Blood Of The Covenant / Season 1, Episode 2
Shadows of the Carpathians
The chapel door groaned under Father Tomás Herrera’s shoulder, the wood slick with damp from the Carpathian mist that clung to everything up here. His breath came short, the altitude still clawing at his lungs after three days, and the half-empty flask in his coat pocket slapped against his hip as he shoved again. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wax and older stone, a cold that bit deeper than the wind outside. Candles guttered in iron sconces, throwing shadows that danced like specters across the frescoes of saints with hollow eyes. He wasn’t alone.
“You don’t kneel,” came a voice, soft but sharp, slicing through the quiet. Sister Agatha Munteanu stood near the altar, her black habit blending into the dim, only the pale oval of her face catching the light. Her hands were folded tight, knuckles white, but her eyes were on him, not the crucifix above. They’d been like that since he arrived—watching, measuring, waiting for him to slip.
Tomás wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting the last of the cheap brandy on his lips. “Haven’t in years. God knows where I’ve been. Doesn’t seem to mind.” His voice rasped, the Spanish accent dragging on the edges of his English, a reminder of confessionals and curses back in Seville. He stepped forward, boots scuffing on the uneven floor, the echo bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. “Why’re you here, Sister? Middle of the night. Not praying either, I’d wager.”
Her jaw tightened, just a flicker, but he caught it. She turned her head slightly, gaze drifting to the side chapel where a single candle burned brighter than the rest. “I heard you. Stumbling through the cloister. Thought you might’ve fallen into a ditch. Or worse.” Her Romanian lilt made the words sound like a hymn, even when she was cutting him. “You smell like a tavern.”
“And you sound like my mother.” He forced a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine. Just… needed air. These walls—” He gestured vaguely at the stone around them, the weight of it pressing in. “They close tighter every hour. You feel it too, don’t you?”
Agatha didn’t answer. Her fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to cross herself. Instead, she stepped closer, her sandals whispering against the floor, and the faint scent of lavender—some soap or oil—cut through the mustiness. “Father Herrera, you were sent here to observe. Not to wander drunk through a holy place. The abbot will hear of this.”
“Let him.” Tomás leaned against a pew, the wood creaking under his weight. His coat hung open, revealing the worn clerical collar he hadn’t bothered to remove, a mockery of what he’d once been. “Vasile’s got bigger sins to hide than mine. You’ve seen them. The monks. Not a gray hair among them. Not a wrinkle. Records say some’ve been here since before my abuelo was born. What’s that, Sister? God’s grace? Or something else?”
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of something—fear, maybe, or anger—before she buried it. “You question too much. It’s why they stripped you of your cassock. Why you’re here at all. A last chance to prove you can obey.” She paused, her voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “Or to fail again.”
The words stung, sharper than the cold. He straightened, his hand brushing the flask instinctively before he caught himself. “I question because I’ve seen miracles that weren’t. I’ve seen faith twisted into lies. If this place is what Orsini thinks—a well of something divine—I’ll find it. But not by bowing blind. You want to help, start by telling me why you’re really up at this hour. Not babysitting me.”
Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water somewhere in the dark, a leak in the ancient roof. Then she turned, her habit swishing, and pointed to the side chapel. “Come. See for yourself.”
He followed, his steps heavier than hers, the ache in his knees reminding him of every bad decision that led him here. The side chapel was smaller, the air even colder, if that was possible. The single candle sat on a stone plinth, its flame steady despite the draft. Below it, carved into the floor, was a circle of symbols—runes, maybe, or something older. They weren’t Latin, weren’t anything he recognized from seminary. The lines were deep, worn smooth by time, and stained dark with something that wasn’t wax.
“Found it tonight,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “I come here sometimes. When I can’t sleep. I… I pray for answers. This wasn’t here last week.”
Tomás crouched, wincing as his joints protested, and traced a finger along the edge of a symbol. The stone was ice under his skin, the texture rough like unhewn granite. A faint metallic tang hung in the air now, mixing with the wax, and his stomach turned. “Blood,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Old, but blood. You’re sure this is new?”
“I’m not blind.” Her tone was sharp again, but her hand hovered near her chest, as if reaching for a rosary that wasn’t there. “The monks clean this chapel daily. I’ve watched them. If this was here, I’d have seen it.”
