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CHAPTER SEVEN: WHEN SYDNEY FOUND

MORGAN LEWIS

 

It hadn't taken Sydney as long as she feared it would to return to the main passage. This time, she was careful to study her environs thoroughly, noting the footprints and broken cobwebs.

By that time, weariness had settled on her heavily. Her watch said it was just passed midnight, but it felt so much later. She had been wandering in the castle for hours, and the grime was so thick on her skin that it seemed like a permanent part of her. Her last shower was just a dim memory. Had it only been that morning? Only the knowledge that she was getting very close to La Mort Rapide kept her steps from faltering.

She supposed later that it was the weariness of her trip through the castle and the days of failure and and sleeplessness before it that made her completely miss the trigger for the next trap. Whatever it was, Sydney gave a squeak of surprise as the floor beneath her began to move. Then, suddenly, it dropped away, and she found herself falling.

The fall was mercifully short, but ended with her landing on something hard that crunched under her body's weight. Her flashlight had flown from her hand when the trap opened, and it hit less than a second later, its faithful light finally going out. She hoped it wasn't broken.

Knowing the direction it had fallen, she started to feel her way towards it. Whatever she had fallen on started to shift with her movement, and her fingers felt something smooth but splintered. Her questing hands also encountered something round. She ran her fingers down it and they plunged into a hole. She drew in a sharp breath of disgust and snatched her hands away as she suddenly realized that she had fallen on some poor bugger's remains. The snapping as she landed had been his bones breaking.

“This hunt keeps getting better and better,” she grumbled.

It was a good thing Nigel wasn't there, she thought. Skeletons always made him squeamish. She grit her teeth, denying that she could be bothered with such concerns, and forced herself to reach forward once more.

It wasn't long before she found her flashlight and jiggled the button. To her relief, it came on immediately, as strong and as dependable as before.

This was when she got her first look at her cell mate. Rather worse for wear since she had fallen on him, he looked as malevolent as the skeletons she had passed earlier that night. His sightless eyes seemed to stare at her with a burning hunger, and his teeth seemed to grin at her with evil intent.

Sydney blinked hard and pushed those thoughts away. She told herself that he was just someone who had died long ago—some poor sap who had fallen in the trap and couldn't get out. Any harm he could have done was far in the past.

Even so, she couldn't take her eyes off the remains as she dug in her satchel for her crossbow. She noted that the skull lay at the feet of the skeleton, as if his head had been chopped or ripped off. There might be a blade trap in the pit; she kept her senses alert for it.

Sydney hooked the crossbow's rope to one of its arrows. Though thin, she knew the rope could hold her—it had on several occasions. Above her, the ceiling was made in blocks, just as the walls were. Between the stones were small gaps, just wide enough for an arrow to bury itself.

Aiming for a place close to the edge of the pit, she pulled the trigger. A bolt shot out, embedding itself in the ceiling. Sydney tugged on the rope until she was satisfied the rope would hold. The pit was only eight feet deep, and the rough edges would let her feet help her hands lever her out of the hole.

“I can't say I'm sorry to say good-bye,” she told the skeleton cheerily, her voice echoing loudly in the small space.

Then, she began her climb. The wall tore at her knees, and the rope burned her hands, but she ignored it. That kind of pain was as familiar to her as breathing.

As quickly as she could, Sydney scrambled up the side of the pit. She held her flashlight in her mouth because both of her hands gripped the rope tightly.

Clearing the top, she gratefully crawled the rest of the way out before unhooking her arrow from the ceiling.

While she was putting the crossbow back in her satchel, she took out Turnbull's notes for one last perusal. As far as she could tell, she would soon be entering the final corridor. Only one sentence remained in the notes: Water brings you through the fire, but it's blood that makes a heart beat.

Looking ahead, she could see the last fork. It was so close that a few steps would take her to it. She knew that she could face Lewis at any moment. The man could be lurking in the next corridor, waiting for her, with La Mort Rapide clutched in his hands.

It was with great caution that she entered that corridor. Her body was tensed and ready to fight.

The hallway felt empty; none of her senses picked up any signs of life. Even so, Sydney kept alert as she flashed her light along the walls, ceiling, and floor. Lewis might not be waiting there, but traps could come from any direction.

