The monks twitched, their iron masks glinting in the dim light. For a heartbeat they were still, nothing but statues carved from old agony.
And then—BAM!
The silence shattered into a storm of screams. The monks hurled themselves forward, clawing and stumbling like starving beasts. Their chorus of whispers turned into one endless shriek.
"MOVE!" Juan roared, his sabre flashing as he carved a path.
The main doors behind them slammed shut with a bone-rattling thud. Shadows spilled through the cracks, sealing them in.
"Right passage!" Matteo shouted, loosing an arrow into the mass.
The group bolted down a corridor to the right, smoke bombs trailing behind to slow pursuit.
But Azazel—late by half a second—was cut off. The press of iron-masked bodies surged between him and the others.
"Damn it!" he hissed, spinning on his heel. There was only the left passage, narrow and suffocating.
He sprinted into it, shadows snapping at his heels. "Don't die!" he shouted back, voice cracking. It was stupid—he knew it. They could survive. He was the one running with death at his throat.
The corridor coiled endlessly, walls pressing close. Behind him, the monks poured like a black tide, whispering, chanting, scraping the stone with their nails.
[They will eat you alive,] his grandfather's voice muttered through the Codex. [But… Isabella is nowhere near. That means I can lend you some power.]
Azazel's pulse spiked. It had been weeks since he dared draw on the Codex, too fearful of being sensed by the other hunters. But here, cornered in the belly of the Abbey, he felt almost grateful.
"Fine," he growled.
Power surged—thirty percent. His blood burned, his muscles snapped awake. The world slowed. His footsteps became a blur of silence.
He rounded a corner—and froze. Ahead, another pack of monks lurched out of the darkness, their iron masks screeching against each other as they turned to him.
Azazel's eyes narrowed. He cut his palm. His daggers drank eagerly. Scarlet strings shot forth, binding the monks in sticky blood-webs. Using the walls themselves, he launched upward, vaulting over their heads with spiderlike grace.
He landed, rolled, and bolted—only to crash into a dead end.
"Shit—"
Two choices: a rotting door to his right, or a stone stairwell plunging into blackness.
[Not down,] Johann's voice warned, calm and firm.
Azazel rammed his shoulder against it. It groaned, gave way. Inside—space. A wide chamber, dusty, but intact. He slammed it shut, dragging a heavy chest against the entrance. The whispers dulled. The pounding ceased.
His chest heaved, ribs stabbing with pain. He dispelled the Codex's power, ripped the mask off his face. For the first time since entering the Abbey, silence. The faint blush of dawn bled through cracked windows.
He almost laughed with relief.
[Azazel!] Johann's voice urged, cutting sharp again. [Push it. Activate the Codex fully, as much as you can!]
Azazel frowned.
That was when the air shifted.
Behind him, in the shadows of the room, a voice rolled like thunder from a pit too deep to measure.
"You reek of him."
Azazel froze, his daggers trembling in his grip. The voice wasn't human. It wasn't monk. It was older. Hungrier.
Odor of sulfur appeared in the air.
His blood turned cold.