Unholy Terrors by Lyndall Clipstone

Author:Lyndall Clipstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

We reach the second catacomb at sunset on the following day. The entrance is set in a cliffside, pressed against a curve of the Blackthorn River. An arched doorway looms above the moorland like a hungering mouth, and all around it the stone is carved as intricately as a scene from a chapel window.

A horde of fearsome creatures; vespertine, with bared teeth and needle-sharp claws, their shoulders mantled by shards of bone. Behind them stands a taller figure, the pointed profile of his face scarcely visible beneath a flowing, wolf-headed cloak. His hand is raised, his elegant, elongated fingers crooked into a sickled curve, beckoning to the monsters that surround him.

Nyx Severin, shown in triumph rather than defeat.

I’m struck wordless, caught by inescapable horror. As we make our way beneath the carved arch that leads into the cliffside, I try to ignore the way my heartbeat spikes. The cold tremor of nervous sweat that trails down my spine. Nyx Severin is dead, burned to ashes at the heart of the Thousandfold. This is only a faded memorial, ancient violence written out in stone.

We enter the stone corridor that slants down to the catacombs. I brace for a rush of cold. Instead, unexpected heat rises around us with a steam-and-salt smell that reminds me of the baths at the enclave.

Ravel, noting my expression, tips his chin toward the space ahead. “There’s a saltspring in the cavern.”

Briar and I exchange a look. We’re both filthy, with wind-snarled hair and damp, stained skirts; mud embedded beneath our fingernails. This morning when I awoke, I didn’t even put on the clean dress I’d packed in my satchel. I couldn’t stand to put fresh clothes over my grime-marked skin.

I turn to Ravel, who looks just as disheveled—his cheeks still gritted with flaking remnants of paint, his inky hair bound back in a tangled knot. “You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“Should I have?”

“Maybe you prefer to be disgusting, but I like to take a proper bath more than once every full moon.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing past me to lead the way down. He mutters sullenly, “The full moon wasn’t that long ago.”

Briar clicks our lantern alight. The dance of brightness over the walls paints shapes that look like more of the carvings: wolves and bones and bared, fanged teeth, many-jointed hands with grasping claws. But then my eyes adjust, and I realize the stone here is worn smooth, unbroken except for the occasional clutch of luminous mushrooms or slender, trailing ferns.

A steady drip, drip, drip accompanies our footsteps as the path slopes down. The corridor grows summer-warm, perspiration beading at my temples. I run my tongue across my lips and taste salt. The rhythmic sound of water comes from the distance. I imagine a curled-up creature asleep beneath the surface of the moors, their breath sighing back and forth with insidious slowness.

A shimmering cavern is unveiled beneath our lantern light. It’s vaulted like a chapel, and spirals of stone hang like icicles from the ceiling.

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