Chapter Twenty-Four
Something claws into my arm, tearing skin.
A scream rips from me.
I writhe on the stairs, trying to get free.
Another something tugs my leg. The wall breaks to my left.
Riser. Riser. Riser. Riser…
My back and hips hit hard against the corner of the steps. Cold twig-like things grab my shoulders and grasp my throat.
“Marek!”
I kick my free leg out and connect with something. There’s a rattling sound. A crash.
The pressure on my neck tightens, and I’m getting light-headed.
The ghostly lights move closer, and I can now see what’s holding me.
Hands.
Skeleton hands.
I frantically pull at them, tug and tug, until they snap in my hands and fall away from my neck. Air rushes into my lungs, burning, painful. Bony fingers grasp my hair and yank me back, dragging me up the steps. I stretch for a piece of the railing off to the side and fall short.
My head and spine bang against the corners of concrete.
The fear of death clutches my lungs and squeezes, and I can’t scream out.
The hissing increases to a storm in my ears. The spirits float above and around me. Moaning and hissing.
Another desperate reach for a pole. My fingers graze the cold metal.
I kick off another skeleton, half in and half out of the wall, and pieces of it scatter around me. My hand lands on a pole. I snatch it up and swing it, again and again, crushing the skeletons’ hands, arms, and what I couldn’t see in the dark, bodies and skulls. Some of them escape into the walls.
A green glow illuminates the ceiling.
“Ana!” Marek’s voice cuts through the hissing. Marek runs through the spirits, and they scatter.
The hissing stops.
It’s quiet. The spirits are gone. I catch my breath and swallow.
I can’t move. But I’m not panicking. It’s numbness.
Marek stops at the bottom step.
“What the hell is that?”
The skeleton parts slide away, retreating for the crumbled parts of the walls.
I don’t know if Marek’s face is green from the marble stand he carries or from getting sick at the sight of my attackers and the color leaving his face.
“They-they attacked me.” I push myself up and stumble to my feet. Everything hurts. Scratches on my arm and ankle throb. My back and hip scream with pain. I feel like throwing up, and I’m shaking as if I’ve just come out of an industrial freezer.
Marek puts down the glowing stand.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice trembling.
“I’m fine. L-let’s just go before…before they come back.” I move aside to make room for him and glance up at the manhole. “It’s locked. We need the finger bone to get out.”
He takes the bone out of the metal box, inserts it into the manhole, and it opens. The air rushing in, brushing across my face is crisp and fresh, and I breathe deep, filling my lungs with it.
“You go first,” he says, lifting his pant leg and stuffing the silver canister into his sock.
I’m not arguing with him on that. I can’t get out fast enough. At least it’s stairs this time and not a ladder.
It’s still daytime, and it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust after going from dark to light. We’re not in the same alley where we entered the catacomb. At both exits, each about a half block away, there’s pedestrians and traffic rushing by.
Marek comes out and wraps his arms around me. “What the hell just happened in there? Are you okay?”
My body slackens, and I can barely hold myself up. Burying my face into his chest, I sob. He lets me get it out until I can speak between shaky breaths. “There were people.” Breathe. “Dead.” Breathe. “From record book.” Breathe. “Isabella’s. They attacked me. Called me Riser.”
“Hun-ney,” a familiar voice interrupts us. “Why would you go down there?”
Marek and I look over at Sid at once.
Sid strolls over as if he has all the time in the world. “Down there is no place for her. That’s for the likes of him.” He pushes my hair away from my shoulder, examines the markings on my neck, and tsks. “Girl. The damned sure do hate you.”
“Why?” I swallow hard. Marek’s arms around me are warm and strong, and I’m less shaky.
Voices from the end of the alley carry over to us and fade when two women pass.
“I saw Isabella’s torture book in your hotel.” He flicks his gaze right, then left. “That girl was one sick puppy, I tell you that. When I first met her, I was intrigued. Then it just got boring. She didn’t raise those people once. She did it many times. I hear that shit hurts. It’s torture.”
“How did they get down there?” I ask.
