A faint murmuring arose, a rustle of fabric, a hiss of steam.

From somewhere out of sight, footsteps muffled by soft soles padded against a hard floor.

A curtain, thick and heavy, stretching from ceiling to floor, obscured my view. A wood-panelled wall, through which the wormhole had materialised, stood behind us.

I was frozen to the spot, with Ethan's hand clapped firmly over my mouth.

Concealed behind the curtain, he held me against him, and I could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest on my back, his hot breath on my ear.

He was pissed - seriously pissed – and somewhere inside, I was sure it probably wasn't a good idea to antagonise a demon, even if demons weren't quite what we had been led to believe, but I really didn't see what choice I'd had. Ethan didn't really have a choice either, and I'd known that.

Used it.

I'd learned a long time ago that if people wanted something badly enough, they'd do literally anything to get it. Drugs. Sex. Alcohol. Money. Whatever. Quid Pro Quo, or whatever the fuck it was that Hannibal Lecter said to Clarice. You want something? Well, then you've got to be prepared to give up something in return. That's just how life went, that's how people were, and Ethan was certainly no different from the rest, demon or not. He needed me to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Me. The addict. The liability. The hopeless wreck of a girl who stumbled from one fuck-up to the next. None of it had made any sense until I realised he wasn't being entirely truthful about why he'd brought me to Rome.

He couldn't do this without me, and that had to be worth something.

I wanted Addi back safe. Ethan wanted in to the Vaults.

Quid-pro-fucking-quo.

Lifting his other arm, he checked the time on his watch and held up three fingers to indicate how many minutes we had to wait. Each second stretched out agonisingly, each one a reminder of the danger we were clearly in and each one a reminder that I was now dealing with one very pissed-off demon, who didn't appreciate being blackmailed one little bit.

After a while, he dropped his hand from my mouth, but didn't let go of me, and I swallowed, trying to control my breathing. Three minutes felt like a lifetime. Three minutes was like a prison.

A clock chimed, its lyrical steady beat striking twelve times and filling the room beyond with a pleasant, resounding echo that seemed to reverberate in my ears long after it had stopped. Still, Ethan didn't move and on the other side of the curtain, I could hear the sound of shuffling feet, my stomach lurching with dread as they drew closer to our hiding place.

The footsteps moved away, the sound growing fainter with each step and it was only when I heard the distant creak of a door that Ethan let go, sidling carefully around me to avoid violently disturbing the curtain. Slowly, he used his hand to push back the edge, so he could peek out, before stepping out from our hiding place and crooking one finger at me, beckoning me to follow.

We were standing in a small, square chamber, bordered on all sides by the same kind of wood-panelled wall through which we'd appeared. In the centre of the room, a table was covered with piles of white linen, with cords coiling down from the ceiling. Four irons had been un-plugged from the dangling power sockets, but I could still smell the steam lingering in the air, fused with the scent of fresh laundry that reminded me of Claire.

I knew enough from Maggie's religious upbringing to know what this place was. We were in the Sacristy. The place where Ethan said one of the Council's agents masqueraded as a nun.

The room was relatively sparse of objects and furniture. On the opposite wall, a crucifix hung high above a small cream statue of the Madonna. In the corner, a sewing box lay discarded next to a wooden chair. There was an altar cloth laid on top, a needle and thread carefully pinned into the material for safe-keeping.

Everything was neat and orderly and pretty unremarkable, that was apart from the robes which were draped on a hanger, hooked onto a free-standing coat rack, not far from the chair and sewing box. They were made from a thick white silk, the golden-tasselled stole embroidered with what looked like a coat of arms, and I stopped when I saw it, my eyes captivated by such luxury in this rudimentary setting.

I started towards it, my hand reaching. 'Is that...?'

Ethan grabbed my wrist. 'Don't touch it,' he warned, in a hushed tone.

My eyes widened. 'Why not? What will it do?' My head swam with visions of the arms reaching out to grab me, the magical vestment pulling me into its suffocating trap.

He raised a brow. 'It won't do anything. It's just a cassock, albeit the ceremonial robes of the figurehead of the Catholic Church and we don't have time for you to try it on for size. The Holy Sisters break at midday and will be back by two-thirty. We have to get in and out of the Vault by then, if we're to avoid getting our faces ironed by the Malakh on the return journey.'

'The Mal-what?'

