The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

We left the Villa St Simon at about 9:00 pm, just as the sky began its transition from dusk to dark. Outside of a couple local cafes that had a few tables sparsely filled with evening diners, the little town pretty much closed up shop after the sun went down on a weekday.

“The hotel is pretty nice, and I certainly can’t complain about the room service,” Marc said as we crossed onto Rue Prémayac.

“I know,” I answered. “Those sandwiches were so good. And the coffee...”

“Who knew ham, butter and bread was all a sandwich needed,” Lucía agreed. She looked over at her brother and added, “Why do I feel there’s a but in there, hermano?”

“But,” Marc added, “I’m not entirely sold on the sleeping arrangements.”

“Really?” Jordan asked. “I’m very happy with the arrangements.”

“They only had the two rooms available on short notice,” Lucía replied. She was mostly keeping the smile off her full lips. “I thought it best for us girls to have one room and you boys to have the other.”

“I sleep in the nude by the way,” Jordan added.

I laughed so hard I snorted.

GPS took us to the south entrance this time. We crossed Le Saugeron river and left civilization behind. The moon was full, but low on the horizon, and there were only a few lights on here and there. It was suddenly very dark. Jordan took off his backpack and passed out flashlights.

“You’re sure we shouldn’t be a little sneakier?” I asked.

“I don’t think this place closes,” Lucía answered. “There’s actually a campground on the north end, but I didn’t want to sleep in a tent.”

“Good call,” Jordan agreed.

A stone bridge over another moat took us to the entrance smaller south entrance. There wasn’t even a door, just a rectangular doorway.

Marc pointed and said, “There’s our first stop.”

High above to our left we could see the Echauguette silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

We passed through the doorway, and I gasped when I saw a large security guard with a thin mustache and a receding hairline leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette.

“Bonsoir les gens,” the man said, nodding at us.

“Quoi de neuf,” Marc replied. He waved as we walked past.

The way he looked at Lucía may have been a little creepy, but he didn’t make a move to stop us. We found the stairs and climbed up to the top of the wall. The stars were bright and large in the darkness, away from the city, and we could see the lights of nearby Bordeaux a few miles downriver.

“Backpack,” Marc said, as we approached the Echauguette. Jordan slipped it off his back and handed the bag over. Marc rifled through it until he found a length of rope. He looped it around his waist and tied it off in some sort of fancy slipknot. He cinched it tight and handed the free end to Jordan.

The Echauguette was technically reachable, but that involved tight roping a thin strand of 400-year-old masonry. My stomach clenched when I realized what he was doing. A fall probably wouldn’t kill him, but it would send him the ER with a broken back.

Oh, hell no!

“Oh, hell no,” I said.

Marc smiled at me and said, “I’ll be fine mi amore. Did you notice earlier today that it looks like there’s a brick missing up near the top?”

Head shakes all around.

He shined his light over the upper right side and said, “You see it there?”

“Well look at that,” I said.

“There’s no need for a decorative feature to have a built-in arrow slit,” Marc added.

“So, what’s in there?” I asked.

“Hopefully, a key,” Marc replied. “That’s what the source I met with told me anyways. Otherwise, the only way we’ll find the crypt is with ground-penetrating radar and a backhoe.”

Would dad still be alive if Marc had been with Lucía that night at the airport instead of finding out about this? That’s not fair. He had no way of knowing.

He turned to Jordan and said, “You’re going to hold on to this rope like my life depends on it.”

Jordan nodded and began to loop the free end around his left arm and shoulder, the way dad used to roll up the extension cord.

“Ok, but you’ve got to tell me first,” Jordan said, “in case you fall to your death or whatnot. Where does one find a source regarding keys to secret crypts?”

“That contain magic swords,” I added.

“Yeah, because those are even more rare than the regular secret crypts,” bestie agreed.

“Is this a serious question,” Marc asked.

“Sixty-percent, give-or-take,” Jordan answered.

“I’m not really that big on details,” I added.

He shook his head slowly at me before focusing on Jordan. “Apparently the Citadel architect was a Stone Mason, and he mentioned the key in a letter to the local master,” Marc explained. “An acolyte found it recently while cataloging an elder member’s library and started posting about it on some archeology message board. Mom read it, and I tracked him down through the board and I set up a meet in Barcelona. For the fee we paid that guy, the information had better be genuine. Now can we do this?”

Jordan planted one foot firmly against the surface of the wall, tested his grip on the rope and said, “Okay, ready when you are.”

A stone safety rail ran along the wall at chest height, and Marc flattened his hands along the top and easily vaulted up onto it.

“Be careful,” I said uselessly. He didn’t bother responding. Lucìa had her hands up in his general direction, to catch him if he fell backwards into her arms, I guess.

“Give me some slack J,” Marc said. Jordan loosened his grip on the rope and Marc shuffled the few feet of open space between the wall and the back end of the turret. I held my breath until his hands came to rest on the top of the pill-shaped Echauguette.”

