Page 72 of Skotos
Thomas didn’t reply, just pulled the door open the rest of the way and peered into the darknessbelow. There were stairs. The stone was crumbling at the edges, but they were intact. They spiraled downward, disappearing into shadow.
We exchanged wary glances.
Then I smiled faintly. “I’m going first this time. Try to avoid the pointy end of any knives we find.”
He didn’t argue, just followed, his hand on my back as we descended into the darkness.
34
Thomas
What first appeared to be only a few steps leading toward a basement quickly became dozens of stairs guiding us much deeper beneath the chapel. The further we went, the cooler it got. My shoulder throbbed with every jolt of movement, the makeshift bandage now soaked with blood. Still, I pushed forward, one hand on Will’s shoulder, more for balance than comfort.
At the bottom, we stopped before a wood-plank door that looked even older than the chapel ruins above. Its carved surface was covered with faded symbols—crosses, thorns, and what looked like Latin prayers etched deep into the grain. The hinges were iron, rusted through, and the lock was massive and ancient. I stepped around Will andran my fingers across the heavy iron ring that served as a handle. Dust lay like a blanket across everything—except for a few places where other fingers clearly left a cleansingmark.
“Well,” Will muttered, his voice hushed in the gloom, “looks like we’re not the first to come this way.”
I kneeled, pulling out tools from the pouch I kept tucked in my belt. “Give me a minute.”
It took ten.
The lock was stubborn, the tumblers stiff and unyielding. Sweat beaded along my temple despite the coolness of the stairwell. My shoulder screamed every time I shifted. But then—
Click.
I placed a palm on the center of the door and pushed. It creaked open with the groan of a dying beast. Will’s hand squeezed my shoulder as I rose. We stepped inside.
The room beyond was surprisingly wide and vaulted, the air dense with the acrid tang of mildew. The only light came from our flashlights, cutting narrow beams through the gloom.
More religious symbols adorned the walls—crosses, icons of obscure saints, and images of martyrdom rendered in flaking paint and faded gold leaf. Along one wall hung medieval coats of arms, their heraldry worn but still decipherable—lions, swords, dragons, and a few others I couldn’t name. Rapiers were affixed in neat rows beneath them, gleaming faintly with polish too recent to be centuries old.
“This isn’t just a chapel basement,” Will murmured. “This is a sanctum.”
I grunted. “More like a war room.”
The long table in the center of the room confirmed that statement. It was massive, carved from black walnut, its edges notched and scarred from age and use. A ring of chairs surrounded the piece, the spot before each bearing a single unlit candle.
On the wall opposite the one with the armament, news clippings covered every inch of rock. Some were yellowed and worn, while others shone crisp and recent. Each featured world leaders—Churchill, Truman, Stalin, Franco, Pope Pius, King George, and many others we didn’t recognize. Some were pinned with daggers or marked with symbols—spearheads, crosses, and crescents—while others bore no markings at all.
“What the hell is this?” Will whispered.
My flashlight flicked over a corner of the map display where an old Soviet insignia was tacked near an image of the Kremlin, circled in red ink.
“Targeting Soviets?” he asked. “Or Soviets doing the targeting?”
I shrugged.
My eyes were then drawn to a third wall lined with books, ledgers, and scrolls, many written in Latin, Russian, and even Greek. I could make out the Russian, though many of the words appeared so old as to obscure their present-day meaning.The Greek and Latin were lost on me, though from what I could tell of the Russian volumes, the shelves were simply filled with religious teachings and research.
I turned back to take a fresh look at the room, starting with the centerpiece, the table. That’s when I noticed something odd carved into the floor in a ring around the table. It wasn’t mystical symbols or random words—it was a phrase, like those one might see ringing the outer edge of a coin. I stepped closer to read it aloud.
“Fiat voluntas tua.”
“Thy will be done,” Will translated. My eyes widened as I learned my dear partner could read Latin. He smirked and gave me another shrug, as if to say, “You don’t speak Latin?”
“It never ceases to amaze me what men do in their god’s name,” I said, holding Will’s gaze.
“You think any god would sanction this?” He waved around the room. “It’s—”