'The Malakh. An agent of the Divine Council. They're planted everywhere in this place. From nuns to Cardinals, from the keepers of the Vatican keys to the guy whose job it is to clean the stairs to St. Peter's Tomb. The Malakh here in the Sacristy is Sister Adelaida, and she might look like your average Granny, but trust me, if she finds us here, she won't whip out her best china-wear and make us a cup of tea.' He nodded to where the sewing box sat by the chair. 'She's more likely to sew our eyelids shut while we're still conscious. And then iron the skin from our face.'

A shiver rippled through me. 'We should probably go then, right?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'We probably should. Come on.'

My boots felt heavy and loud on the marbled floor as I followed him, a raucous din compared to the soft footing of the nuns who had been here just moments before, and I winced with every step, sure that the Malakh would hear me and return to inflict the fate that Ethan had promised.

Ethan, on the other hand, seemed to manage everything with stealth and barely a whisper of noise, as he led us from the laundry room, into a wide corridor that angled sharply on either end. Mottled-grey, marble columns lined a chequered grey and cream floor, while intricately carved cherub faces watched us as we passed, their pale blank eyes still, and yet seeming to follow our every move, causing goose-bumps to rise on my skin, which was already prickling with fear.

Cutting across the hallway, Ethan pulled us tight against a wide doorway, inching around the corner first to spy into the room beyond. When he seemed satisfied it was empty, he tugged on my hand and urged me inside.

I stopped just a couple of metres inside the door, my gaze drawn hypnotically upwards to the high arched ceiling above. I found myself spinning to take in the rest of the circular-shaped room, admiring the golden columns that rose resplendent, the mahogany-tiered cabinets bedecked with large crucifixes, some of the doors open to reveal stacks of leather-bound Bibles. In between two of the columns, set back in the wall, hung a huge painting, housed in an ornately gilded frame and above it, etched onto the marble archway, one single word:

It felt like a warning engraved in gold.

A warning not to speak of what I'd seen.

You see too much. You shouldn't see.

A warning not to speak the truth.

I stared at it for a moment, as the light seeped in from one of the high windows, the beam directly hitting the archway. I felt little warmth from the amber beam striking the engraving, just an inert coldness that sunk bone-deep and made me wrap my arms around myself.

In the centre of the room, a circular mosaic adorned the floor, cordoned off by a low-level burgundy rope, which Ethan had stepped over like a tourist who refuses to stay out of the Staff Only zones.

He stood now, in the centre of the mosaic, his arms by his sides, palms flat to the floor. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth with the effort and pulled. The air between his hands and the floor pulsated, like a living creature being summoned awake from some deep slumber. He pulled again, this time making a small grunting sound, his cheek muscles twitching with exertion. The mosaic began to crumble beneath his feet, each individual tile disintegrating as reality was leeched from it, replacing it with a growing void, that rippled outwards, concentric waves reaching to the edge of the circle.

It looked almost monstrous, this great heaving floor like a sinkhole leading straight to some Hellish pit. The air above it pulsed and throbbed, juddering under the control of Ethan's hands.

Footsteps yanked me hard from the spell.

They were sharp, clipped steps, not the soft padded soles of the Holy Sisters, but I knew neither could be a good thing at this moment in time.

'Quick,' he hissed, and I stared in panic at the whirling maelstrom.

Taking a deep breath, I ran towards him, jumping the rope.

As I leaped through the air and into his arms, the black maw of the wormhole opened up fully beneath us, and we fell into the tunnel, the entrance closing above our heads as soon as we did so, cutting off the light of the Sacristy and plunging us into darkness.

*

On the other side, the darkness there was heavy and suffocating, thick with damp and stifling hot.

We were on a narrow, winding stairway, the steps beneath our feet made from crudely-fashioned brick and stone. The stairs twisted down to the right, a faint amber light emanating from below, where I could hear a man speaking in Italian, his voice echoing up the stairwell.

In the narrow confines of the staircase, I was still clinging to Ethan, my arms wrapped around his neck, his hands pressed against the small of my back under my jacket, where the sweat was already plastering my shirt to my skin.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I knew his were already fixed upon my face. I'd felt them travelling over my skin in those first few seconds, a strange sensation that had made the hair on the back of my neck prickle with heat and dread.

I pulled out of his grasp, not that there seemed anywhere to go, and I hit the wall behind me, which was bumpy and wet to touch. Gesturing at me to be quiet, Ethan descended slowly as the man's voice grew louder, now accompanied by a number of others, all speaking in hushed, but excitable tones.

Without looking at me, Ethan extended his arm in my direction, motioning for me to take his hand, which I did, moving closer to his side. Instead of letting go, he linked his fingers with mine, still not turning to face me, but instead pulling me back against the wall as the voices grew louder still.