Marc threw his head back and whooped and I nearly jumped out of my shoes. “What a rush,” he added. “Nothing like a little climb to get the blood flowing.

“Damnit Marc,” Lucìa cut in. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were falling.”

He squinted and looked sideways at his sister, “Please, hermana. Like I’m gonna fall.”

“Just don’t get cocky,” she replied.

Eighteen years too late for that. Still, he makes it work.

Marc looked down, then crouched and peered down and to his right. He reached as far as he could, then let loose with some rapid Spanish that I assume was mostly curse words. “I can’t reach,” he said finally.

“What if you wrap the rope around that Boy Scout thingy,” I said.

“What’s a Boy Scout?” he asked. “And what’s a Boy Scout thingy.”

“Let’s see, the Boy Scouts, Jordan started, “Honestly, I can’t choose between the pedophile joke and the virgin joke.”

Marc squinted and stared at Jordan. I rolled my eyes and pointed.

“The fleur-de-lis?” Marc asked. “Yeah, that may work.” He tugged on the rope and said, “Give me some slack.”

Jordan unfurled a few loops of rope and Marc wrapped it around the fleur-de-lis. Then he got down on all fours on the narrow ledge, before looking back and asking, “You got me bro?”

Jordan tested his grip on the rope and said, “I mean, probably.”

“That’s not particularly reassuring,” Marc answered. He held the rope in one hand and climbed around to the far side on the Echauguette, then flattened himself on the ledge and reached again for the empty space between the bricks.

“I feel something,” Marc said after a few seconds of fishing around. “It feels like one of those old-fashioned skeleton keys.” He pulled a few times and said, “It seems to be set into the mortar – but it’s loosening.”

He yanked back hard and suddenly Marc falling. The rope popped the fleur-de-lis cleanly off its mooring. About the time that Marc yelled in pain, Jordan’s feet began to leave the ground. Lucia grabbed Jordan around the waist about the same time I wrapped myself around his knees. Nobody moved. Nobody fell.

“Hey,” Marc called. “Will someone please pull me up? All my blood is pooling in my eyeballs.”

While Lucia and Jordan held on for dear life, I took off my sweatshirt and hung it down to give Marc something to hold while he got himself turned right-side-up. After that, he was able to start climbing up the rope. Unfortunately, the fleur-de-lis took a chunk out of the rope, and just as I spotted the fraying edges separating on the edge of the wall, the last two undamaged fibers snapped.

Somehow Mark reached, and somehow Jordan lunged, and they met in a hug a half-foot below the edge of the wall. Lucia was the only thing keeping them all from going over the edge. I jumped up on the edge of the wall and got two hands around the meat of Marc’s arm and just held on. It was enough leverage for him to start climbing up with his feet, and I switched from arm to belt as he made his way up.

Once Marc and Jordan were both safely over the ledge, there was a lot of hugging, and then the adrenaline wore off and my legs turned to jelly. I sat down with on the ground with my back to the wall, and moments later, everyone joined me. It was a few minutes before Marc broke the silence.

“Can someone tell me if this is sweat or blood? That Boy Scout thingie clipped me on the way down.”

“At least you got the name right,” I said.

I scrambled for my flashlight and shined it on Marc’s face. The left side of his head above his ear was covered in blood.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I exclaimed. I propped up on my knees and was able to find a two-inch gash.

Is that white patch bone?

“I’ve had worse,” he answered.

“It’s ok, it’s not that bad,” I said. “But it might need stitches.”

It’s so deep!

Lucía came over and crouched down to take a look. Her signature ponytail was an uncharacteristic mess. She took a quick intake of breath when she saw the wound, and we looked at each other with knowing eyes.

“Hermano,” she said, “we may need to go to the hospital.”

He shook his head. “There’s no time,” he said. He opened his hand, and in it was a large, slightly bent copper skeleton key. “We’ve got a bit of a hike and some searching to do before dawn.”

“You got it!” I said.

He smiled. “I lost my balance when the key came free of the mortar.”

“This wound needs stitches hermano,” she said.

“I packed a first aid kit. You can patch me up,” he replied.

Jordan got up to take a look. “At least it missed your face,” he said after assessing the damage. “That would have been a tragedy.”

Marc looked up and said, “You didn’t let go. You could have died. Why would you do that?” Jordan looked both uncomfortable and a loss for words. Marc attempted to get up, groaned, and said, “A little help please?”

Jordan stuck out a hand and hauled him up and Marc wrapped him in a bear hug. Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise, and no smart-ass remarks escaped his lips.

“We’re brothers now,” Marc said. He released my stunned bestie and turned to his sister. “We doing this?”

“I still think an actual doctor should take care of this,” Lucía replied.

Marc shook his head. “You’ll do fine, Lucy.”

“Sure, ok,” Lucía said. Her voice sounded confident, but her face looked like a deer frozen in the middle of the street staining at approaching headlights. “Just don’t plan on shaving your head in the future.”