He stood, brushing his hand on his coat, though the chill lingered on his fingertips. “Then someone put it here. Or uncovered it. Vasile’s boys don’t age, and now they’re carving pagan marks in a house of God? Doesn’t sit right. Doesn’t sit holy.”
“Don’t say that.” Agatha’s voice trembled, just for a second, before she steadied it. “You don’t know what this is. It could be… a relic. A sign. Something sacred we don’t understand yet.”
“Or something cursed.” He met her gaze, his own eyes bloodshot but clear, the brandy’s haze burned off by the moment. “You’ve been here longer than me. You’ve watched them. Tell me you haven’t wondered. Tell me you haven’t felt it—the wrongness. Like the air’s too heavy, like the shadows move when they shouldn’t.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her face was a mask, but her fingers curled tighter, nails digging into her palms. Outside, a gust of wind howled through the cloister, rattling the chapel’s narrow windows. The candle flickered, casting their shadows long and twisted across the stained floor.
“I’ve felt… something,” she admitted finally, her voice so low he had to strain to hear. “But faith isn’t easy. It’s not meant to be. If this is a test, I’ll pass it. You should too.”
Tomás snorted, a bitter sound. “Tests. Always tests. God’s got a cruel sense of humor, then. Sending me here, of all places. A drunk to sniff out a miracle.” He stepped back, his boot scraping on the stone, and glanced at the symbols again. “We need to show this to Vasile. See if he bleeds when he explains it.”
Agatha’s head snapped up. “What?”
“You didn’t notice?” He smirked, though there was no humor in it. “Every time the abbot speaks, if it’s not the truth, his hands… they seep. Just a little. Red at the knuckles. Saw it when he welcomed me. Told me this place was ‘untouched by time.’ Didn’t believe him then. Don’t now.”
Her face paled, the candlelight making her look almost ghostly. “That’s… impossible. You’re seeing things. You’re—”
“Not that drunk.” He cut her off, his voice hard. “I’ve seen worse than bleeding hands, Sister. Seen men claim visions while pocketing alms. Seen relics that cured nothing but a priest’s debt. If Vasile’s hiding something, I’ll find it. With or without your help.”
She stared at him, her breath visible in the cold air, small puffs of white. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Tomorrow. At matins. We’ll speak to him together. But if you’re wrong—if you’re dragging blasphemy into this—I’ll report it to Cardinal Orsini myself.”
“Fair enough.” Tomás turned, his coat brushing against the pew as he headed for the door. “Get some sleep, Sister. If this place is what I think, we’ll need it.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. The chapel door creaked again as he pushed it open, the night air hitting him like a slap. The mist had thickened, wrapping the monastery in a shroud so dense he could barely see the path back to his cell. The wind carried a low moan, not just from the mountains—something deeper, older, like a voice buried in the stone itself. His hand went to the flask, then stopped. Instead, he muttered a quick prayer under his breath, the Spanish words clumsy but earnest. “Dios mío, si estás aquí, dame una señal. No me dejes ciego otra vez.”
The mist swallowed the words, and the path ahead stayed dark. He walked anyway, each step heavier than the last, the weight of the symbols and Agatha’s doubt pressing on him harder than the cold.
By the time he reached the dormitory, his fingers were numb, and the ache in his chest wasn’t just from the climb. The monks’ cells lined the corridor, their doors shut tight, not a sound behind them. Too quiet, even for men of prayer. He paused outside his own door, a narrow slab of wood with iron hinges, and glanced down the hall. At the far end, a shadow moved—just for a second, a flicker against the stone—before it was gone.
“¿Qué carajo?” he muttered, squinting into the dark. His hand hovered near the knife in his coat, an old habit from rougher days, though he hadn’t used it in years. The corridor stayed empty, the silence thicker now, broken only by the faint drip of water from somewhere above. He waited, breath held, but nothing came.
Finally, he pushed into his cell, the door scraping shut behind him. The room was bare—stone walls, a straw pallet, a single wooden stool. A small window, high and narrow, let in a sliver of gray light, the mist outside pressing against the glass like a living thing. He didn’t light the candle on the stool. Didn’t want to see more shadows than he had to.