Shadows danced on the walls from what looked like a veritable army coming our way, and I squeezed Ethan's hand involuntarily and he brushed his thumb over mine, a gesture I'm sure was involuntary for him too, considering the way his arm tensed immediately afterwards as if he'd suddenly realised what he'd done.

Footsteps came closer. The shadows mutated, increasing in size. The Italian man kept on talking, followed by a cloud of whispered ghost-voices trailing after him.

I held my breath as the army passed by below, only to try and stifle a gasp as Ethan pulled on my hand, forcing me to follow him as he slipped down the last few steps.

Nobody in the tourist party of about twenty people seemed to pay any attention to the two newest recruits who'd slotted in quite seamlessly at the back.

We blended in quite well behind a family of four; a stout man who kept dabbing at his damp forehead with a white monogrammed handkerchief, a taller, well-groomed dark-haired woman who might as well have just walked out of an Armani store, and their two children. The younger boy was looking about with awe, particularly fixated on any dark side tunnel that was off-limits to the tourists and which no doubt held endless possibilities of adventure for him, while the older girl, possibly a teenager or at least on the cusp of her teenage years, looked highly bored, and seemed to find infinitely more interesting things under her manicured fingernails.

The guide at the front was facing away from us, a clipboard firmly wedged under his armpit and a pointer in his hand which he kept aiming at various artefacts with a flourish, as if he was a Hogwarts wizard attempting to cast a spell.

We were in a tunnel that looked more like an underground alley, the walls a muted red brick. Back through the entrance from which we had come, I could see a small, square room of terracotta and cream to the right of the staircase, a small column rising in the middle of a cracked mosaic floor.

Ethan snaked a hand round my waist and pulled me close, his mouth brushing against my ear. I stiffened instinctively.

'We're in the Necropolis,' he whispered, his eyes never leaving the tour party shambling through the tunnels in front of us. 'Roughly translated as city of the dead.'

'Terrific,' I muttered, glancing around as if I expected skeletons to start jumping out of the walls.

Ethan rolled his eyes. 'It's no different to visiting a cemetery above ground.'

'Yeah, and I try to avoid them as much as I possibly can. Mainly because they're full of dead people, you know?'

He hissed out a curse. 'There's no point fearing the dead, Casey. It's the ones who are alive that you have to worry about. This is nothing but a network of underground mausoleums for rich Romans. Two stories above is the Papal Altar of the Holy Father himself. Down here leads to the apparent resting place of St. Peter the Apostle.'

'Apparent? Does that mean it's not him?'

He dragged his eyes away from the tour guide to give me a dry look. 'Your kind has such a morbid fascination with old bones. Can't say I care whether it's the Apostle's remains or not. Bones are bones. Best place for them are in the ground or in a dog's mouth.'

I grimaced and the stout man in front turned to shoot Ethan an irritated glare, thankfully oblivious to the fact we'd joined the party much later than everyone else. Ethan just returned his stare with an apologetic smile and a shoulder shrug, gesturing to me as if I was the one causing the disturbance. I elbowed him in the ribs, spotting the first sign of a smile creeping back into his face, not that I was about to relax into this again. I doubted very much that he'd forgotten our deal.

We followed the party through the underground maze and I did my best to pretend to pay attention to the tour, with Ethan pretty much attached to my waist and knowing we were one step closer each time to reaching the Vaults.

Finally, we turned a corner into another tunnel, where the party had congregated to listen to the guide as he whirled the pointer around again, jabbing it towards the two mausoleums on the right. He had a touch of over-dramatic out-of-work actor about him, more interested in his own performance than he was in the Necropolis itself. Once his speech was finished, he disappeared into the next section of the tombs, the rest of the tourists shuffling like zombies after him.

Before I could follow, Ethan grabbed a handful of my shirt, pulling me back.

He waited until the last of the party had reached the end of the tunnel, before turning into the first room on the right, which was so tiny that it seemed like more of an alcove than a mausoleum.

'Why is this one so small?' I whispered in case any of the party had decided to come back, as I squeezed myself into the small space next to Ethan.

'It's not,' he said. 'Much of the tomb is hidden behind old sixteenth-century foundations, but it doesn't matter. Everything we need is right here.'

He turned to look at a picture on the wall, a strange expression haunting his features.

It was a fairly small painting, with a faded red background, a huge crack running from top to bottom on one side and another fissure that cut right through the chest of a man on horseback, holding what looked like a staff or a torch.