The floor beneath her feet was tiled in different colored stones. Though they were faded, Sydney made out blues and reds and greens. Something about their placement niggled in the back of her mind. Everything about the corridor was eerily familiar. She reached for the memory.

It suddenly hit her with the power of a closed fist as her foot moved forward to land on a green tile. Immediately, Sydney turned away. There was a roar behind her and heat blasted her back as fire shot from the floor. The scent of smoke, burnt flesh, and open graves filled the corridor, overwhelming and replacing the stench of moldy death Sydney had been living with for hours.

The sound and heat disappeared as quickly as it came, though the smell lingered. Sydney knew her face was pale, and she could feel her hands shaking as she started forward, carefully stepping on only blue stones. That had been closer than even she could be comfortable with.

She followed the blue stones until the corridor ended abruptly in a solid wall. Like the floor, it was made of big blocks of colored stone. The difference was that these colors were bright, almost as if they were still wet. The stone in the middle of the wall was red. It was ringed outward by alternating squares comprised of green and blue blocks. Sydney settled both of her feet on one of the floor's blue stones and studied the wall.

It only took her seconds to decide that the answer lie in the red stone. The last line of Turnbull's notes pointed to it. If water meant the blue stones on the floor, then the blood had to be the single red stone. Having made up her mind, she reached over and firmly pushed it.

At her touch, the wall slowly swung inward, and Sydney found herself in a large chamber. She shone her light around, wrinkling her nose at a familiar and unpleasant smell. Where the rest of the castle had smelled of mold and rot, this room had the strong tangy scent of fresh blood.

As Sydney entered, the way behind her closed, cutting off escape. Her hand tightened on her flashlight as she continued to study the room. It was mostly empty, but there were tapestries and unlit torches on the walls. The former, like those in the library, looked new. Their colors were still sharp and vibrant, and their scenes were clear and disturbing. How did cloth last that long without crumbling to dust in a place like this?

Nearby was a small, raised platform, about the size of a podium. It might have once contained La Mort Rapide, but now it was empty.

The only other piece of furniture, if it could be called that, was in the centre of the room. It was about waist high and made of dusky granite. It was also a mess.

She let out an involuntary cry, rushing forward to see what her eyes were telling her but her brain refused to believe. The piece of granite had obviously been used for sacrifices. Heavy leather straps for arms and legs had been firmly attached to it, and a groove in the stone was obviously a channel for blood.

This wasn't what had wrenched the cry from Sydney. It was the fact that there was someone held prostrate by the nasty looking straps, and it was obvious that this was where the scent of fresh blood originated.

She wouldn't have recognized Morgan Lewis if not for the familiar eyes staring sightlessly from the mangled and flayed face. What was left of his mutilated body was covered with blood, as was the rock beneath it. The body had been sliced open and its limbs had been removed enough to leave a five inch wide gap between them and the torso. Organs were strewn around haphazardly, and she had a feeling at least some of them had been removed before Lewis's death. Just like Carmen.

Sydney locked her teeth and swallowed, willing herself not to retch. The stench and sight of Lewis was overpowering. She took a step back and swallowed again, forcing down bile. Closing her eyes to block out everything so she could think, something occurred to her, making her eyes fly open again. If Morgan Lewis was lying here in his own blood, ripped to shreds, who or what had killed him?

That was her last thought before sudden, searing agony plunged her into darkness.

-----------------------------------------

Sydney awakened with a pounding pain in her skull. As she reached for consciousness, her stomach rolled. She clamped her teeth shut and blinked open gummy eyes. Her first instinct was to ask Nigel what had happened.

As awareness returned, she remembered that Nigel hadn't been with her. She had been alone—alone in the dark with Morgan Lewis's body. It wasn't dark any longer. Someone had lit the torches.

She was lying on something hard and cold. It chilled the flesh of her bare arms and seeped through her vest and pants into her back and butt. Something sticky had covered and was drying on her, and she could feel it pull at her skin. She tried to move her arms to become more comfortable, but she couldn't. Both her wrists and ankles were tightly trapped.

Sydney moved her head, ignoring the pounding, to see that she was shackled to the piece of granite. Her arms were darkly stained with blood, and the leather restraints bit into her wrists.

