Page 137 of A Silence So Divine

At the bottom of the staircase, we look out into a tangle of catacombs. Sconces are spaced far apart, many of which aren’t lit at all, but enough to illuminate the passages. In the corner, a man with a long blonde ponytail is slumped against the wall. One of those ahead of us must have taken care of him. His chin rests against his chest, throat slit ear to ear. The tang of copper intermingles with the musty moisture of the underground, and I breathe through my mouth to relieve myself of the smell. The taste of stale air coats my tongue.

Sylvie bends down, frisking the corpse. She pulls at pockets, searching within them while I watch in a stunned stupor. As misplaced as it may be, I can’t help the empathy that gnaws at me.

Eyes sparking with triumph, Sylvie waves a handful of keys in the air, shooting me a rare grin. Her smile disappears as quickly as it came, replaced with sheer panic.

Clumsily, she rises to her feet and shoves the keys into her back pocket. Grabbing for my hand, she pulls me into the hall that stretches to the left. I don’t need her to tell me that she heard something, not with the way she continuously looks behind us.

The hall is a dead end, a stretch of nothing but water stained concrete and cobwebs. Sylvie is desperate, pushing me ahead and increasing her speed. The odds of our footfalls remaining silent are zero; if someone is following us, they know exactly where we are.

By the grace ofsomething, a rusted door comes into view just before a split in the maze. We can turn left, right, or take ourchances with the door. Sylvie hesitates, so I make the decision for us and grab the handle. It takes both of our weight to shove it open, and if our running was loud, I can only imagine the ancient hinges screech like a siren.

We hide within the mystery room, holding onto hope that whatever resides in here is the lesser of two evils. Cloaked in utter blackness, Sylvie keeps the door open a fraction of an inch, pressing her face close enough to peer out. The dismal light slices a vertical line directly across her pupil.

A head taller than her, I’m able to get my own glimpse of the corridor. I see his shadow before I see the man, but when he comes into view, I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.

His hurried gait slows as he nears the door, face pinched in agitation as he searches for his prey. Lines of age are spread across his face, deepening his expressions. Flummoxed, the Brother rests his hands on his hips and blows out an exaggerated breath. One foot stretches forward, turning to the right.

For a moment, I think that luck truly is on our side. I should know better than that by now.

Abruptly, he halts and turns toward the door. My heart rate doubles.

Gunfire will draw more attention, so as slowly as my shaking limbs allow, I reach into my back pocket and grip my switchblade.

The man is close enough now that he blocks out the light peeking through, and within a second, the door swings open.

His eyes are wide with surprise, and I assume it’s because he’s found us. But then blood trickles from his mouth. The handle of a blade is buried in the soft base of his throat. The man sways on his feet, and Sylvie gives a swift kick to his stomach.

And then, he’s dead at our feet.

He was alive, and then he wasn’t.

I don’t know if I’m breathing or not, not with the way my lungs spasm.

Sylvie plucks the knife from the man’s body, wiping it on her jeans. Sharp, unsatisfied breaths become more frequent until a hand rests on my cheek. The grip isn’t kind, but it isn’t cruel. It’s stern, fingers digging into my flesh and bringing me back to the present.

When our eyes meet, she releases me and signs,“For Cecil. For Eden.”

The reminder doesn’t erase the guilt, or the horror, but gives them purpose.

Shaking out my hands, I roll my shoulders back, attempting to release some of the tension in my body.

Sylvie offers me one more swift pat to the cheek before marching ahead of me.

We make another left.

Fifty Seven

Eden

Every sense I’ve ever known has warped into something other, a conglomeration of overwhelm. There is no sight, no touch, no sound, smell, or taste. It’s a resounding anguish, one that is inescapable. I am merely a vessel of pain—no beginning or end.

My thoughts have fled, too, leaving me utterly alone and at the mercy of whatever malefic force has overtaken my being. It’s like a parasite, the Darkness. Seeping into my pores, burrowing beneath sinew and muscle and etching itself into my bones.

It is pure, unrelenting torture.

In the flicker of consciousness I cling to, I beg the Fates to grant me the sweet release only Death himself can offer.

You know the end.