“One of his people”—he nods at Marek—“found the bodies. Buried them in this catacomb to hide what Isabella did. This is where all terminated Risen end up. Down there. Their bodies no longer look normal. They’re feral-like, honey, and it’s not pretty. So burying them where they might be discovered wasn’t an option, and burning them is against some religious belief.”
Marek and I startle at the sound of a car horn going off somewhere on the street at the end of the alley. It doesn’t even faze Sid.
“But I’m not her,” I say. “Why did they attack me? I didn’t do that to them.”
He brushes some dirt off my shoulder. “Why do haters hate? They’re mad at the world. It’s misplaced anger, honey. Those poltergeists despise Risers for what Isabella did. And that’s what you are, Ana. A Riser.”
I don’t even flinch when he calls me that. The ghosts hissed it so many times in my head, I believe it. Not sure what it means to be one. What powers go with it. But if it tortures people and makes them evil, I would never raise anyone from the dead.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sid continues. “That you’ll never bring someone back from the dead. Isabella thought that, too. Think about it, would you bring your father back if you could? Someone you love.” His eyes shift to Marek then back to me. “Isabella was a newlywed when her husband fell off a horse and broke his neck. She couldn’t live without him. Brought him back. Watched him slowly turn evil. Her experiments were a search to cure him.”
“I won’t ever bring anyone back.” I twist out of Marek’s arms. “Not ever.”
Sid just smiles. “Sometimes it happens without thinking. Like with Shona and Cain.”
“Shona?” His mentioning her reminded me that he went to investigate her whereabouts. “Did you find her?”
“She’s alive and well,” he says. “Hiding out in a safe place. We’ll join her soon.”
I should be relieved to hear that, but the pain in my body consumes my thoughts.
“Why would Janus send us down there?” Marek asks. “If he knew those things would attack her.”
“As long as she was with you, they wouldn’t,” Sid says. “He didn’t think you’d separate.”
I step toward him. “How do you know that? And how did you know where to find us?”
“Janus rang me,” he says. “You see, we all went to Oxford together. Living forever, gods and goddesses can get bored. I used to attend colleges here and there. Janus, too.” He removes an old photograph from his pocket and hands it to me. “That’s me and Janus with Eli’s father, Richard. Your grandfather, Ana. On the right, at the end, is Adam.”
I pass it to Marek.
“Who’s the woman?” he asks.
“Oyá,” Sid says, a wide smile spreading across his lips. “Smart, beautiful, and tough. They all had a crush on her. I would have, too, if I weren’t infatuated with Richard. Ah, unrequited love. It’s the best kind. The pain is a reminder you’re alive.”
“How did you all just so happen to come together?” I’m skeptical. “I’m assuming my grandfather was a Riser and Marek’s grandfather was a…what do they call them?”
“Keepers,” Sid answers. “Since they are custodians of the Divinities Keep.”
“Okay, so you have them and a bunch of gods that just so happen to go to this prestigious school together? Not a coincidence.”
Sid waits for an English-speaking family to pass before saying, “Lugh, he’s another member of our group. Brought us together because of a dream. He saw your families come together for the big war between gods. We wanted to protect them. So Oxford offered them scholarships for different things when they never applied. That was my handiwork. But we all know how that story ended. We had the wrong family members.”
This little revelation that there are gods that want to protect us has me feeling a bit better.
“You think it’s us,” Marek says.
It’s a statement, not a question, but Sid nods anyway, glancing at the exits to the alley.
“Now that our little history lesson is over and you seem less freaked out,” he says. “We need to get you sewer rats cleaned up. We’re near Trevi Fountain. There’re shops. Fresh clothes are a must.”
Sid leads us down the alley and onto the street. A few passersby glance at how filthy Marek and I are. Ducking into the first clothing store, I instantly want to run out. It’s fancy, and all eyes are on us.
“Not to worry,” Sid says. “This is one of the kinder shops.”
The woman that helps us is surprisingly nice for how dirty our clothes are. She even lets us clean up in her bathroom in the back. I don’t wear lying well. Honestly, I’m surprised the woman believes me with all my stuttering while explaining how we got so dirty. “That’s never happened before,” was her response when I told her that one of the walls in the catacombs open to tourists collapsed.
