Once they turned a corner, Zan stopped, panting. The air inside the tunnels was damp and musty—an ideal environment for the luminescent mold coating the bone walls. But surprisingly, there was little odor for spoilage and rot. Any energy in the tunnels was stagnant and little used, non-active. Caradon halted.
Do you suppose that thing will go back where it came from? She inquired.
I would assume so. Otherwise, why would they take the trouble to actually call it forth to take their sacrifices?
She let a shudder finally run through her body. We were about to be next.
But we aren’t. He turned toward the unknown end of the tunnel. Hopefully, we haven’t jumped from one danger into another. Surely this tunnel will lead out at the other end. Otherwise, what would be the point in building the thing?
To inter those bodies that no longer fit in the cemetery? She replied. Perhaps we are in some sort of catacombs that the Ancients had made.
The Ancients? I would say not, he mused. With the sort of atmosphere we have now down here, the mold would certainly destroy these poor people’s remains sooner than later. I would guess that these had been here only a few hundred years.
They started a quick walking pace instead of a run. The tunnel seemed to go on for quite a ways, sometimes curving, sometimes branching. By mutual consent, they ignored the passages that went left or right in favor of continuing on one course. It would be less likely that they would get lost that way. The empty eye sockets of the skulls watched the passage of the two foxes, silent and uncaring. The air and the darkness pressed inward despite the glow of the mold making her feel vaguely claustrophobic.
You are certainly not like other young women.
She kept her glance ahead. What do you mean? I certainly consider myself quite ordinary.
Ordinary?
I’m not above average with the domestic arts. Perhaps worse. I don’t know how to embroider a wit. My friends tell me I have a terrible sense of fashion.
You do. You can’t wear black all the time, even with the excuse of your mourning.
I hardly know how to cook, although I do know how to boil water. I’m not brilliant at dancing or composing poetry. I don’t even like poetry all that much. I do not understand what all the rage is with the novels other ladies are so fond of reading these days. Or those fiction serials in the newspapers. I don’t listen to gossip. But I do like gardens and flowers. And if it weren’t for that incident outside the amulet shop the other day, I would have attended the play my friends wanted to take me to. I like plays and opera although I cannot carry a tune.
I can’t carry a tune either. He gave a low yip of amusement. Look, you know how to do things that they don’t. Not many females have the inclination for working at the Academy. No female of my acquaintance would dive headlong into dangerous situations and try to best an old pagan god or monster or whatever that thing was. An ordinary female would faint at the sight.
Is that a complaint?
I’m not complaining. But if this is how you normally go about things, no wonder you’re not married. Your husband would be tearing his hair out at your antics.
She turned to glance at him. You think I’m unmarried because I think a husband is too much of a burden? That I’d rather be a spinster than to put myself under a man’s protection?
Well, do you?
She was silent for a moment and there was only the sound of faint breathing. You want the truth? I don’t really know. I’ve never really thought about it. Of course, I’ve seen other women of my acquaintance slowly getting married off, but I had always considered it their ambition to get married, have children, and to take care of a family. My ambitions and focus were elsewhere. My uncle never encouraged me to do otherwise. I suppose I was the son that he never had.
But you must admit that you do have suitors. Like that Mr. Garrou who comes visiting your residence to take you to a play.
Del Garrou is my friend, not my suitor. He wouldn’t think of me in that way and I wouldn’t think of him that way either. He’s far too foppish for my taste. Besides, if you haven’t noticed the other day, he is far closer to another woman than he is to me.
Faintly, he asked, Would you ever consider marriage?
It would depend on who was asking. She suddenly gave him a fox grin, showing sharp teeth. But I wouldn’t set aside all of my work just to raise children. I’m not going to put aside everything to become a mouse because I’m not.
A smart man wouldn’t ask his wife to become a mouse.
She yipped in vulpine laughter. There aren’t too many of those around, are there? Besides, why are you so interested in my social life all of a sudden?
He ducked his head and said after a moment’s hesitation, It was the first subject that came to mind, that’s all. I was thinking of my parents. My father never married my mother. And my mother didn’t think so much about the institution of marriage.
And what do you think of the entire subject?
Some men seem perfectly happy with it. Others do it because they see it as an obligation to society. I think it would depend on who one was married to. I wouldn’t want to be bored.