He sat on the pallet, the straw crunching under him, and pulled off his boots. The cold bit into his feet through the thin socks, but he ignored it. His mind was on the chapel, on those symbols, on Agatha’s face when he’d mentioned Vasile’s hands. She’d seen something too, even if she wouldn’t say it. And that shadow in the hall—imagination, maybe. Or maybe not.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the cracks in the stone like veins in the dim light. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, not with the weight of this place bearing down. The monastery wasn’t just old—it was ancient, older than the records, older than the faith it claimed to serve. And the monks… they smiled too much. Spoke too softly. Like they knew something he didn’t. Like they were waiting.
A creak sounded outside his door, faint but deliberate. Not the wind. Not the settling of stone. His hand went to the flask again, then dropped. He sat up, ears straining, the cold seeping deeper into his bones. Another creak, closer now, and the faintest scrape of something against wood.
“Quién está ahí?” he called, his voice low, the Spanish slipping out before he could stop it. No answer. Just the drip of water, steady as a heartbeat, and the mist pressing at the window. He stood, moving to the door, his bare feet silent on the icy floor. His hand closed around the iron latch, the metal biting into his palm, and he listened.
Something was out there. He could feel it, a presence heavier than the dark, waiting just beyond the wood. His pulse quickened, the old instincts of a man who’d run from more than God kicking in. He gripped the latch tighter, debating whether to open it, to face whatever—or whoever—was on the other side.
Then, a whisper. Not a voice he knew, not even a language he could name. It came through the cracks in the door, soft as a breath, curling into the room like smoke. His skin prickled, the hair on his arms standing up despite the cold. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened, as the whisper grew, not louder but clearer, a single word he couldn’t understand but felt in his gut like a stone.
And then it stopped. Silence again, heavier than before. He waited, counting the seconds, his hand still on the latch. Ten. Twenty. Nothing. But the feeling didn’t leave—the sense of being watched, of something ancient and patient just out of sight.
He stepped back, letting go of the latch, and crossed himself without thinking. The gesture felt hollow, but he did it anyway. “Madre de Dios,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “What have I walked into?”
Outside, the mist pressed on, and the monastery held its secrets tighter. He didn’t lie down again. Couldn’t. Instead, he sat on the stool, staring at the door, waiting for the next sound, the next whisper, or the dawn—whichever came first.
The stool creaked under Tomás’s weight, a small, sharp sound that cut through the silence of the cell. He didn’t flinch, though his fingers twitched, itching for the bottle he’d left in his satchel across the room. Too far to reach without moving, without making noise. His eyes stayed on the door, on the thin line of shadow where the frame didn’t quite meet the stone wall. The whisper had stopped, but the air still felt charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. His breath fogged faintly in the chill, each exhale a slow, deliberate act to keep himself grounded. The cold bit into his knuckles, stiffening them, and the damp stone walls seemed to press closer, their rough texture a constant reminder of where he was—buried in the heart of a mountain, in a place that didn’t want him.
He muttered a prayer under his breath, the words half-formed, more habit than faith. “Protégenos, Señor…” It trailed off. He didn’t know what he was asking protection from. Not yet. But the feeling lingered, that stone in his gut, heavy and cold. Whatever had spoken through the door wasn’t gone. It was waiting. He could feel it in the way the silence wasn’t empty, in the way his pulse wouldn’t slow. His left hand drifted to his chest, pressing against the old scar beneath his shirt, a jagged line from a fight he’d never talk about. The ache there was familiar, a dull throb that matched the rhythm of his heart. A reminder of mistakes, of things he couldn’t outrun.
A soft scrape came from the corridor outside, barely audible, like a sandal brushing stone. Tomás froze, his hand dropping from his chest to the edge of the stool. He held his breath, listening. The sound didn’t repeat, but it didn’t need to. It was enough. Someone—or something—was there. His mind raced, flipping through possibilities. A monk, maybe, checking on the stranger in their midst. Or Sister Agatha, though he doubted she’d wander these halls at this hour. Or… something else. Something that whispered in tongues he didn’t know. He cursed himself silently for not bringing a weapon, not even a knife. Just his rosary, tangled in his pocket, and a half-empty flask he hadn’t touched since yesterday. Useless.
