Michael Scott - The Magician

The Italian blinked in genuine surprise. “No, Josh, no, it’s not OK.” Machiavelli reached out and squeezed Josh’s shoulder and the boy felt a rush of warmth flow through his body. His aura crackled, and the close air in the tunnel was touched with the scent of orange and the rank odor of snake. “It’s too late for that,” Machiavelli said gently. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’ve gone too deep…there’s no turning back. You will leave these catacombs Awakened or…”

“Or what?” Josh asked, when he realized, with a growing sense of horror, how the Italian was going to finish the sentence.

“Or you will not leave them at all,” Machiavelli said simply.

They rounded a curve and started down a long arrow-straight tunnel. The walls here were even more ornately decorated in bone but with strange square patterns that Josh almost recognized. They were similar to drawings he’d seen in his father’s study and looked like Maya or Aztec glyphs; but what were Meso-American hieroglyphs doing in the Catacombs of Paris?

Dee was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel. His gray eyes sparkled in the reflected light, which also lent his skin an unhealthy glow. When he spoke, his English accent had thickened, and the words tumbled so quickly it was difficult to comprehend what he was saying. Josh couldn’t tell if the Magician was excited or nervous, and that made him even more afraid.

“This is now a momentous day for you, boy, a momentous day. For not only will your powers be Awakened, but you will also meet one of the few Elders who is still remembered by humanity. It is a great honor.” He clapped his hands together. Ducking his head, he raised his hand, bringing up the globe of light, and revealed two tall arched columns of bones that had been shaped to form a doorframe. Beyond the opening, there was utter blackness. Stepping back, he directed, “You first.”

Josh hesitated and Machiavelli caught his arm and squeezed tightly. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “Whatever happens, you must not show fear, and do not panic. Your life, your very sanity, depends on it. Do you understand?”

“No fear, no panic,” Josh repeated. He was starting to hyperventilate. “No fear, no panic.”

“Go now.” Machiavelli released the boy’s arm and pushed him forward toward Dee and the bone doorway. “Have your powers Awakened,” he said, “and I hope it will be worth it.”

Something in Machiavelli’s voice made Josh look back. There was a look almost of pity on the Italian’s face, and Josh stopped. Dee looked at him, gray eyes glittering, lips twisted in an ugly smile. He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to be Awakened?”

And Josh really had only one answer to that.

Glancing back at Machiavelli again, he half raised a hand in farewell, took a deep breath and stepped through the arched doorway into the pitch-black. Light blossomed as Dee followed him, and the boy discovered that he was standing in a vast circular chamber that seemed to be carved entirely out of one enormous bone-the smoothly curved walls, the polished yellow ceiling, even the parchment-colored floor were the same shade and texture as the bone-filled walls outside.

Dee put his hand on the small of Josh’s back and urged him forward. Josh took two steps and stopped. The past few days had taught him to expect surprises-wonders, creatures and monsters: but this, this was…disappointing.

The chamber was empty except for a long rectangular raised stone plinth in the center of the room. Dee’s globe of light bobbed over the platform, harshly illuminating every carved detail. Lying flat on the top of a pitted slab of limestone was a huge statue of a man in ancient-looking metal and leather armor, gauntleted hands wrapped around the thick hilt of a broadsword that was at least six feet long. Rising up on his toes, Josh could see that the statue’s head was covered in a helmet that completely concealed the face.

Josh looked around. Dee was standing to the right of the doorway and Machiavelli had stepped into the room and taken up a position on the left. They were both watching him intently. “What…what happens now?” he asked, his voice flat and muffled in the chamber.

Neither man responded. Machiavelli folded his arms and tilted his head slightly to one side, eyes narrowing.

“Who’s this?” Josh asked, jerking a thumb at the statue. He didn’t expect to get an answer from Dee, but when he turned to the Italian he realized that Machiavelli wasn’t looking at him, he was looking beyond him. Josh spun around…just as two nightmarish creatures materialized out of the shadows.

Everything about them was white, from their almost transparent skin to the long fine hair that flowed down their backs and brushed the floor behind them. It was impossible to say whether they were male or female. They were the size of small children, unnaturally thin, with bulbous heads, broad foreheads and pointed chins. Overlarge ears and tiny nubs of horn grew out of the top of their skulls. Huge circular eyes without any pupils fixed on him, and when the creatures stepped forward, he realized that there was something wrong with their legs. Their thighs curved backward, and then the legs jutted forward at the knee and ended in goatlike hooves.

They separated as they came around the slab, and Josh’s instinct was to back away from them, but then he remembered Machiavelli’s advice and stood his ground. Taking a deep breath, he looked closely at the nearer creature and discovered that it was not quite as terrifying as it looked at first: it was so small it appeared almost fragile. He thought he knew what they were; he’d seen images of them on fragments of Greek and Roman pottery on the bookshelves in his mom’s study. They were fauns, or maybe satyrs; he wasn’t sure what the difference was.

The creatures slowly circled Josh, reaching for him with icy long-fingered hands tipped with filthy black nails, stroking his torn T-shirt, pinching the fabric of his jeans. They spoke together, chattering in high-pitched, almost inaudible voices that set his teeth on edge. One bone-chilling finger touched the flesh of his stomach and his aura spat and crackled gold sparks. “Hey!” he shouted. The creatures jumped back, but that single touch had set Josh’s heart racing. He was abruptly gripped by every nameless fear he’d ever imagined, and all the nightmares that most terrified him flooded to the surface, leaving him gasping and shaking, bathed in a bitter icy sweat. The second faun darted forward and laid a cold hand on Josh’s face. Suddenly, his heart was tripping madly, his stomach churning with mindless panic.

The two creatures held each other and jumped up and down, shaking with what could only be laughter.

“Josh.” Machiavelli’s commanding voice broke through the boy’s rising panic and silenced the creatures. “Josh. Listen to me. Hear my voice, concentrate on it. The satyrs are simple creatures and feed off the most basic of human emotions: one gorges itself on fear, the other delights in panic. They are Phobos and Deimos.”

At the mention of their names, the two satyrs started back, fading into the shadows, until only their huge liquid eyes were visible, black and shining in the light of the hovering globe.

“They are the Guardians of the Sleeping God.”

And then, with a grinding of ancient stone, the statue sat up and swiveled its head to look at Josh. Within the helmet, two eyes blazed bloodred.

“I s this a Shadowrealm?” Sophie asked in a horrified whisper, her breath catching in her throat.

She was standing at the entrance to a long straight tunnel whose walls were decorated and lined with what looked like human bones. A single low-wattage bulb lit the space with a dull yellow light.