Though why I was so certain I’d find confirmation inside, I couldn’t entirely say. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.

I crossed my arms and watched the witches continue to work on the door. Their magic was sharper than before, holding a knife-edge that bit into my skin without drawing blood—meaning, no doubt, there were even darker spells on the old metal door itself.

Five minutes passed. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to curb impatience and the growing need to know.

Their magic peaks, Azriel said. It won’t be long now.

As if his comment was a catalyst, the metal door began to groan, to creak. Its metal hinges seemed to get longer and longer, as if there were two opposing forces holding either end, stretching them thinner and thinner.

Then, with an explosive roar, they shattered, firing shards of thin metal through the air. Rozelle ducked, as did I, and the deadly missiles flew over our heads and pinged off the shelving behind us.

As the dust settled, it revealed the metal door lying at a downward angle, suggesting there were steps just beyond the doorway. The candlelit room beyond appeared to be large. Nothing moved within the room. Nothing leapt out at us.

I remained where I was. There might not be hellhounds and whatnot inside that chamber, but if there were candles lit, there might very well be magic.

Two of the six witches sitting within the protection circle rose, chanting softly as they joined hands and stepped onto the first step. The tension running through me ramped up several notches as they gradually disappeared downward, but there was no immediate or obvious response.

After several minutes, the sharp sense of magic eased, and one of the witches reappeared in the doorway.

“It is safe to enter,” she said, voice weary. “We have deactivated the remaining spells.”

I glanced at Azriel, who raised an eyebrow at my unspoken query, then took the lead, skirting around the witches’ protection circle but pausing on the top step. I stopped beside him. This chamber, unlike the others we’d discovered, had not been hewn out of the earth. It was obviously part of the building’s fabric, a deep, wide bunker that, like the room behind us, was longer than it was wide. At the far end of the room several large black candles burned, their light barely illuminating the heavy stone table that stood between them. Even from here I could smell the blood, desperation, and fear that clung to the stone like a well-worn cloak.

“Her ritual table,” I murmured, trying to ignore the urge to turn around and run, as far as I could, from this place and that table.

“Yes,” the second of the two witches said. She tucked her brown hair behind her ear and gave a small grimace. “It will take some time to fully nullify its power, I’m afraid.”

I frowned. “You can’t just use holy water on it?”

“Oh, we can, and will. That will at least prevent her from using it in the short term. Longer term, however, needs a more careful destruction. We need to ensure this table can never be used again, either by our sorceress or anyone else of her ilk.”

My eyebrows rose. “Meaning ritual tables are handed down from one generation to another?”

She nodded. “And each generation enriches the stone with their dark energy. That is why this sorceress has been able to do all that she has—this

stone is very, very old. You may come farther into the room, reaper,” she added. “It is safe enough for now.”

Azriel walked down the remaining dozen steps. Valdis’s fire cut across the deeper shadows, revealing more metal shelving. Unlike those in the other room, these were filled with earthen jars, glass bottles in just about every hue imaginable, and all sorts of witch tools. But I couldn’t see anything in the way of an athame, and there were certainly no chalices, which meant that while this might be her main ritual site, she certainly wasn’t keeping her most important ritual items here.

It is possible they were kept in those chests we saw in her Gold Coast home, Azriel commented. It would make sense to keep her most important tools close and safe.

I guessed it would. I clattered down the stairs after Azriel and walked across to the nearest shelving unit, my gaze running across the different bowls, jars, and bottles. If Mike was involved in this whole mess—and really, any doubt had now all but disappeared—and had placed a geas or some other sort of spell on Mom, then there would be something here belonging to her. Hell, there might even be something here belonging to me. We’d already found strands of my hair in one of her other lairs, and I doubted that would be her only cache.

As I walked up and down looking at the shelving, Rozelle came down into the room, two heavy-looking canvas bags gripped in her hand. Once she’d reached the base of the stairs, she placed both on the floor and opened one of them, revealing several large bottles of liquid. Holy water. The cleansing of this space was about to begin.

“Will she sense it?” I asked, briefly diverting my attention away from the shelving.

“Not unless she suddenly decides to appear.” Rozelle handed one of the bottles to the taller witch. “Though she will sense the destruction of the ritual table when we split it asunder.”

“You split it?” I said, surprised.

She nodded. “Once we deactivate the spells that still protect it, yes. It is the heart of the stone that holds the power; destroying it will render the stone unusable not only for her, but for future generations.”

“Good.” Especially when it meant there was one less means of dark magic and mayhem in this world.

“Risa,” Azriel said. He was studying a row of glass jars on the shelving opposite. “You might want to come and look at these. They have a very familiar resonance.”

“Familiar as in me or someone else?”

Tags: Keri Arthur Dark Angels Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net