He stood, slow and careful, the stool scraping faintly as he shifted his weight. The sound made him wince, and he paused, waiting for a response from the other side of the door. Nothing. Just that same heavy quiet. He took a step forward, then another, his boots scuffing softly on the uneven floor. The air smelled of mildew and old wax, a cloying mix that stuck in his throat. His hand hovered near the latch again, but he didn’t touch it. Not yet. Instead, he pressed his ear to the wood, the grain rough against his skin. Cold seeped through, chilling his cheek. He listened, straining for any hint of movement, any breath. Nothing. But the feeling of being watched grew sharper, a prickle down his spine like a blade’s edge.
“¿Quién está ahí?” he whispered, barely louder than a thought. His voice sounded wrong in the stillness, too human, too frail. No answer came, but the air shifted, a subtle change he felt more than heard. A draft, maybe. Or something moving. He stepped back, his heel catching on a loose stone, and nearly stumbled. His hand shot out, catching the wall for balance, the rough surface scraping his palm. The pain was sharp, grounding. He needed that. Needed something real to hold onto while his mind spun with half-formed fears.
He glanced at the small window above his cot, a slit in the stone no wider than his hand. The mist outside pressed against it, a pale, shifting curtain that blocked any view of the mountains beyond. No light, no stars. Just endless gray. He felt trapped, caged in this cell, in this monastery that seemed to breathe around him. The walls weren’t just stone—they were memory, centuries of it, soaked into every crack and crevice. He could almost hear the chants of monks long dead, their voices woven into the damp air. Or maybe that was just his exhaustion talking. He hadn’t slept properly in days, not since the train from Bucharest, not since Cardinal Orsini’s summons had dragged him back into a world he’d tried to leave behind.
A knock came then, sharp and sudden, three quick raps on the door. Tomás jolted, his heart slamming against his ribs. He stared at the wood, half-expecting it to splinter under some unseen force. But it held, solid and unmoving. The knocks didn’t come again, but a voice did, low and accented, slicing through the quiet.
“Father Herrera? Are you awake?”
Sister Agatha. Her tone was clipped, urgent, but there was a tremor beneath it, a crack in her usual steel. Tomás exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Not a monk. Not a whisper. Just her. But the relief was short-lived. If she was here, at this hour, something was wrong.
“Sí,” he called back, keeping his voice low. “I’m up. What is it?”
A pause, long enough that he wondered if she’d heard him. Then, “I need to speak with you. Now. It can’t wait.”
He crossed the room in two strides, his hand on the latch before he could second-guess himself. The door groaned as it opened, the hinges stiff with age, and there she stood, framed in the dim light of a single oil lamp she carried. Her habit was pristine, the black fabric stark against the pale stone of the corridor, but her face told a different story. Her eyes were wide, darting past him into the cell as if searching for something. Her lips were pressed thin, and her fingers gripped the lamp’s handle so tightly her knuckles stood out like bone. The light flickered, casting shadows across her sharp features, making her look older, harder.
“What’s happened?” he asked, stepping aside to let her in. The cold from the corridor rushed past her, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. She didn’t move at first, just stood there, her gaze still scanning the room. Then she stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft thud.
“I heard something,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “In the east wing. Near the abbot’s chambers. It wasn’t… it wasn’t right. Not a voice, not exactly. More like—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, her free hand brushing against the rosary at her waist. “I can’t explain it. But it woke me. And I thought of you, here, alone.”
Tomás studied her, the way her jaw tightened, the way her shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. He’d seen that look before, on soldiers, on penitents, on himself in cracked mirrors after too many drinks. Fear, yes, but something deeper. A fracture. Something in her past had carved that look into her, and now this place was prying it open. He wanted to ask, to dig, but he didn’t. Not now. There wasn’t time.
“I heard it too,” he admitted, his own voice rough. “Through the door. A whisper. Not words I knew. Felt it more than heard it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the skin there prickling again at the memory. “You think it’s connected? Whatever’s in the east wing?”
Agatha’s eyes snapped to his, sharp and searching. “I don’t know. But I’ve been here three days, Father. I’ve walked these halls, prayed with the brothers, eaten at their table. They’re… they’re not what they seem. You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? Their faces. Their eyes. Too young, too—” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hand tightening on the lamp. “I don’t trust this place. I don’t trust what’s happening here.”
