sign of life in the pitch black.
Another laugh, female this time. Coming from my left.
“Please, turn on the lights. I’m ready to go back up.” My voice is a rasp, barely audible over the roar in my ears. My heart, pulsing hard enough to rattle my veins.
More low sounds from ahead.
A growl, then a grunt, followed by whimpering.
“Who’s there?”
