The Blackthorn Key

“Listen to the bird,” Tom said.

I went down. The air grew noticeably more damp with each rung. Grumbling, Tom followed. Bridget flapped her wings at me, but she wouldn’t come.

We were in what looked like an ancient crypt. The passage, eight feet wide, tracked away from the ladder, back toward the house. On either side, in narrow ledges dug into the rock, were skeletons.

Tom stepped off the ladder. “Oh, of course there are bodies.”

The remains had clearly been here for ages. Their clothes and wrappings had disintegrated, leaving nothing but the occasional rusted buckle among time-stained bones.

“This crypt must have been built centuries ago,” I said. “Let’s see where it goes.”

Tom clasped his hands together and mumbled a prayer. “Jesus, in Your mercy, please protect fools like us. Amen.”

The passage continued, skeletons lining the sides, for about fifty feet before it turned sharply to the left. It narrowed, just enough to fit a man, then widened into a smooth, square chamber.

Unlike in the passageway, the items in here were new. On both sides were workbenches. The one on the left held about thirty glass jugs, each one labeled with a liquid: water, mercury, aqua vitae, oil of antimony, and more. The other bench supported an equal number of smaller glass jars, also labeled, containing powders. Salt, natron, sand, clover, all familiar. But what really drew my eye was what faced us.

The wall opposite the entrance was covered with a mural. At the top, an angel drove his sword downward into the belly of a dragon. The dragon twisted and writhed, roaring in agony, about to gobble a small black ball. Below the beast were two more dragons, their own serpentine bodies coiled, each snapping at a ball identical to the one above. The scene was ringed by an enormous snake with a red back and a green stomach, its head above the angel’s, swallowing its own tail.

Tom yanked at my sleeve so hard, he nearly tore my shirt. “We have to go. Christopher. We have to go.”

I could barely keep my balance. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t you realize where we are? This is the lair of the Cult of the Archangel.”

“It isn’t,” I said.

Tom stabbed a finger at the mural. “Cult.” Then he pointed at the figure at the top. “Archangel.” He shook me. “Now put them together. How hard is that?”

“This can’t belong to the Cult,” I said. “Master Benedict wanted me to find this. He wouldn’t send us into the lair of his killers without any warning.” I would never believe that.

Tom wasn’t as confident, but at least he stopped trying to tear my arm off. “Then . . . what is this place? Some sort of secret apothecary workshop?”

“It’s not a workshop.” Other than the ingredients in the jars, there wasn’t any equipment. There were just a couple of glass beakers with long narrow spouts on the table with the liquids, and a long-handled metal spoon on the other. “It looks like a storeroom.”

“For what?”

I wasn’t sure. There were a lot of ingredients, but nothing you wouldn’t find in any apothecary. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would hide them down here.

Tom, still staring at the mural, pulled me close and whispered in my ear. “But what if we’re being watched?”

“Tom,” I said. “It’s a painting.”

“Then what are the holes in it for?”

For a moment, I had no idea what he was talking about. Then I realized he was right.