Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(91)

“You think bell-bottoms are worse than velociraptors?”

“Infinitely,” he whispered with a grin that made my pulse jump.

Bran had heard his mother and great-grandmother speaking reverently about the mythical Sources, and how travelers could choose their destination, just by concentrating on where they wanted to go. We had no idea if it would really work. But again . . . no options.

The nave lay mostly empty, and the bare floor stretched out toward the high altar. As we wove through the stout pillars that held up the barrel-vaulted ceiling, copper braziers and enormous candles filled the space with smoky layers of spicy incense and melting beeswax.

Rubbing my itchy nose, I whispered, “Okay. The entrance to the vaults should be behind the altar. We have to sneak by all those little old ladies waiting for confession, and we’ll have to be really stealthy, because—”

No warning. I sneezed. Explosively. Twice. The sound blared across the church and echoed against the walls. A flock of geese would’ve made less noise. A monk in the process of lighting candles frowned at us.

One side of Bran’s mouth quirked. “Quite right. Stealth. Got it.”

“Ohhh, you’re talking again,” I managed as I swiped a sleeve across my face.

Bran, eyes wide in mock innocence, closed his mouth and mimed throwing away a key. My face felt weird, and I realized I was grinning at him. Really, truly grinning for the first time in forever.

Would it be so bad if we didn’t make it out? If the two of us made a life here together?

I quickly thrust that thought away. “Guess we better get going.”

We knelt near the front, heads bowed, just another pious couple. When everyone’s backs were turned, we rushed behind the high altar; in this age only a shadow of the spectacular gilt masterpiece it would one day become. Beyond lay a stuffy storage room.

Accoutrements of the mass filled the shelves. Golden cups and saucers. Vials of holy oil. White robes and purple stoles hung on hooks. The heavy aroma of old incense drifted thick from dangling censers.

“Umm,” I moved to a dusty corner where an iron ring was set into the stone floor. “I think, at least, I hope, this leads down.”

Down a narrow, splintery set of steps lay the dank cellar. Cobwebs cloaked the wine barrels and jumbles of dusty crates. Bran located a pile of very old rushlights. He lit two with knife and flint, and we headed deeper into the vast subterranean vault. When we finally arrived at the farthest wall, an arched and ancient door stood partially ajar. Our light revealed a sweeping arc in the dust where it had recently been opened.

Beyond, a stone tunnel sloped sharply downward. Bran held his torch low to the ground. “Footprints. Recent.” he whispered.

I ground my teeth as claustrophobia slithered around my chest. Tunnels. Why does it always have to be freaking tunnels?

Unlit torches lined the walls beneath the low, barreled ceiling of the undercroft. The overpowering reek of mold and damp earth made my lungs constrict. Close beside me, I felt Bran tense at the scritch of tiny claws on stone.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Simply not a big rat fan.”

I gave an undignified snort that guttered the flame.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. Cringing at a few teensy mice.”

“For your information,” he said, offended, “I wasn’t cringing. I was merely worried we’d step on the sweet little fellows. Grind them to red paste beneath our boots.”

“Lovely image,” I said. “Well, just hold on to me, then. I’ll protect you.”

A little thrill pulsed through me as his grin gleamed white in the darkness.

The cold intensified as we moved down the endless system of corridors, following the scuff of footprints marring the long-undisturbed dust. When muffled voices sounded around a corner just ahead, Bran doused the torches and led us behind a low wall of stacked barrels next to a small alcove.

“I tell you, it’s here,” an irritated voice said.

Bran mouthed the name: Becket.

We edged closer to peek through the cracks. Thomas Becket’s back was to us, barking to two men in black and silver. I stifled a groan when I saw one of them was the odious Eustace Clarkson.

Perfect.

“But, Father,” Eustace complained, “Lady Celia said—”

“Lady Celia is gone. And though she claims the stone is not here, I am no longer certain she spoke truth. The old nun, Hectare, made her final confession to Father Jerome, right before she died.”

A stab of sadness hit me. Sister Hectare was gone, and the world was a little darker now. Bran’s fingers laced with mine and squeezed.

“Since I happen to know a thing or two about some of dear Father Jerome’s . . . habits,” Becket went on, “he gave me every word of the old crone’s confession. Apparently, she believed there is an object down here. Something precious. So, you shall search this place. Inside and out. Bring it straight to me and tell not a soul. There will be a reward for whoever finds it.” Thomas Becket hesitated. “For the church, of course.”

Bran and I exchanged a questioning look. What could he mean? Not the Source. That was a place, not an object.

Becket swept by us without a backward glance. Eustace Clarkson glared after him.

“Oh, we’ll find it, Father,” he spat. “And make a pretty penny, too.”