“Are you comfortable Professor Fox?”

A man walked into her line of vision. He was tall and thin, so thin that the bones in his face poked sharply from his pasty skin. His hair was brown and long and shaggy; his clothes were as covered in blood as Sydney was. Around his neck, he wore an amulet embossed with a grinning skull. Even haggard and stained, Sydney recognized the man in front of her immediately.

“Alec Ryan,” she whispered.

“Yes, Alec Ryan.” He smiled. “I'm afraid that reports of my death have been extremely exaggerated.”

“You killed Carmen Facey.”

“A sacrifice to the death we all live for. She is now at perfect peace.”

“And you killed Morgan as well. Why? I don't understand.”

Ryan came closer. As he approached Sydney, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. Thoughtfully, he ran a finger along its blade.

“They served their purpose.” Gently, he reached out and caressed Sydney's jaw with the knife. The feel of the cold steel turned her blood to ice. She didn't even dare to struggle, afraid that any movement she made would drive the edge into her throat. “As have you.”

“You got what you want. You've got the amulet. There was no need to kill Morgan. And there's no need to kill me.”

“Need? But there is a need, Sydney. Don't you see?” The knife slid down her neck until it softly kissed her collarbone. “All of us, we have a need. It's in our bones and in our flesh. Our poor spirits cry for release, and the only true release is death. Death is the most holy experience, and our bodies know it. Our spirits need it.”

Understanding dawned on Sydney. “You're trying to bring it back. All your life, you've studied The Group of Ten, and now you want reality to replace your fantasy.”

“Yes,” he said in excitement, his blade slightly parting her skin along the top of her vest in his enthusiasm. She drew in her breath sharply at the sting but dared not move otherwise. Warm blood followed the path his blade had traveled seconds before. She could feel it trickle down her skin until it slid under her fest somewhere near her shoulder. “Now there is only one, but with this,” his other hand clutched at the amulet, “I will be able to bring us to full strength once more. My brothers dreamed of using the amulet to free hundreds from their bodies at a time, but they failed to find it. I...I have succeeded!”

Sydney continued to hold her breath as the tip of the knife made its way up the other side of her vest. She had no idea how she was going to get out of this one. She tried to remain calm and make her brain work, but all she could think about were the mutilated bodies of Carmen and Morgan.

“I'm going to enjoy killing you,” Ryan said conversationally, “You have such a strong spirit. It must be yearning to break free of your flesh...But where to start? Do you have any preferences?”

“I suppose it would be too much to ask that you shove that blade into your own eye.” She was surprised at how defiant her voice was.

“I would love to die,” his features turned sorrowful, “but I have unfinished work. I must live to help others find the path to enlightenment.”

“I'm sure you must,” she said sarcastically as he clasped the zipper of her vest.

His hands shook with anticipation, and Sydney was sure she was dead. There was no way out.

Then, a loud yell echoed through the chamber. Alec Ryan whirled, and Sydney strained to lift her head. In disbelief, she saw a body fly at Ryan, tackling the thin man to the floor. The knife was knocked from his hand but still lay within reach as he struggled to dislodge the man who had attacked him.

Sydney's eyes widened as she recognized the slight form trying to overpower Ryan. “Nigel.”

Even with all the flesh gone from his bones, the cult wannabe was bigger and stronger than the Englishman. All it would take was Alec's hand grasping the knife for Nigel to be dead.

A horrible fear squeezed at Sydney's heart. She was more frightened now than she had been the whole time Ryan had taunted her. Her mind filled with images of Nigel trussed up and destroyed like the madman's other victims. Holding down panic, she fought against her restraints. They cut into her flesh but remained as unyielding as the stone she lay on. She pulled and struggled with all her strength, but it did no good.

Helplessly, she watched Nigel's battle to the death. Her eyes locked on the two figures in front of her, unable to look away. A feeling in the pit of her stomach made her more ill than all the blood she had encountered on this hunt. Frantically, her hands continued to jerk against her bonds of their own accord. Somewhere in the back of her mind, this had always been one of her most feared nightmares—being powerless to protect Nigel when his life was at stake.

“Nigel!” she shouted again, a desperate cry of helpless need.