Ethan swallowed as his eyes coveted the image, his jaw muscles tightening.

'Who is that?' I asked, hesitantly.

He glanced back at me, his head tilted to one side, the subtlest of sad smiles on his face.

'Who is that?' he repeated, softly. 'That, Casey, is the Light-Bearer. The Morning-Star.' Seeing the puzzled look on my face, he added, 'Lucifer. That is Lucifer.'

My gaze shot back to the image, my mouth dropping open in shock.

'That's your father?' I leaned closer, trying to get a better look.

'What are you doing?' he said. 'Checking for a family resemblance?'

I pulled back instantly, my cheeks warming with embarrassment. 'Of course not,' I said, spotting a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. 'Alright, maybe.' I glanced at it again. 'He wore less clothes than you do.'

Ethan sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. 'For fuck's sake, it's not actually him. Nobody got him to pose on horseback, wearing nothing but a bloody toga, while they painted this onto the wall. It's a depiction of the Light-Bearer. This is Roman in origin, and to them, Lucifer was the son of the goddess, Aurora and the hero, Cephalus.'

His eyes found the figure again, a coldness creeping into his features.

'This is just a painting, that's all.' He sniffed dismissively. 'And it just so happens this is the way in to the Vaults.'

'Wait,' I said, my eyes widening. 'You're telling me, your father hid the entrance to the Council's Vaults within an image of Lucifer?'

He grinned smugly, his gaze unflinching.

'What can I say? He had a great sense of humour. You ready?'

My breath caught in my throat. This was it. We were going in. We were actually going in. And I wasn't ready. Suddenly, I wasn't, but it was too late now, and I could only watch with horror as Ethan stepped back, doing his best to manoeuvre in the confined space, as he reached out with both hands.

I felt the pressure pop in my ears, a weird sensation that flipped my stomach on a spin-cycle and made me have to steady myself against the entrance of the tomb. Dust filtered down from above and was soon sucked into the void as Ethan pulled on the air in front of the painting. The wall began to peel away, piece by piece, bending impossibly backwards on either side and revealing a black hole that just moments before had been solid stone.

The gap looked smaller than all the others, barely the width of one person.

'Ladies first?' Ethan said, with a smirk.

'You've got to be joking,' I stammered, feeling my heart bounce erratically inside my chest.

'Of course, I am. Lighten up.'

'Lighten up? You're taking me into the Vaults and you're asking me to li...'

Before I could say anymore, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the wormhole, wrapping his arms around me as we plummeted into the depths of the blackest chasm, tumbling, careering along the pathway so fast that my head spun, and my teeth chattered with the force of the fall.

It felt like the drop might last forever; that this was all there ever was, and all there ever would be, with no possible end in sight. The farther we fell, the colder it felt, and the harder the air whipped and lashed at my face and hands, like being caught in the vice-like grip of a torrential storm of ice and snow.

I clung onto Ethan tighter, pushing my face into his neck, and down, down we went, cannonballs thundering violently through the void. This was the worst one yet, a tumultuous head-fuck of a ride that felt like we really were plunging straight into Hell and I guess we were in a way, only certainly not the one I had always assumed it to be.

I had a feeling the fiery pits of Satan's supposed abode would be a far better destination than whatever now awaited us on the other side.

*

I'd never imagined Hell to look like a library.

Hell was a child's bedroom. Hell was face down in a pillow. Hell was a needle. Hell was a man's voice, the roughness of his beard, the grip of his hands.

The Vaults of the Divine Council wasn't Hell, of course, because as Ethan had said, Hell didn't technically exist, but I could tell instantly that this wasn't just a library either, even if it did look like one.

Aisles stretched out on either side, and in front of me, as far as my eyes could see. There was an upper level, although how anyone reached it, I couldn't work out because I could see no steps or ladders to reach it. A wide walkway stretched through the centre of the Vaults and, high above my head, arched wooden rafters bridged the two sides, cornflower blue and gold frescos emblazoned across the ceiling in between the curved beams.

Each aisle was stacked high with shelves and each shelf was crammed with not only books, but all kind of odd paraphernalia – strange-shaped bottles and jars of many colours, where things moved and pulsed behind the glass, old wooden crates bound tightly with leather straps and rusted padlocks, beautifully-decorated vases and urns, rolls of yellowing parchment wrapped with ribbon. One shelf close to me seemed to house nothing but skulls, packed into every available space, some human, some animal and some I had no idea what the fuck they were, because they looked like no creature I had ever seen. Another shelf was piled with framed paintings and photographs, some clearly old, some newer that made me want to crane my head to take a closer look.