Her words hung between them, heavy as the mist outside. Tomás felt them settle into him, stirring doubts he’d been trying to bury since he’d first set foot in the monastery. The monks, with their smooth faces and ancient gazes. The way they moved, too precise, too calm, as if they’d rehearsed every step for centuries. He’d told himself it was his imagination, his cynicism, the drink still clouding his mind. But now, with Agatha standing here, her fear mirroring his own, he couldn’t dismiss it so easily.
“Did you see anything?” he asked, keeping his tone steady, though his pulse hadn’t slowed. “In the east wing. Anyone?”
She shook her head, the lamp trembling slightly in her grip. “No. I didn’t go close. I heard it and… I turned back. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve faced it. But I couldn’t.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, her gaze dropping to the floor. Shame. He recognized it instantly. She’d built her faith like a wall, brick by brick, to keep something out—or something in. And now it was crumbling.
He stepped closer, not touching her, but near enough that she’d feel his presence. “You did right coming here. We’ll face it together. Whatever it is.” The words felt hollow even as he said them, but he meant them. Or wanted to. He wasn’t sure which.
Agatha nodded, a small, jerky motion, her jaw still tight. “We should go now. Before it’s quiet again. Before they notice.”
“Notice what?” he asked, already reaching for his coat, the rough wool scratchy against his hands. He slung it over his shoulders, the weight of it grounding him, and grabbed the rosary from his pocket, looping it around his wrist like a lifeline.
“That we’re looking,” she said, her voice steadier now, though her eyes still held that edge. “That we’re not just here to observe. They watch us, Father. Every step. Every word. I’ve felt it since the moment we arrived.”
Tomás didn’t argue. He’d felt it too, the weight of unseen eyes, the sense of being measured. He nodded, gesturing toward the door. “Lead the way, Sister. I’m right behind you.”
She hesitated, just a moment, then turned, opening the door with a creak that echoed down the corridor. The lamp’s light spilled out, a weak glow against the endless dark of the stone passage. The air was colder out here, sharper, smelling of wet rock and something faintly metallic, like old blood. Tomás followed her, his boots scuffing softly, his hand brushing the wall for balance as they moved deeper into the monastery. The silence was suffocating, broken only by their steps and the faint hiss of the lamp’s flame. Shadows danced on the walls, stretching and twisting, turning every corner into a threat.
They passed arched doorways, each one leading to cells or prayer rooms, their contents hidden in darkness. The architecture was ancient, the stone worn smooth in places by countless hands over countless years. Carvings lined the walls, crude figures of saints and angels, their faces half-eroded, their eyes hollow. Tomás felt them watching, though he knew it was nonsense. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t stop the shiver that crawled up his spine. “Madre mía,” he muttered under his breath, crossing himself again. The gesture didn’t help.
Agatha moved ahead, her steps quick but cautious, the lamp held high. She didn’t speak, didn’t look back, but he could see the tension in her posture, the way her shoulders stayed rigid. They turned a corner, the corridor narrowing, the ceiling dropping lower until Tomás had to duck slightly to avoid brushing his head against the jagged stone. The air grew heavier, the smell of mildew stronger, and something else—something sweet, cloying, like rotting fruit or overripe incense. It turned his stomach.
“Here,” Agatha whispered, stopping so abruptly that Tomás nearly collided with her. She pointed with a trembling hand to a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, its surface scarred and blackened as if by fire. Iron hinges held it in place, rusted but solid, and a faint draft seeped from beneath it, carrying that same sweet, sickening scent. “This is the east wing. The abbot’s chambers are beyond. That’s where I heard it.”
Tomás stared at the door, his throat tightening. The stone in his gut grew heavier, colder. He didn’t want to go closer, didn’t want to know what lay on the other side. But he couldn’t turn back, not with Agatha watching, not with the whisper still echoing in his mind. He stepped forward, his hand reaching for the iron ring that served as a handle. The metal was ice-cold, biting into his skin, and he felt a jolt, not pain but something deeper, like a warning. He ignored it, or tried to.
“Stay behind me,” he said, his voice low, rough. He didn’t look at her, didn’t wait for a response. He pulled on the ring, the door groaning as it opened, the sound like a scream in the silence. Darkness poured out, thicker than the corridor’s shadows, and with it came the smell, stronger now, choking. Tomás gagged, his free hand covering his mouth, but he didn’t step back. He couldn’t. Beyond the threshold, a narrow stair descended into blackness, the steps uneven, slick with damp. The lamp’s light barely reached the first few, leaving the rest swallowed by shadow.