So it wasn’t a total lie. We were in a catacomb.
I buy the black skinny jeans and sweater Sid insists I get and pass on the torture boots. His nose wrinkles slightly when I slip my Vans back on. The woman raises her perfectly shaped brows at me when I ask to toss my shirt and jeggings in her trash.
It feels good to be in new clothes. What I really want is a shower, but that will have to wait. I’m starving, and by the way Marek’s stomach growls as we exit the shop, he is, too.
Sid takes us to a pizzeria near the Trevi Fountain, and we sit at a table outside. We eat salads and share a margherita pizza. The street has less traffic than the ones closer to the famous landmark.
When he finishes, Sid stands. “I have an errand to do. Stay in this area. Visit the fountain. And by all means, don’t get into trouble.”
“Sure, we’ll be good little tourists.” I press a wide grin.
After Sid disappears around the corner of a building, Marek removes the silver canister from his pocket. “Guess we should see what’s in this. I’ll watch my way, and you watch yours. Let me know if you see anyone suspicious.”
“You think we should do it right here? In the open?” It’s a narrow street. The buildings are tall and close together.
“You know what they say…hidden in plain sight.”
Holding the canister against his chest, he pops off the lid, pinches the rolled up paper inside, and removes it. He stares at it for a few seconds before passing it to me. The parchment is thick, a cream color, but I’m not sure if it’s naturally that way or if it’s aged. I read it.
Elena Kristoffer Prevot
I look up from the slip of paper. “Do you know her?”
He shakes his head. “Never heard of her.”
The server comes over and picks up the bottle with still water on our table. He bends closer as he fills our glasses. “Finish your meal,” he says with an Italian accent. “Then go east. There are eyes west.” He thumps the bottle down and rushes off for the kitchen.
I want to turn around, but I keep my eyes on Marek. “Do you see anyone?”
“No,” he says, picking up his glass and taking a sip of water. “We’ll do as he says. Finish up and act as if we don’t know someone’s watching us.”
I lean over the table and whisper, “How do we know we can trust the server?”
The look on Marek’s face tells me he hadn’t thought of that. I slide my eyes in the direction of the kitchen.
After paying, we stroll in the opposite direction from the one the server warned us against going. A woman down the way catches my attention. A little too beautiful to be normal and a bit too interested in a teen couple walking down a narrow street.
Approaching an alley, I catch Marek’s hand and guide him in its direction, whispering, “I think we have another friend waiting for us down there.”
“Who?”
“A woman. Beautiful. Dark hair. Dark skin. At the end of the street.”
Once inside the alley, we sprint to the end. Gushing water sounds somewhere close by and grows more intense when we turn a corner onto another narrow road. Many of the streets in Rome are tight, squeezed on all sides by tall buildings in different shades of yellow, beige, and orange.
Falling water reaches a crescendo when we enter a square with a large crowd surrounding a fountain. I’m a little bummed at the moment. I’ve always wanted to come here, but not under these circumstances.
Marek checks the GPS. “We’re at the Trevi Fountain. I’ll try to find a hotel nearby.”
An enormous structure with a palace as its backdrop, the fountain is made out of some sort of white stone. It’s not marble, though the statues are. I forget what my teacher had said the material was in class, some kind of limestone, I think.
A massive sculpture of a man in a chariot, pulled out of the sea by horses, dominates the center. Some think it’s Neptune, but it isn’t. He’s Oceanus. On either side of him are two women figures shielded under arches—Abundance and Health.
“Which way do we go?” I ask.
He lifts his gaze from the GPS and searches the piazza. “It’s that way.” He motions across the square with his head.
The crowd is dense, filled with strangers and unknown dangers. We move into the throng of tourists.
A man aiming his phone at the fountain backs into me, and I stumble against Marek. His hands go to my waist, steadying me so I won’t fall, his eyes holding mine, and I forget where we are. I forget about the woman who may be following us. And I forget to breathe.
His hands drop away from my waist, and the spell is broken. I take a deep breath and twist around to find a break in the crowd. Maneuvering around bodies, dodging tourists too busy gawking at the fountain to pay attention to where they’re going, I’ve barely gone six feet.