Or unhappy? Are you afraid of suffering ennui?
I had thought so, until recently.
Hm. I wonder why that is. Perhaps because you’ve taken it into your head to follow me around when I never asked for it?
It doesn’t matter whether or not you asked for it. You’re just plain reckless!
I suppose you’re lecturing me now. I can take care of my own safety.
As you always say.
The walls of skulls and thigh bones abruptly ended and beyond the skeletons, the tunnel continued in hard packed dirt and stone. The air became slightly lighter as they continued down the tunnel—perhaps an indication that they were closing in on the exit. The glowing mold that had coated the human bones could not find any purchase on the dirt walls so the light faded as well and increasingly, they had to rely on touch and smell.
Then the tunnel itself ended as well. A flight of rotting wooden steps led upward to the ceiling of the tunnel. Zan snorted in frustration as she butted her head against a wood plane. It creaked upward an inch and then slammed back down.
This is an opening, I know it! Do you suppose it’s been boarded up?
Or this could just be a door in the floor of some room somewhere. Here, we’ll both push it open.
They both threw their strength onto their heads and forepaws. After a moment of struggling, the door lifted several more inches, revealing a glimpse of a dimly lighted room. Zan slipped up into the room first as Caradon supported the edge of the door with his shoulders. Then she braced her forepaws on the door and stood up on her hind legs to push the door upward by another fraction for Caradon to escape. When he climbed out of the tunnel, she let go of the door and it fell with a dull thud.
The two fox-shifters found themselves surrounded by wine casks. Each barrel, made of aged oak or walnut imported from the old country, were as big around as a fat cow’s torso. The barrels were stacked along enormous shelves constructed out of heavy, unvarnished timber that showed signs of being infested with worms at one time. The air was free of the dark energy that had flooded the Temple, but it was tinged with the sting of alcohol.
What is this place? Zan asked as she peered around a barrel and was greeted by another line of casks.
Somebody’s wine cellar, I would guess, Caradon replied. A very wealthy person’s wine cellar. This place is enormous.
Bigger than your wine cellar?
Bigger, he agreed. My first guess would have been that this was some storage room of a winery, but that would be impossible. Not only does this place not have a wine press, but all the known wineries are located outside of the city, in the country amidst the vineyards.
Do you suppose this is the mayor’s cellar?
No. He doesn’t have the funds for this kind of thing, even if he took all the bribes that were offered him.
They ventured along the rows of barrels until they reached the last line and saw the entrance to the cellar. But not only was the door of the cellar closed, but there was someone standing just inside the door—a portly, bald man with a red nose and a monk’s cassock decorated with ropy braids and a golden amber rosary dangling on his belt. The monk was holding a mug and drinking deeply. When he finished, he sighed happily and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before turning to the nearest keg and flipping the tab to pour himself another mug of drink. An iron ring of keys dangled on his wrist.
Damn. We’re in the church cellar, exclaimed Caradon. We’re going to have to get a hold of those keys to get out of here.
Unlike that amulet store owner, at least the monk doesn’t have any pistols, she replied wryly.
One of us will distract him and the other will grab the keys.
Are you sure we’ll be able to reach the keyhole? Wouldn’t it be easier to just coerce the monk to open the door for us and let us out?
That would make sense as well. Hopefully he’s drunk enough to believe anything he sees. But I think we should try grabbing the keys first. That way, he’ll interact with us in a minimum amount of time and he’ll most likely take the whole incident as a hallucination.
This time, Caradon crept forward first. The monk did not notice the black fox heading towards him until he finished his mug and looked up. The man gasped as the fox snarled, showing teeth, and he dropped the mug to clutch his forehead. With the man’s attention turned elsewhere, Zan slunk toward the door to watch for the moment the monk flung out his hand with the keys.
“Oh you poor creature!” the monk exclaimed. “What on earth has happened to you?”
At the outburst, Caradon stopped growling and his ears flattened against his head as he looked down at the bandage on his foreleg.
“At least some good Samaritan had the heart to bandage your wounds.” The monk reached out as if to touch him, but Zan immediately leaped between them and barred her teeth.