Agatha pressed close behind him, her breath ragged. “Do you hear it?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in his ears.
He didn’t at first. Just the silence, the suffocating weight of it. Then, faint but growing, came the whisper again. Not one voice, but many, layered over each other, a chorus of murmurs rising from the depths of the stair. Words he didn’t know, sounds that weren’t human, curling around him like smoke, slipping under his skin. His scar ached, a sharp, sudden pain, and he pressed a hand to his chest, staggering slightly. The rosary around his wrist felt like a chain now, heavy, dragging him down.
“Señor, dame fuerza,” he muttered, the prayer more a plea than a request. He took a step forward, onto the first stair, the stone slick under his boot. The whisper grew louder, clearer, though still unintelligible, a weight pressing against his mind. Behind him, Agatha gripped his arm, her fingers digging into his coat, her breath hitching.
“Father, wait—” she started, but the words cut off as a new sound split the air, sharp and wet, like flesh tearing. It came from below, from the darkness, and with it a cry, human but broken, a sound of agony that froze Tomás where he stood. The whisper stopped, replaced by a silence more terrifying than before. His hand tightened on the doorframe, the rough wood biting into his palm, and he felt the world tilt, the stair seeming to drop away beneath him.
Whatever was down there wasn’t waiting anymore. It knew they were here. And it was coming.
Tomás’s breath caught in his throat, a ragged gasp that burned his lungs as the cry echoed up from the darkness below. The sound lingered, clawing at the edges of his mind, raw and jagged, like a wound torn open. His boot scraped against the slick stone of the stair, the cold seeping through the sole, numbing his toes. The air down here in the monastery’s undercroft was damp, heavy with the scent of mold and something sweeter, cloying, like overripe fruit left to rot. His scar throbbed again, a pulse under his ribs, and he pressed harder against it, as if he could push the pain back inside.
Agatha’s grip on his arm tightened, her nails biting through the fabric of his coat. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, warm against the back of his neck. “Father, we can’t—” she hissed, her voice trembling at the edges, but she didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. He felt it too, the pull of whatever was down there, the weight of it dragging at his bones. His other hand, still braced against the doorframe, shook slightly, the splinters of old wood pricking his skin. He wanted to turn back, to drag her up the stairs and out into the weak daylight, but his feet wouldn’t move. Not yet.
“Quédate aquí,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, the Spanish slipping out like a reflex. Stay here. As if either of them could. As if retreat was an option when the air itself seemed to hum with something alive, something waiting. He shifted his weight, testing the next step down, the stone groaning softly under him. The darkness below was absolute, a void that swallowed the faint flicker of the lantern he’d left at the top of the stairs. He could hear his own heartbeat, too loud, hammering against the silence that had settled after the cry.
Then it came again—not a cry this time, but a sound like dragging, something heavy being pulled across stone, wet and deliberate. It sent a shiver racing up his spine, the kind of cold that had nothing to do with the damp. Agatha let out a small, choked sound behind him, her hand sliding from his arm to clutch at the sleeve of his coat, as if she could anchor herself to him. “That’s not—that’s not one of them,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the fear in it was sharp, cutting. “The monks don’t—they don’t sound like that.”
Tomás didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’d heard sounds like that before, years ago, in a village on the edge of the Pyrenees—a man caught in a bear trap, his leg half-severed, dragging himself through the dirt toward help that never came. The memory hit him like a fist, the smell of blood and pine resin so vivid he could almost taste it. But this wasn’t a man. Or if it was, it wasn’t just a man. He forced himself to take another step down, the stair uneven underfoot, his free hand sliding along the wall for balance. The stone was rough, slick with moisture, and he felt something crumble under his fingers—moss, or maybe something older, something that shouldn’t have been there.
“Father, please,” Agatha said, louder now, her voice cracking. She tugged at his sleeve, but there was no strength in it, just desperation. “We don’t know what’s down there. We don’t—”
“Enough,” he snapped, the word harsher than he meant it to be. He turned his head just enough to catch her eyes, wide and glassy in the dim light filtering down from above. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her jaw was set, that stubborn streak he’d noticed the first day still there beneath the fear. “You wanted to come with me. You wanted to see. So see.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t take them back. He couldn’t afford to, not now, not when every instinct screamed at him to run and every prayer he’d ever muttered felt like ash in his mouth.
