Page 55 of The Dead Saint

Reaching the stairs, she kicked off them, half walking, half swimming as she passed over the threshold. With one last glance at the city behind her, she went inside, disappearing into the greenish glow.

* * *

The interior of the temple was imposing—grander than the one she’d grown up in and loved in the Golden Citadel. Overhead, the dome arched in perfect pale marble, pillars of the same stone all around, and more arched corridors led off the main room. There were no paintings or murals here, only the same pale stone making up the floors, walls, and ceiling.

At the peak of the dome, the cause of the glow was apparent. A mass of large glowing eels writhed together, swirling and twisting, their incandescent skin the palest green. There were maybe fifty, maybe a hundred. It was impossible to count as they moved, slithering and twining as if they were one organism.

The movement she’d caught outside could have been an eel, one of these large creatures, or it could have been something else. She’d assumed she was alone down here, but she’d been wrong. She didn’t want to think about that right now though. She needed the relic, needed to bring it to the surface, and time was pressing down on her like an impending storm.

She searched the room, thinking the relic would be in a place of honor, like her own temple, but no. The stone creature had no respect for the Saint. He no longer revered or worshipped him. The relic would be somewhere else. Hidden.

Arches led off the main room, shooting off into darkness, leading to places she could only imagine. She glanced up at the eels. In the silence, water muffling everything, the eel’s movement was eerie.

She chose an opening at random and swam down a long hall, the faint light of the eels following. Reaching a smaller chamber with three more arches—three new choices—she paused. Two were full of an inky darkness. The one in the middle appeared to be lighter. Would it be eels or something else? But going into the complete night of the other tunnels felt too much like walking into a tomb.

The current was stronger coming out of the tunnel she’d chosen. Sorcha kept one hand on the wall to her right, following the twists and turns. A light began to grow—a rippling golden glow—and when she turned the corner, gripping the edge of the stone, the relic came into view.

The chamber was small, a barely widened space at the end of the corridor, as bare as the rest of the temple had been. An ulna and radius attached to one giant hand lay in a long alcove. It shone with an inner light, rubies throwing off crimson sparks, the gilding polished to perfection. It was enormous, and Sorcha’s stomach dropped. How would she navigate the tunnels and bring it to the surface?

If she could reach it. The current was stronger here, becoming a force she’d not expected. It was as if the water didn’t want her to reach the relic.

Closing her eyes, Sorcha tried to calm her mind and silence the doubt. She would reach it and bring it to the surface. And then? The next one and the next, until the Saint was whole. Her chest tightened. The taste of the sweet water was fading. And the bone, the relic—Saint—called to her. It was a wordless seduction, the feeling that part of her very soul lay within the marrow and the Saint could make her whole again.

Sorcha fought to reach the bone, fighting the current, desperate to drag it to the surface. But the force of the water was too powerful, and the pressure—the need—to breathe was becoming overwhelming.

Time was swimming away from her, faster than the current but just as forceful. She’d die down here, trapped beneath the stones, lungs full of water. She wasn’t ready to die. But if she went back up for air, would she be able to get back down? Would Lacus help her again or leave it to her to figure out another way down?

Fight for me.

Me who? Herself? The Saint? And beneath that, curled in on itself, writhing like the eels in the temple behind her, another thought: fight for Adrian.

Sorcha pushed off the wall, arms outstretched, pushing against the water. The relic was within reach, so close that her fingers brushed against the gilded bone. It was warm as the water around her, warm as if it lived.

Pressure was building in her chest, the need to breathe overshadowing all other thought. The current caught her, twisting her away and back the way she’d come, knocking her into a wall. Skull connected with stone and then an elbow, and pain spiked through her. A bubbling cry escaped her lungs—the air getting trapped along the ceiling—as the current carried her away from the Saint.

* * *

Twisting and trying to orient herself, Sorcha bumped into another wall, panic clouding all thought, the pressure in her head bursting. The golden glow vanished, leaving her in darkness and desperate to figure out which way was up and out. Another corridor, another wall, and then the fast-moving water began to slow.

How far was the chamber with the three entrances? She’d counted corners as she’d searched farther for the relic. But now she couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered. She had no idea how far the current had pushed her before finally slowing.

Sorcha gripped the wall, continuing to follow it. A faint sweetness still lingered in the back of her throat. Relief flooded through her. Her breath had been knocked from her, but somehow, she’d managed not to let any lake water in. But despite that, there was no way she would be able to go back the way she’d come. The relic was impossible to reach.

Left and left again, she followed the wall, hoping she would reach the main area of the temple. A pale greenish light was growing ahead of her, and she moved faster. Please let this be it. She kicked forward, pulling with her arms, and rounded another corner.

An eel came into view, shooting through the water. Its eyes focused on her, mouth open and widening as it approached. Sorcha kicked off the wall, pushing herself back up the narrow passage, desperate not to feel those sharp, yellow teeth sinking into her flesh.

Sorcha was too afraid to turn her back to it as it barreled forward. Afraid the moment she did, it would strike. She would rather face it—rather know when she would die—and not be struck down as she fled. Sorcha studied, terrified of what would happen next. It had terrible teeth jutting from its mouth like thorns and its skin glowing faintly. Its bite would puncture flesh, reach bone, and crush her here in this place where she would never be found. Her skin tingled with expectation.

The eel struck her, but not with its mouth, with the side of its head, shoving her out of the way and bouncing her off the wall. It slithered past her so quickly she didn’t have time to process it. She was left swirling in its wake, bumping off the floor and scraping a knee. In her mouth, the sweetness was gone, vanished, and the warm water of the lake, tasting faintly of vegetation and stone, filled her.

The eel receded, taking its glow with it, leaving her in darkness.

* * *

Sorcha fumbled against the wall—rough stone beneath fingertips—pressure building and pounding through her head. It pushed her forward, drove her with racing heartbeats and the urge to breathe, shoving her into the darkness.

Something began to murmur in the back of her mind, a whisper she could almost understand. In the nonsense, a golden thread wove through it all, familiar and warm. A promise waiting to be fulfilled. She swam on, concentrating on her arms and legs, propelling herself through the water.

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