“Oh, am I seeing two?” murmured the monk. “No, I’m not,” he corrected himself. “You don’t have a bandage. What a lucky circumstance! Two little black foxes. You must be protecting your mate—how absolutely wonderful. You do know that foxes mate for life and what wonderful pelts you have? I remember when I was a boy, I found a little fox kit injured at the edge of my parents’ farm. It was red with ears and paws and tail tipped with black fur. I nursed it back to health in secret. My parents wouldn’t have been pleased, you know. They say that foxes liked to eat the chickens, but as far as I could tell, they were probably being poached by some of the poorer folk living nearby.”
Zan’s ears also flattened against her head as she listened to the monk ramble. What on earth is he talking about?
I have no idea, Caradon replied. But he seems harmless enough. I think.
“You do know that black foxes are symbols of good luck?” the monk told them. “Which means such a windfall for me since there are two of you standing right in front of me! Of course, this might be due to the wine that I’ve consumed, but that doesn’t matter. I tell you, I’ve been waiting for a promotion in the order for ages! I’ve done my duty, and well too I must add. No one can find fault with me. Except for the drinking, I suppose. But everyone has vices—mine is relatively harmless compared to others. Why, I take absolutely no pleasure in harming God’s creatures, I can tell you that.”
Zan tried to direct a thought toward the monk. Excuse me…
“Why, I even hate hunting!” the monk talked over her. “When I grew up on the farm, I grew to dislike the whole process immensely. I couldn’t stand it when it came time to slaughter the cows and the pigs and the chickens. Too much blood! It’s much too violent and gruesome to me. I leave all of that to people who can stomach all of that. I would guess that it was a hunter that did that to your leg, hm? Those accursed traps that they put all over the countryside! It’s very well that they trap rabbits and other sorts of game with those, but what about all the other hapless animals who get caught in them? Like wandering dogs and cats and foxes? Well, unfortunately, I do know what happens when a hunter catches a fox. Do you know? I’ll tell you.”
She sat back on her haunches and exchanged a look with her patron who gave a vulpine sigh in resignation.
“I’ll tell you what a hunter does to a fox that’s been trapped,” the monk said a tad too enthusiastically with an overdramatic air of horror. “The fox gets skinned. That’s right. Skinned! Fur traders usually get stocked with red and silver fox furs, but the black furs are most prized. You were lucky that you escaped from the hunter’s trap! You’re still alive to help your mate provide food for your growing kits!”
Kits? Caradon privately said to her in confusion. What kits?
Baby foxes, Zan supplied. He thinks we have kits to feed.
Is the man delusional?
“Oh my, and you’ve let me ramble on so.” The monk chortled to himself and then bent over to retrieve his mug. He poured himself another lager and was about to offer it to the foxes sitting in front of him when he thought better. “I suppose wine isn’t in your diet is it?”
It is in mine, replied Caradon.
Now is not the time to get drunk! She admonished him. Then to the monk, she directed the thought: Please, we want to get home. Could you direct us out of here?
“You want to go home, you say?” said the monk, wide-eyed. Then he vigorously rubbed his face with a hand. “No, no, you didn’t say that. I’m just hearing things. I’ve just had a little too much to drink. But it is odd, isn’t it, that you are in here and not out there? I wonder what sort of sadistic person would lock such beautiful animals down here. God’s creatures deserve to be free—running in the forests and the plains and the meadows—to live in the wild!” He groaned as he straightened up and quickly drained his third mug of wine. Or at least it was three that they had witnessed. Who knew how much the monk had drained from the wine cellar before they showed up? “Come, come, I have the key to this place. I locked myself in, you know, just in case someone came by to check up on the cellar.”
The two black foxes watched avidly as the monk fumbled with his ring of keys before exclaiming happily when he found the one that he wanted. He took up the mug and the lamp that he had carried with him and turned the key to open the door. Once the door was wide open, Zan and Caradon bolted out, only to skid to a stop as they found themselves in a low roofed passageway built with mortar and heavy dark stone that stretched outward in two directions.
“The basement of the place is a labyrinth!” the monk said as he closed and locked the wine cellar door behind him. “So you’d better follow me if you want to find the way out. No telling what you’d find down here if you didn’t know the way. I’ve heard that there are even dungeons and torture rooms in the place!” The monk shuddered and proceeded down the hallway to his left. The two foxes followed closely by his heels. “Why a church has dungeons and torture rooms, I have no idea. Men of God work here, not villains! I just keep telling myself that the cathedral was just built on some foundations laid by the barbaric Ancients.”