Her hand fell away from his sleeve, and for a moment, he thought she might turn back, might climb the stairs and leave him to whatever waited below. But she didn’t. She took a shaky step forward, her habit brushing against the wall, the faint rustle of fabric louder than it should have been in the stillness. “Fine,” she said, her voice low, almost a growl. “But if we die down here, I’m haunting you first.”
A humorless laugh escaped him, short and sharp, cutting through the tension for just a second before the dragging sound came again, closer now, echoing up the narrow stairwell. It was rhythmic, deliberate, like a heartbeat made of stone and flesh. Tomás felt his stomach twist, the old scar on his chest burning hotter, as if something down there knew it was there, knew what it meant. He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the small flask of whiskey he always carried—more out of habit than need these days—but he didn’t pull it out. Instead, he found the rosary beads wrapped around his wrist, the smooth wood warm from his skin, and he gripped them tight, the edges digging into his palm.
“Lead or follow, Sister,” he said without looking at her, his voice steadier than he felt. “But decide now.”
She didn’t answer with words. Her footsteps echoed behind him, tentative but there, as he descended another step, then another. The air grew colder the lower they went, the damp seeping into his clothes, clinging to his skin like a second layer. The smell shifted too, the sweetness giving way to something metallic, sharp, like old blood dried on iron. His boot hit something uneven, a crack in the stone, and he nearly stumbled, catching himself against the wall. The dragging stopped abruptly, replaced by a low, guttural sound—half moan, half growl—that seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating through the stone under his feet.
“Madre de Dios,” he whispered, the prayer slipping out before he could stop it. His hand tightened on the rosary, the beads pressing into his flesh, grounding him. He forced himself to keep moving, one step at a time, the darkness pressing in, thicker now, like it had weight, like it could push back. Behind him, Agatha’s breathing was uneven, hitching every few seconds, but she stayed close, her presence a small, fragile warmth at his back.
The stairwell ended without warning, opening into a wider space—he felt it more than saw it, the way the air shifted, the echo of their footsteps stretching out into something vast. He stopped, his boots scraping against a floor that felt different, smoother, polished by time or use. The smell of blood was stronger here, almost choking, mixed with something else, something ancient, like dust and incense and decay all at once. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust, but the blackness was complete, a wall he couldn’t see through. Then, from somewhere ahead, a faint light flickered—weak, yellow, barely more than a pinprick, but enough to draw his gaze.
“Over there,” Agatha whispered, her voice so close to his ear he flinched. Her hand brushed his shoulder, light but urgent, pointing toward the glow. He nodded, though he wasn’t sure she could see it, and took a step forward, his boots silent on the smooth stone now. The light grew slightly as they moved, revealing the edges of a cavernous room, walls carved with shapes he couldn’t make out, worn down by centuries. The air was still, too still, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years, and yet he felt watched, the back of his neck prickling with the certainty of eyes he couldn’t see.
The dragging sound started again, closer, to their left, and Tomás froze mid-step, his heart slamming against his ribs. The light flickered, dimming for a moment before steadying, and in that brief darkness, he heard it—a wet, ragged breath, not human, not animal, something caught between. His scar burned again, a white-hot line across his chest, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. Agatha pressed closer, her shoulder against his, and he could feel her trembling, though she didn’t speak. He wanted to tell her to stay back, to run, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he moved toward the light, drawn to it like a moth, knowing it was a mistake but unable to stop.
The glow came from a small alcove, a niche carved into the wall, where a single taper burned, its flame guttering in some unseen draft. Below it, on a rough stone shelf, sat a chalice—old, tarnished silver, etched with symbols that looked older than the monastery itself, older than anything he’d ever seen in a church. The air around it shimmered faintly, or maybe that was his vision, blurring at the edges from the strain of staring into the dark. The smell of blood was strongest here, emanating from the chalice like a living thing, and Tomás felt his stomach lurch, bile rising in his throat.
“What is that?” Agatha’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade. She stepped forward, past him, her hand reaching out before he could stop her. “Don’t!” he barked, grabbing her wrist, his grip harder than he meant it to be. She flinched but didn’t pull away, her eyes locked on the chalice, wide and unblinking, as if it were pulling her in.