Nigel and Ryan continued to struggle. Nigel was on top, his body pressing Ryan into the hard floor. His hands caught at his opponent's flailing wrists, trying to trap them.

Ryan was wiggling like a wild thing. One of his hands came up and struck Nigel. To Sydney, it looked as if this was more by accident than design. Stunned, Nigel paused, giving Ryan time to shift his body weight and shove Nigel violently to the side.

The Englishman tumbled, and Ryan reached for the knife. Sydney watched in horror as his fingertips brushed the hilt.

Nigel gave a desperate kick, catching Ryan in the ribs. The scholar gasped at the pain but completed his motion. Grabbing the knife, he rose, snarling.

Nigel had also managed to get to his feet, and for one instant the two of them stood there, staring at each other silently, their eyes locked.

Sydney felt her heart wither in her chest. Nigel was going to die. She was certain that Ryan would slice him open, spilling out his life, and it was all her fault. He had followed her here, and now both of them were doomed. What hurt the most was that there was nothing she could do to save him.

Ryan lunged at Nigel, and the Englishman just barely managed to avoid the blade. His face was white and pinched with fear, but there was also determination and anger stamped on his features.

As Ryan lunged a second time, Nigel ducked again, just a hair's breadth from having the blade slash his eyes. He stumbled backwards, slipping slightly in a pool of congealed blood. Ryan pressed his attack, trying once more for Nigel's face.

Nigel put up his arm and turned, taking just the tip of the knife through his shirt and skin. Then, he kicked at Ryan's kneecap.

It was Ryan's turn to stumble, and Nigel took the opportunity to reach forward and rip La Mort Rapide from his neck. Ryan gave a furious howl and slashed at Nigel with hatred in his cold eyes.

In a move that surprised Sydney into expelling the breath she had been holding, Nigel dropped and used his leg to sweep Ryan to the floor. The man tumbled and sprawled on his back.

Nigel was on him in a second, trying to wrench the knife from his grip. He was able to beat Ryan's wrist against the floor several times, but the scholar held onto the knife desperately.

Ryan twisted, trying to dislodge Nigel. Nigel fell forward but held onto Ryan as tightly as Ryan held onto the knife.

The two men still hadn't said a word to each other. Their fight, besides the sound of the scuffle, was a completely silent one.

Nigel, intent on Ryan's knife hand, didn't see the man's other hand coming up. It buried in Nigel's hair, pulling with all Ryan's might. Nigel cried out, releasing his grip on Ryan's wrist.

The knife slashed upward, but Nigel rolled sideways and, once more, the knife bit only air.

Ryan let go of Nigel's hair and quickly got to his knees. As he did so, Nigel twirled the amulet by its chain and caught Ryan in the eye. He cursed loudly and made a vicious swipe for Nigel's throat.

Nigel stopped Ryan's arm with his own injured one, and threw a punch with his other. Ryan grunted, but before he had time to react, Nigel punched him again. This one landed directly on Ryan's nose, and a sickening crunch echoed through the chamber.

The knife dropped from Ryan's fingers, and his hands went to his face. He screamed in pain, and blood gushed into his cupped hands.

Nigel scrambled to grab the knife. He swung it swiftly, whamming the solid hilt into his opponent's temple. Ryan went rigid, then suddenly collapsed bonelessly.

Nigel struggled to his feet; the knife fell to the floor. In his hand, he held La Mort Rapide. He continued to clutch it as he left Ryan's motionless body and cried her name.

“Sydney!”

He tottered slightly as he approached the dais, his face full of terror.

“Nigel!” She found herself answering, once more struggling to free her hands. She was desperate to make sure he was unhurt.

“So much blood,” he said brokenly, touching her lightly. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not mine, Nigel,” she assured him, watching as he reached to undo her hands. His own hands were shaking, and his face was white.

Sydney sat up as soon as her hands were free and suddenly found herself in Nigel's arms. Despite her being covered in Morgan's blood, he held her so close that she could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He buried his face in her hair, the trembling in his hands taking over his whole body.

“I was so afraid I'd be too late.”

“I'm all right. It's fine,” she said, putting her own arms around him. “Are you okay? I thought...”

A surprised tingle went through her as she suddenly felt his lips touch her neck. Instinct made her bring a hand up and bury it in his hair. When she offered no protest, he kissed her again, this time more firmly.