The whole place was like one huge curio cabinet, full of beautiful and terrible things that you couldn't help but be captivated by, inexplicably drawn to each one no matter what it might be.

In between each aisle, a stone plinth sat at every juncture, a carved bust on top of each one and as my eyes swept over the nearest to me, I realised each statue was of the same man – old with a long, straggly beard, heavy-brows, hair that curled around the temples in waves and much to my horror, each one sculpted with hideous scars where their eyes should have been.

I quickly averted my own eyes, instead bringing my attention firmly back on Ethan, whose face was lit up, not in awe, but with a wicked, mischievous glint.

He was enjoying this. I could see it clearly, despite his initial protests to Oscar about not wanting to come here, and I couldn't help but wonder now if he got a kick out of this because he was getting off on the danger, or because being here reminded him of his parents' adventures.

'So, what now?' I whispered. 'Where do we start?'

Ethan's gaze drifted over my shoulder, his head lifting just a notch, his lips curling into a smile.

'You start by turning around.'

'W-what?' I said, turning my head to follow the direction of his stare.

Behind me, far down the central aisle, a shadowy figure stood very still, so still that at first, I wondered if it was another statue, but then slowly, it moved, shifting slightly as if to look down at its feet and then back in our direction again. It raised an arm and scratched at its head, then took a few shuffling steps forward.

'Ethan,' I said, my eyes not leaving the strange figure. 'Ethan, it's a man.'

'No,' he said. 'Not a man. An Erelim.'

'What?' I croaked, looking back at him in panic. 'But you said that's what guards this place. It's already here, it's already seen us!'

'Of course, it has,' he said, nodding back towards the Erelim. 'And it's coming this way.'

I whirled around and sure enough, the Erelim was coming towards us and fast. Gone was the shuffling gait. Gone was its slow confusion. It was running, actually fucking running towards us.

'Do something,' I urged. 'Bloody do something.'

Taking a step backwards, I stumbled into nothing. Into an empty space.

Ethan wasn't there.

Instead he was backing away, a big grin on his face.

He'd tricked me. He'd fucking tricked me. How could I have even thought I would get away with blackmailing him into doing what I wanted? He was a Demon, after all. He even told me himself I could do better than the Son of Lucifer, and I hadn't known what he meant then, but I did now.

I did now.

'Bastard,' I hissed. 'You planned this, you fucking planned it.'

His brow crinkled. 'Of course, I planned it. I told you. I needed you here to distract them.'

'Them?' I shrieked, glancing back in panic. The Erelim was much closer now, so close that I could see it really was a man. 'You mean there's more?'

Ethan shrugged, waving his hands at me. 'Possibly. Now, go do your thing.'

He turned, breaking into a jog as he moved farther down the walkway.

'My thing? My fucking thing? What does that even mean? Ethan?'

I stared in horror as he carried on going, his footsteps echoing back at me, each one like a punch to the stomach.

'Just keep it distracted, Casey,' he called out. 'Talk shit to it like you do me. It'll be fine, trust me!'

He slowed slightly, turning to face me, still jogging backwards. 'Oh, and before I forget, if it shows you its eyes, try and remember not to scream. It doesn't like that.'

'It's eyes? What's wrong with its eyes? Ethan!'

Now far up ahead, the shadows of the Vaults seemed to swallow him whole, leaving nothing behind but an impenetrable blackness. He was gone, and I was alone.

'What's wrong with its eyes?' I whispered.

The footsteps behind me had stopped.

Taking a deep, laboured breath that rasped in my throat, I turned slowly, my fists clenched, panic squeezing my windpipe.

Standing just a few metres away was an old man strikingly similar to the busts on the plinths. Barely more than my height, he stood in trousers and a shirt that looked too baggy on his slight frame, a long, scruffy cardigan which hung almost down to his knees, scuffed leather shoes on his feet.

He cocked his head to one side, then to the other and sniffed the air.

His face broke into a wide, warm grin.

'Hello there,' the Erelim said brightly. 'And who might you be?'     

****

Author's Note: Hello Hedonists and thank you for your patience! This chapter should have been uploaded much earlier in the week, but for some reason I just couldn't get it to flow and was struggling to see the end in sight, so it's finished just slightly differently to how I originally planned. If you could, please do consider hitting the vote button and leaving a comment! Your votes and comments really do help get a story more exposure and it's becoming harder and harder to get our stories out there on Wattpad these days, so trust me, every little bit helps and is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading! <3