“It’s… it’s warm,” she said, her voice distant, almost dreamlike. “Can’t you feel it? It’s not just sitting there. It’s—” She stopped, her breath catching, and Tomás followed her gaze. A shadow moved across the wall behind the chalice, slow and deliberate, too large to be cast by the tiny flame. His blood ran cold, every muscle in his body locking up as the shadow grew, stretching, taking shape—arms, legs, a head bent at an unnatural angle. The dragging sound came again, right behind them now, and he spun, shoving Agatha behind him, his hand fumbling for the rosary as if it could do anything against whatever this was.
The figure stepped into the faint light, and Tomás’s breath left him in a rush. It was a monk—one of the brothers from upstairs, his face young, unlined, no older than thirty, just as they all were. But his eyes were wrong, empty, like polished glass, reflecting nothing. His robes hung in tatters, stained dark with something that glistened in the candlelight, and one leg dragged behind him, the bone visible through torn flesh, scraping against the stone with each step. He didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to feel it, just moved forward, his head tilting as if listening to something only he could hear.
“Brother,” Tomás said, forcing the word out, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “What… what happened to you?” He took a step back, pushing Agatha with him, her hands clutching at the back of his coat now. The monk didn’t answer, didn’t blink, just kept coming, slow and relentless, his bare feet leaving dark smears on the floor. The smell of blood was overwhelming now, mixed with something worse, something like rot, like death that hadn’t quite taken hold.
“Father, we need to go,” Agatha hissed, her voice tight with panic, but Tomás couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. The monk stopped a few feet away, his head tilting further, almost to his shoulder, and then he spoke, his voice a low rasp, like wind through dead leaves. “You… see,” he said, the words broken, forced. “You… shouldn’t… see.”
Tomás’s scar flared again, the pain so sharp he nearly doubled over, but he held his ground, the rosary beads cutting into his palm. “What are you protecting?” he asked, his voice steadier now, fueled by something he didn’t understand—anger, maybe, or the old stubbornness that had gotten him defrocked in the first place. “What’s in that cup?”
The monk’s empty eyes flickered, just for a moment, and then his mouth twisted, a grotesque parody of a smile. “Not… for you,” he rasped, and then he lunged, faster than Tomás expected, his broken leg no hindrance at all. Tomás shoved Agatha aside, taking the brunt of the impact as the monk’s hands—cold, impossibly strong—closed around his throat. The air left his lungs in a wheeze, his vision spotting as he grappled with the monk, his boots slipping on the slick floor. The smell of rot was choking now, filling his nose, his mouth, as he clawed at the hands cutting off his breath.
Agatha screamed, a raw, desperate sound, and then there was a crash, the sound of metal on stone. The monk’s grip loosened for a split second, just enough for Tomás to gasp, to see her standing over the alcove, the chalice on the ground, dark liquid spilling across the floor, thicker than it should have been, almost black in the dim light. The monk let out a sound—a wail, inhuman, echoing through the chamber—and released Tomás, staggering toward the spilled chalice, his hands reaching as if he could scoop it back up.
Tomás coughed, his throat burning, and stumbled to his feet, grabbing Agatha’s arm. “Run!” he barked, dragging her toward the stairwell, her habit catching on the rough stone as they moved. Behind them, the monk’s wail grew louder, joined by other sounds—footsteps, heavy and uneven, coming from the shadows, more shapes moving in the dark. His scar pulsed with every heartbeat, the pain a living thing now, but he ignored it, half-carrying Agatha up the first few steps, her weight sagging against him.
They reached the top of the stairs, the lantern light blinding after the darkness below, and Tomás slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind them, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the iron latch. It wouldn’t hold, not for long—he could hear the dragging, the footsteps, growing closer, the wail still echoing in his ears. Agatha slumped against the wall, her face ashen, her hands pressed to her chest as if to hold herself together. “What… what was that?” she gasped, her voice breaking. “What did I do?”
Tomás didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His gaze went to the door, the wood trembling slightly under the weight of something on the other side, and then to the rosary still clutched in his hand, the beads stained dark now, though he didn’t remember touching anything wet. His scar burned, a reminder of something he’d buried, something he’d thought he’d left behind years ago. Whatever was down there, whatever they’d just seen, it wasn’t just a secret of the monastery. It knew him. It knew her. And they’d just broken something that couldn’t be mended.