The junction had only one other choice, so they passed through it at a run. Their speed didn’t stop him from noting the demon sign smeared on the walls. This had been the path the horde had taken to get to the club. Though he felt dizzy with the effort, he pushed the demon hard through his body to pick up the pace.
They crossed into another Y-shaped junction.
“Which way?” Nim gasped.
He hesitated. Follow the demon sign out—but into who knew what nest? Or take another turn? He led her down the smaller route, still marked with etheric traces of tenebrae, but faintly.
Unlike the other corridors, this one plunged downward. More ominously, the freight tracks ended. He tried to summon the map into his mind. This branch of the tunnel had been diagrammed, but were they passing under a street? Maybe the softer layer of soil the city had dug through to make the tunnels had shifted.
Or maybe the map had failed completely.
The corridor behind them trembled, and the scent of grave dirt breathed from cracks in the walls.
“Go,” Nim gasped.
Movement was opportunity, hope, life. Which was why the teshuva in him held itself so still.
Down they went.
Here the walls had not been finished with the concrete veneer, and clods of earth pattered down. The horde wasn’t visible yet, but etheric emanations flowed ahead like sulfuric wind before a hellish storm.
Nim hurried beside him. “The bad demons. They broke through your friends, didn’t they?”
“It seems likely.”
She mumbled something under her breath, maybe a curse.
The corridor took another dip downward, and this time the ceiling lowered. The walls in the swinging beam of Nim’s flashlight showed the gouge marks of earthmoving machines. Though the hooks had been set in the ceiling to hold the electrical line, the tunnel itself had never been finished.
The light bounced off the corroded metal hooks and glimmered off something shinier on the floor. A mirror . . . No, water.
After escaping the cold of the tenebraeternum, he hadn’t noticed the damp chill in the air.
Nim rocked to a halt at the edge of the standing pool. She played the beam out as far as it could go. The black surface of the water reflected the light away, and the depths of the tunnel swallowed it. “You said I shouldn’t be unnecessarily scared,” she mused. “How would you rate this moment?”
He considered. His leader and friends were trapped in a desperate fight somewhere behind them. And maybe ahead of them too. The forces of darkness had the advantage. He was lost—well, unfound, at least—under the city with a half-dressed woman who was about to be very wet. “I’d say there’s no point screaming, since that just brings the tenebrae down faster.”
“That good, huh?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t get too deep.”
She snorted and waded in. She hissed as the water topped her sneakers. His boots kept out the cold bite for just another heartbeat. Under his heels, the floor was slick with a coat of mud.
By the time they reached as far as the light had, the water was up to their knees, and still the tunnel angled downward while the water rose. Nim cast the light ahead. The light bounced up in a rippling cat’s eye where the ceiling of the tunnel sloped to touch the water. If the path continued, it did so only underwater.
“Crap,” she said.
Under the circumstances, he thought she restrained herself admirably.
As they stood contemplating, the ripples around them stilled. Until a tremor shivered the surface like breaking glass.
“Nim,” he said softly. “Turn off your light.”
A wonder she didn’t ask why, but just did as he asked. In the pitch-blackness, his demon strained to help him see. He wasn’t asking much, and it found a few stray photons of light. A red glow, almost cheery, if he hadn’t known what was coming.
“Salambes,” Nim whispered. “Oh, fuck.” She didn’t bother turning on the light again. “So you said these demons can’t morph through waterproof walls, right? Can they swim?”
“They can’t dive.” It didn’t necessarily follow that he and Nim could.
As if she were reading his mind, or maybe just his expression, Nim said, “Out of the frying pan and into the cold, dark, possibly bottomless well. Do we have a choice?”
Once, he would have. He could have taken the tenebrae, maybe even had a chance. Or if not a chance, he could have won back at least a measure of grace.
He imagined slamming his missing hand into the wall. The nerves in the stump screamed up his arm, and the teshuva rose to the threat . . . only to be dashed back by the scarred flesh.
He couldn’t risk Nim on these odds, not with his limitations.
Without waiting for his answer, she waded deeper, up to her thighs. Her reven sparked restlessly. She raised her hands to keep them dry, pointlessly, as the water reached her navel. The hem of her T-shirt floated up.
Jonah followed her, and the cold water wicked up his jeans, dousing any momentary—and equally pointless—flare of ardor.
When the chill reached his chest, he paused. The glow behind them was flame bright, but the salambes weren’t yet in view. “I don’t know how much of the tunnel is submerged,” he warned.
“And here I thought you knew everything.” She took a deep breath. “No chance teshuva breathe underwater, I suppose.”
“I don’t know that either. Never had reason to find out.”
“Well, I donated my body to a demon. Might as well give it to science too.”
“Don’t.” He wasn’t sure where the word came from; it just jumped from his tongue. “Don’t give yourself away.”
She eyed him, violet clashing with the red gleam of the approaching horde. “Does it matter now?”
He supposed not. “The teshuva will at least help you hold your breath,” he said instead. “It will keep you going longer than you could by yourself, as long as you don’t choke on the need to breathe.”
“I have almost no gag reflex,” she said. “Ready?”
Facing each other, they each took a long, deep breath. The swell of her chest brought her breasts above the waterline. He sighed at the thrust of her nipples through her wet shirt, sucked in one last breath, and dove.
Nim didn’t look back, but she knew the moment the red light of the salambes faded away. Ahead of them, only black. She doubted the flashlight was waterproof. Not like the tunnel was turning anyway. If anything, it was still going down. Which wasn’t good, because that meant more water before it went up.
Her heart pounded like the biggest drum in the orchestra—loud and slow. Good demon, taking it easy. Now, if the tunnel would just turn upward . . .
Even with the demon, visibility was zero, but the fine brush of silt drifted past her tight-clenched lips. Not an encouraging sign. Dirt on the floor meant this was still the rough tunnel, not the start of the higher, finished passage. Despite her blindness, she felt the current from Jonah’s body rush around her. With just one hand, he must be struggling too.
Her heart cranked up a little faster, as if the orchestra percussionist had gotten bored with the steady beat and decided to join a marching band. At Mardi Gras. Jonah would be telling her not to swear or scream. Since even one good curse would mean drowning, perhaps she’d listen to him this time.
Too bad she might not get the chance to tell him how this impromptu baptism had converted her.
She probably should have mentioned she was a terrible swimmer. She much preferred lying topless on Oak Street Beach, under the hot sun and angry glares of the girls who had the boobs but not the backbone to minimize their tan lines. Yeah, she would’ve liked to see his face when she mentioned that.
Now her heart had run off to join a punk band. Her arms burned from paddling, and she found herself clawing at the water. Her fingertips raked the concrete.