The night air was thick with the sour tang of exhaust
and rain when Maxwell and Father Anthony slipped into the city streets. Los
Angeles sprawled endlessly, its lights masking the shadows that fed beneath.
People hurried past, unaware of the war brewing beneath their feet.
Maxwell kept his hood low, his sword strapped across
his back beneath a worn leather coat. He walked beside Anthony, who clutched
the satchel carrying the Codex Angelorum. The priest's lips moved in silent
prayer, though Maxwell wasn't sure whether he was praying for protection—or
forgiveness.
They turned off the main road, weaving into a
forgotten part of the city where abandoned buildings lined cracked sidewalks.
The hum of traffic dimmed until only the echo of their footsteps remained.
Maxwell broke the silence. "So what exactly are we
walking into?"
Anthony glanced at him. "The catacombs were built in
the 1800s. A network of tunnels, ossuaries, and burial vaults beneath the city.
Most people think they were sealed off decades ago. But I've learned otherwise.
Cultists have been using them for years as a sanctuary. It's where they keep
relics they can't risk exposing above ground."
Maxwell frowned. "And you think the vial is down
there."
Anthony hesitated before answering. "I think it's the
likeliest place. But the Codex doesn't speak plainly. It uses symbols,
fragments. It could be a trap as much as a clue."
"Sounds promising," Maxwell muttered, tugging his coat
tighter. "Demons below, cultists above, and I get to play treasure hunter."
Anthony's eyes hardened. "You're not a hunter,
Maxwell. You're a protector. Remember that."
They reached the mouth of a derelict building, its
windows shattered, its door chained shut. Graffiti covered the walls—some
crude, some disturbingly precise. Strange runes scrawled in black paint seemed
to pulse faintly under the flicker of Anthony's flashlight.
The priest lifted a small vial of holy water and
sprinkled the doorframe. The runes hissed and smoked before fading. Maxwell's
hand instinctively went to his sword.
"You weren't exaggerating," Maxwell said under his
breath.
Anthony cut the chain with bolt cutters he pulled from
his satchel. The door creaked open, and a gust of stale, cold air swept over
them.
"Stay close," Anthony warned, stepping into the
darkness.
The stairs led down into silence. The smell hit
Maxwell first—damp stone mixed with something coppery, unmistakable. Blood. He
kept his sword loose in his grip as they descended into the subterranean
labyrinth.
The tunnel opened into a wide chamber lined with
niches carved into the walls, each holding piles of skeletal remains. Skulls
stared blankly from the shadows, their hollow sockets seeming to follow the
intruders.
Maxwell felt it then—a ripple through the air, subtle
but suffocating. The pressure of something unseen. He slowed, his breath
steadying. "We're not alone."
Anthony raised his crucifix, whispering Latin under
his breath. The shadows at the edges of the chamber stirred, writhing
unnaturally. A low growl reverberated through the air.
From the darkness, something crawled forward—twisted
limbs bent at impossible angles, eyes burning with sulfuric light. Its mouth
stretched too wide, rows of jagged teeth glistening.
Maxwell's sword flared faintly with silver light as he
drew it. "Guess it didn't take long."
The demon lunged. Maxwell sidestepped, blade flashing
in a clean arc. The sword sliced through its chest, releasing a shriek that
rattled the bones stacked in the chamber. Black ichor splattered the stone
floor, sizzling like acid.
More shapes slithered from the tunnels—three, four,
five. Their bodies writhed with malice, their growls echoing like a chorus of
hunger.
Anthony planted himself at Maxwell's side, his
crucifix glowing faintly in the gloom. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus
Sancti…" His voice rose, steady, filled with authority. A burst of light flared
from the cross, driving the demons back a step.
Maxwell swung his blade, striking another creature
that darted forward. He moved with instinct born of survival, every motion
fluid, fierce. His Nephilim blood surged in his veins, the runes along his
blade burning brighter with each strike.
But the demons weren't retreating—they were circling.
Anthony's prayers grew louder, sweat dripping down his
temples. His voice strained as though pushing against an invisible tide. One
demon shrieked and burst into ash under the holy fire, but two more surged
forward.
Maxwell's blade met one mid-leap, cleaving it in half.
But the other slammed into him, sending him crashing into the bone-strewn wall.
Skulls shattered, clattering to the floor.
The creature loomed, claws poised. Maxwell gritted his
teeth, forcing his blade upward in a desperate thrust. The sword pierced its
throat, the demon convulsing before dissolving into ash.
Anthony hurried to his side, offering a hand. "You're
hurt."
Maxwell wiped blood from his lip and shook his head.
"I've had worse." He pushed himself to his feet, eyes scanning the chamber.
"But they were waiting for us. This wasn't random."
Anthony's lips pressed thin. "No. Someone sent them."
Maxwell exhaled, his sword still gleaming faintly in
the dimness. "Then we're close."
The tunnel ahead yawned open, darker than before. The
air seemed heavier, charged with malice. Somewhere deeper within, something
waited—something stronger than the creatures they had just faced.
Maxwell tightened his grip on the sword. "Let's finish
this."
Anthony lifted the crucifix higher, and together they
pressed deeper into the catacombs, unaware that eyes far older and crueler were
already watching.