“Nigel?”

The kisses moved up, making the tingle spread. They went along her jaw, then brushed her cheek and her temple.

Sydney was so stunned, she couldn't react. She just continued clutching him, reliving her fear that Ryan would overpower and kill him.

But he hadn't. Nigel was real and solid in her arms. Alive.

When he had slowly and gently filled her face with kisses, Nigel pulled away slightly and looked into her eyes. Her dearest friend had streaks of blood on his face and soaking into his blue silk shirt. It was on his hands and in his hair where her fingers had woven through the strands.

His eyes were still dark with fear, and she wanted to wash it away. Her lips fought to smile, to reassure him. When they just couldn't do it, she reached out her hand and brought him close, placing her forehead on his.

“I'm never letting you go on a hunt by yourself again, Syd. Never. Never. Never. Never.”

He pulled away and wiped damp, blood caked hair from her face with a gentle and still trembling hand. The backs of his fingers lingered on her cheek for a moment.

This time, the smile came—a somewhat wobbly and faint turning up of the corners of her mouth. Nigel's lips brushed the left corner lightly before he turned to begin on her foot restraints.

Feeling suddenly lost without contact, Sydney leaned forward and firmly placed a hand on his back. Her mind, coming back from the horror it had experienced, started to wonder what Nigel's kisses meant. They had known each other for a long time, and he had seen her in danger too many times to count. She had heard him cry out for her desperately and felt him clutch her to him and saw his face go white with shock and fear. But in all that time, he had never kissed her. Not once.

She was still reflecting on this when another thought hit her. Nigel shouldn't be there. She had left him asleep in his bed with no idea about Turnbull's notes or where she was going.

“How did you find me?”

Nigel glanced at her over his shoulder. She was surprised at how haggard his face looked. It seemed to have aged decades since she had kissed it just that morning. His hazel eyes were solemn as he considered her question. She watched as the torchlight flickered over his pale features, waiting for him to speak.

“I followed you,” he said quietly. “When I woke and found you gone, I went to see Turnbull...”

“Did he give you a copy of the notes?”

“Not exactly.” Nigel's eyes grew even more shadowed. “I think he's dead.”

“What?”

He began to describe the scene at Turnbull's house. Ghosts of emotions flitted over his face with the tale, making Sydney ache for him.

“Oh, Nigel.”

“For a moment, I even thought it might be...” He trailed off, and his eyes dropped from her face. As her mind filled in what Nigel couldn't say, Sydney moved her hand from his back to squeeze his arm.

He put a hand over hers briefly before returning to his task. It was with relief that she felt the last of the ties release its hold on her. Slowly, she rotated both of her ankles before swinging her legs around to hang off of the dais.

Nigel silently held out the chain he had clutched in his fingers. She took it from him, letting her fingers brush his as she did so. She couldn't believe that he had followed her there. His concern was the only reason she was still alive.

“Thank you,” she said, hoping he knew that she meant it for so much more than the medallion.

He smiled, some of the light coming back into his eyes. “Any time, Syd.”

She moved forward and slid off the dais. When her feet touched the floor, her knees trembled and tried to buckle. If Nigel hadn't caught her, she would have fallen. His arm slipped around her waist, holding her tightly.

“Okay?” he asked.

“My legs are a little cramped from being in the same position for too long,” she answered, putting her own arms around him.

“Can you walk? We should probably get out of here and get a head start on alerting the authorities before our mad professor awakens.”

“Are you kidding? I'd jump out a window and fly to get out of here if I had to.”

Sydney felt his breath on her cheek as he chuckled softly. He gave her body a slight squeeze before releasing her. Her legs still trembled slightly, but she was standing on her own with no problems.

“Nigel,” she said as they began to make their way towards the door, which now stood open. She was going to ask why it hadn't closed behind him. Instead, she heard herself saying, “You kissed me.”

“I did not,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes, you did. I remember it distinctly.”

“You were imagining things.”

“Nigel!”

“Hurry now.” He took her hand and gave it a tug. “I don't know hard I hit him. He could wake up at any time.”

Knowing he was right, Sydney dropped the subject—but she didn't let go of his hand.

 

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