Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(28)

I close my eyes against the blow of my own stupidity. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ve been held underwater by a tiger shark and confined in cramped snow caves in the north, but I’ve never panicked like this and lost my right mind.

I take a calming breath and follow Jules’s instructions. At least I’m sliding forward on my elbows now, rather than creeping backward. About fifteen feet later, I emerge from the second tunnel into a larger place where I’m able to stand.

Unlike in the tunnels beneath Chateau Creux, the air is warm here with none of the coolness from the sea. I blink and try to adjust my eyes to the darkness without my keen peregrine falcon vision. Some tunnels under Chateau Creux are dim—even black, if you go deep enough. But they’re not this black. Nothing could be darker or more unfathomable. I feel Elara’s Light already leaching from my body, and my natural strength fading with it.

A terrible pang of loneliness squeezes my chest, even though I’m not alone. I miss Sabine. I could endure this if she were here with me.

A thump comes from behind. “Why haven’t you lit the lamps, Jules?” Bastien says. Swish, pat, flick. He must be brushing dust from his clothes.

“I wanted the Bone Crier to have a proper welcome.” I hear the smirk in Jules’s voice, though her words sink into the dense limestone. “Meet the pitch-dark gloom of the catacombs.”

“The pureness of the black is breathtaking,” I reply just to vex her. The pause that follows assures me I’ve succeeded.

A tiny spark ignites, along with the scrape of flint and steel. My brows shoot up. Jules is only four feet ahead of me, not several feet away, like I expected. This place has an unnerving way of eating up sound. She blows on her tinder and lights the wick of a simple oil lamp. The flame isn’t brilliant—it only stretches five or six feet past Jules, and beyond that, the unrelenting blackness reigns.

“You’ve removed your blindfold,” Bastien remarks. In the darkness, his sea-blue eyes have turned the color of the midnight sky. My skin flushes with heat. For a moment his gaze turns from hateful to conflicted, like he’s searching for something within me, and he’s nervous about what he’ll find.

“We’re inside now,” I reply. “Why should I wear it anymore?”

“This isn’t our final destination.”

A heavy thud makes me jump. An overpacked shoulder bag falls from the tunnel hole. Marcel’s head of floppy hair pops out next. “I abhor this entrance,” he says, though his tone isn’t distressed. “Next time we should—”

“Marcel.” Bastien gives him a pointed look. I glance between them and understand: there’s another, easier entrance to this part of the catacombs, which means this quarry passage doesn’t lead to a dead end. Useful to remember as I plot my escape.

Jules removes two more oil lamps from a natural ledge on the limestone wall, where she must have also retrieved her tinderbox. As she lights each wick, Bastien drags me close and reaches for the blindfold at my throat. I jerk away and untie it myself, then rewrap it around my eyes. He tightens the knot, even though I cinched it.

We walk deeper into the bleak tunnel. Bastien doesn’t grip my arm like he did aboveground; instead, he prods me forward with little jabs on my back. I know where each of my captors is by the sounds of their footsteps. Jules is in front of me, limping, but in a focused rhythm. Bastien is right behind me, his stride a balanced blend of confidence and caution. And Marcel is behind Bastien, shuffling along in a pattern of ease and distractedness.

I spread out my arms. The tunnel is just big enough for me to support myself against the walls and occasionally the low ceiling. I keep checking the height to make sure it doesn’t dip and ram into my head. I doubt Bastien would warn me.

Up ahead, a muffled splash startles me. “What was that?”

“Jules jumped in the water.”

I plant my feet. “Water?” My mother never told me about any water down here.

“Groundwater,” Marcel replies faintly. I cock my head to him. He’s probably closer than he sounds. “At least half the catacombs are flooded.”

I shudder. Up until now, I haven’t touched any human bones, but the water must carry decomposed fragments like the sea carries salt. Odiva forbids our famille to enter the catacombs because bones are sacred to us. We only take what we need, and we honor the creatures we hunt. But no honor was given to the people whose bones fill this place. In the days of Old Galle, after a century of wars, the mass graves in Dovré started caving in on the limestone quarries beneath the city. The quarries were shored up so Dovré wouldn’t collapse, and the bones in the unmarked graves were dumped inside them. Abominable.

“Move.” Bastien shoves me hard. I stagger forward.

Two steps, five steps, nine. Elara, protect me. My foot hits an edge where the slick ground drops away. I flail to catch my balance; Bastien does nothing to help. With a small shriek, I plummet. The fall isn’t far—maybe three feet. My stomach slaps the water, and my knees graze the ground. My head surfaces, and I cough up a mouthful of lukewarm water. It’s gritty with limestone silt and probably the dust of human bones. I cringe and stand, shaking some of the wetness off my arms. The water reaches the level of my thighs.

Slosh. Swish. Bastien eases into the water. For the sake of preserving his lamplight, dimly glowing through my blindfold, I resist the urge to knock him on his backside. “Go on.” He jabs my spine.