I pivot, making sure Marek is still behind me. He gives me a half smile that seems to indicate he wonders if there’s anything wrong. Before I resume cutting a path through the jungle of people, the crowd on the far side of the fountain shifts. A chorus of screams drowns out the thunderous clap of the water falling into the basin.
Like a wave, the crowd moves, picking up speed, people running for the many streets that connect to the square. Marek’s and my hands instinctively come together. We turn around, hand in hand, and sprint for the road we just left.
Mixed in with the screams are growls, crashing sounds, and car alarms all bouncing off the tall buildings encompassing the square—echoing—magnifying.
Marek abruptly stops, causing me to bump into him. He stretches an arm out in front of me as if he’s going to protect me from something. I push by him to see what it is. The woman from the alley towers over us, her leather jacket flapping in the wind, her dark eyes determined.
“Not this way.” Her voice is accented, commanding, the look on her face fierce. “Or you’ll run into men who wish to harm you.”
Backing up, Marek pulls me to his side. “Who are you?”
“My name is Oyá.” She steals a quick look at each of us. “It will not be long before you are found. Come with me, if you wish to survive.”
Now that I look at her, she is the woman in the photo with Marek and our grandfathers. Her hair was longer then, and she was smiling, but it’s the same woman.
Marek tugs on my arm, urging me to go the opposite way as the woman.
“She was in the photograh Sid showed us,” I say, pulling back.
Oyá waves her hands in a circular motion, and two swords appear. “I could kill you now, should I desire it.”
A woman with a little girl clinging to her side screams at the sight of Oyá’s blades swooshing through the air.
Marek leans back and whispers, “Yeah, I say we trust her.”
I’m hypnotized by the light glinting against the steel. I nod. “Yes. Okay.”
“Good.” The swords in Oyá’s hands disappear. “I shall make a distraction. You must run into the fountain. I will follow.”
“What?” I glance back. I’m frozen, unable to move, not able to speak, holding my breath deep in my lungs. Men leap over the viewing tiers surrounding the fountain. People run from them with fear-stricken faces, ear-piercing screams. “Who are those men?”
“There isn’t time,” Oyá snaps. “I will tell you all when we are in a safe place. You must go now.”
People run past us, bumping our shoulders and pushing us against each other.
I look from Oyá to Marek. His eyes are just as questioning as mine.
“Those men are that way,” I yell. “We have to follow the others.”
Oyá grips my arm, and I turn my stare at her. “Go the way I told you.”
“Ana, we need to trust her.” Marek’s eyes search my face. “We don’t separate.”
“All right,” I say, and Oyá releases my arm.
We dart off toward the farthest side of the fountain from where the scary men are. I grab a look over my shoulder. Oyá’s hands are raised. The wind swirls and grows on her palms. With my attention on her, I almost trip at the first set of steps. I pound down them with Marek, and we reach the bottom.
One of the scary, rioting men blocks our path to the fountain. His face is twisted like a feral animal; a beast with inhuman eyes—primal. He snarls. Claw-like fingers swipe at Marek. He hops back, the nails barely missing him. Another swing misses and lands on the side of the fountain, breaking it and sending pieces flying.
A powerful whirlwind brushes past me and lifts the beast-man up, carrying him away. I turn to see Oyá riding a hurricane. Her arms extended, one inside the tunnel, the other outside, her feet spread apart, knees bent into a squat, it’s like she’s riding a wave.
Marek climbs over the basin of the fountain and plops into the water. “Ana, come on!” He reaches a hand out to me. I can hardly hear him over the chaos going on around us, and the howling of the wind.
There are injured people on the ground, bleeding from gashes, some unmoving. I can’t pull my eyes away.
No! Stop! I scream in my head. Please.
The humanlike beasts—men and women—a range of ages—pause, heads tilting from side to side, blood dripping from their hands and mouths. All their heads slowly turn in my direction.
They don’t make a sound. The only noise comes from people somewhere in the distance—crying, screaming, feet pounding—and the clapping of water against water in the fountain.
Almost silence.