Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(93)

“That must be her,” Bran said. “The lady. The entrance to the Source has to be around here somewhere.”

While he searched the perimeter, I puttered around the base of the statue, staring up into the serene face. Curious, I scrambled onto the square plinth, using the statue’s marble skirts to steady myself. As I perched next to her, my arm around her slim waist for support, I leaned out to peer down into her hand.

A globe-shaped object rested in it, as if she kept watch over the world in miniature. Reaching out, I touched it. Something flaked off. I scratched at it, and another white chunk fell away. Frantic now, I gouged at the object. Tiny pieces of ancient painted clay crumbled beneath my touch, revealing what was hidden beneath. As the object came free at last, I plucked it from her palm. And stared.

“Bran.” Excitement edged my voice. “Come here. Now!”

I beamed down at him. “Heads up.”

His nimble hands flew, snatching what I knew, without a doubt, had to be the true Nonius Stone. “Bugger me,” he breathed. “You found it.”

This time there was no question. Even in the low light, the black stone sparked with all the colors of the rainbow, just as Pliny had described. Red and violet. Green, orange, yellow, and blue.

“The lady lies beneath their knees,” Bran said in a whisper, looking up at the shadowed ceiling. A smile danced across his lips as he held up a hand to me. “Come here,” he said in a smoky tone that took my breath away.

As Bran held out a hand to help me down, his grin faded. I followed his gaze to where the statue’s arm met her shoulder. There was a dark seam in the otherwise flawless marble. He helped me down, handed me the stone, then reached up and pulled on the statue’s outstretched arm. Her shoulder joint gave way with a loud creak, followed by a horrible screech of stone as the statue began to turn.

When it stopped, it had turned ninety degrees, revealing an opening no more than two feet across. Situated at the base of the plinth, a perfect square of black now marred the white marble. It looked like a mouth waiting to consume us.

As we stared at what could only be the entrance to the Source, I took an involuntary step back. My throat closed, and the phobia I’d experienced since my time inside the nightmare tree roared to life.

That can’t be it. No way. It’s too small. Too small.

“Nope. Can’t do it. It’s too tight. I mean, don’t you see? There has to be another way. Yes, another way. Just have to keep looking.”

Understanding dawned on Bran’s face. “That’s what happened to you in the tunnels earlier. You’re claustrophobic.”

“Oh, okay, Einstein,” I said. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” My voice had gone all screechy and black dots now danced at the edges of my vision. I recognized the sign. The onset of a full-blown migraine.

Bran spared a quick glance over one shoulder. “How about this?” he said. “I’ll go in first. Scope it out, so to speak?”

Before I could argue, he grabbed the torch, dropped to all fours, and crawled into the entrance. An orange glow rimmed his body as he moved inside. After a moment, even that disappeared and I was left alone with only the bronze sculpture’s dwindling fire for company.

An eternity passed as I paced back and forth in the flickering circle. With every rotation, I glanced at the hateful square of blackness, praying for a glimpse of light. “Bran?” I whispered.

Nothing.

Is the fire going out? What if he never comes out? What if I end up alone here in the dark? I glanced back at the opening.

Darkness. Nothing. Alone.

I crouched before the entrance and tried again, his name wrenched from my lips in a primal scream. No answer. I closed my eyes and dropped back on my heels. “Where are you?”

Fire blazed up in my face. I yelped and I scuttled backwards—crab-like—damp palms slipping against gritty tile.

“Well,” Bran croaked as he crawled out. “That’s hardly the hero’s reception I was expecting.”

Feeling foolish, I rushed to help him to his feet. In an instant I could see that the exertion had cost him. He looked ghastly. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he was shivering convulsively. I knew by the way his skin scorched my palm that the fever was worse, so much worse.

How’s he still standing?

Bran’s elegant hands rested on my shoulders. “Okay. It’s not so bad.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, though I noticed he wouldn’t quite look me in the eye. “I mean, we probably wouldn’t want to summer there or anything, but it opens up nicely once you get inside.”

“How far inside?”

He waggled a hand back and forth. “Ehh . . . not that far.”

“Bran.”

He looked away. “A hundred meters or so.”

I did a quick conversion. “You expect me to squeeze through that tiny toothpaste tube of an opening, the length of a freaking football field?” Close to hyperventilating now, I eked out the words between inhalations. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t. You go. I’ll just stay here. I’ll become a seamstress or something. I’ll—I’ll whore on the streets if I have to. I don’t have any personal experience, but how bad could it be? And it’s nice here. No pollution. And—”

I stumbled over a fallen column and sat down hard, panting. Already I could feel the walls closing in around me.