Page 3 of The Midnight House

I plop down on the nearest bench, peeling my heels off then throwing on the comfortable sneakers I always keep in my backpack. Sure, I’ll be going into the tunnels in a stupid pair of slacks and a button-down, but fuck it. I’m going.

I screw the lid off the wine and take a long drink, cringing slightly at the acidic flavor.

“Carmilla would hate you,” I tell the wine, and set it next to me, feeling slightly fortified.

No less impulsive, though.

I pull the cap out of the plastic bag next, then take my time duct taping the tiny flashlight to the bill of it, then pop it on my head and tug my long black hair through the back of it. A lighter goes in my pocket, the rest in my backpack, and I shove the wine in a side pocket and the huge flashlight in the other water bottle pocket.

I don’t need to consult my notes on my laptop.

I know exactly where I’m going, because I didn’t steal anyone’s research.

I did this the hard way, and if I have to excavate an old tunnel myself to get the evidence, then that’s what I’ll fucking do.

Right now, damn it.

A few hours later, half the wine bottle’s gone, I’m filthy, and the tunnels under the city are proving more treacherous than I thought.

Especially in slacks.

They’re ruined, for the record.

The old library entrance was easy enough to find, and even though it was hard to not scream in excitement when twisting the statue in their “thinking” garden caused an old manhole to slide open, revealing stairs themselves, that was… well, that was the only thing that’s been easy.

The tunnels are waterlogged, there are rats, lots of rats, so many spiders that I’m concerned I may actually develop arachnophobia at any moment, and the only thing that’s gone right?

My little baseball cap headlamp kicks ass.

I keep going left.

The cipher I memorized spoke about sinister directions, and in Rome, sinister was left, for a lot of cool historical reasons that don’t really matter right now.

So going left is the only thing that makes sense down here, and I know if I want to head back up, all I have to do is make a whole bunch of right turns until I find the stairs from the hidden entrance.

“I have enough proof for a grant now, anyway,” I mutter.

Somewhere in the dark, a rat squeaks, and a splash sounds.

I slap at my neck, because I’m pretty sure there are spider babies making a daycare in my bra and climbing out.

I keep my cellphone out, recording the signage on the walls. There’s not a lot, but it’s definitely hard evidence that someone used to use these tunnels.

And that the someones who used these tunnels also used the same Latin-based cipher that got me down here.

I am sore, hot, wet, covered in baby bugs, and I stink.

But I was right.

“Vindicated,” I scream sing.

A few rats squeak in response, and I bow in their general direction.

“I’m going to fucking find the artifact that passage talked about, and then I’m going to shove it straight up Cole’s pimpled ass–”

I pause, narrowing my eyes at a glint overhead.

More Latin. Of course. Secret societies and their Latin.