Page 123 of The Mask Falling

Apollyon. Roughly circular, the shaft was a plunge into darkness—a toothless maw that waited to gulp me deeper into Paris. As if inhaled by it, I leaned closer. Beyond the reach of our headlamps lay a vast and solid black. In that void, I could almost hear the whispers of my torturer. Water dripping. My own screams.

“So,” I said, when I could speak, “how do we get to the bottom of the earth?”

“With this.”

Renelde tapped her boot on the ground. For the first time, I noticed the rope that snaked past us and disappeared into the chasm.

“From here,” she said, “the only way is down.”

****

After a ten-minute rest and several long gulps from a hip flask, Malperdy looked a little less peaky. As the most experienced climber, it fell to him to instruct us first-timers.

He warned us of the many ways we could die if we failed to remember his instructions. He was soft, if stern, in his explanations, careful when he buckled me into my harness. When he was sure we understood what to do, he wove the rope through a rusty mechanism that allowed him to control the speed of his descent. It was linked to his harness with a screw-lock carabiner.

“Ne tombe pas,” Léandre told him. “Je ne veux pas que tu salisses mes bottes au fond.”

Malperdy snorted and planted his heels on a crag. He let himself down a short way, feeding the greasy rope, then stopped to allow the descender to cool, hanging over the black chasm. He dropped in fits and starts, lower and lower, until the darkness of Apollyon quenched his lamp.

The rest of us waited a long time. Ankou sat on a slab of limestone and drank from the hip flask. Sweat pebbled his scalp. He reached into his massive backpack and took out a handheld device, which he switched on and studied. It looked Scion-made.

Ivy was bright-eyed with anticipation, fearlessly pacing the edge of the pit, as if daring it to swallow her. I afforded it a wide berth.

Arcturus gave the golden cord a questioning tug. I glanced at him and nodded, arms folded to contain my shivering.

Léandre eyed his watch. When it beeped, he nodded to Renelde. She went down next, followed by Ankou, who mopped his face with cloth before he started the descent. Ivy was fourth. She reeled down in great leaps, a breathy laugh escaping her. Léandre pursed his lips.

“You next, marcherêve,” he said, once his watch told him that Ivy had reached the bottom.

I attached myself to the rope the way Malperdy had showed me, my fingers numb on the carabiner. Once it was locked, Léandre came to double-check it. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction.

A tremor crossed the backs of my thighs as I swung my legs over the chasm. I had spidered my way up and down cranes, hung one-handed from bridges, scaled the spires of London. Never had there been such darkness waiting for me if I fell. I turned around, eased myself into the pit, and tested the rope. It took my weight.

My breath shallowed. I looked up once more. Arcturus gave me the smallest nod. I walked a short way down the wall, then pushed off and hung in midair, suspended over the abyss. The rope whirred as I began the descent.

The two small lights from above soon faded, and only mine remained. I fixed my gaze on the mechanism attached to my harness. Descending and braking required so much concentration that I could almost ignore the crushing blackness on all sides but the one I was facing. The walls were rugged and damp, more like a natural cave than anything shaped by human ambition.

I shouldn’t be afraid. Here, at least, I had a harness. In London, I had been one wrong step from death. Nick, always so cautious, had a blind spot when it came to climbing—he was willing to take risks, to be foolish. He used his bare hands and nothing else.

Perspiration trickled down my nape. I could smell the water on the walls. The journey was endless, the harness so tight my legs turned numb. My muscles ached. Fear urged me to go faster, to drop farther, just to get it over with. I let some more rope through the descender and sank deeper into the pit.

At last, I heard the murmur of voices, glimpsed the light below. I kicked for a foothold, dislodging a few tiny rocks. Finally, I angled my way through a very cramped section—Malperdy had called it la gorge de l’abîme—and then I was on solid ground, breathless and light-headed, knees trembling. Malperdy was there at once to detach me from the rope. I unbuckled the harness and coughed.

I was standing in a cavern, where a mining lantern cast a warm light. Ivy was sharing a steaming canteen with Renelde and Ankou, her oilskin bundled in her lap.

“Le Passage des Voleurs,” Malperdy said to me. He was holding the end of the rope, his eyes on the opening above. “You can take the gaiters off now, if you want.” I crouched to remove them. “I would say the worst is over, but that depends on your perspective.”

“I assume that was the worst of it for you.”

“Yes.” He shot me a glance. “I am a sniffer, if you were curious.”

“Must have stunk to hell up there.”

“You have no idea.” The rope swayed. “Spirits smell of hot metal to me. Most of the time I don’t mind it, but too much of it makes me sick. Reminds me of blood.”

“Interesting.” I removed the gaiters. “Sniffers can smell auras, too, can’t they?”

“Some of us.” He flashed me a smile. “Admit it. You want to know what you smell like.”

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