Read an excerpt of Catacomb

Till the monster stirred, that demon, that fiend

Grendel who haunted the moors, the wild

Marshes, and made his home in a hell.

Not hell but hell on earth.

—Beowulf

Prologue

1,000 years ago

As the sun dipped below the horizon, it cast its final golden rays upon Castle Rock. The nascent settlement of Edinburgh stirred with a sense of foreboding as the shadows lengthened and bony fingers of darkness clawed at the walls of their humble homes. The chill of encroaching night swept through the village, a cloak of fear descending to silence any who might dare speak against the atrocity to come.

The dying light of day cast a sinister glow upon the gnarled and twisted trees that encircled the settlement, their skeletal branches swaying and groaning. A low, mournful wind wove its way through the ancient oaks, like the sorrowful cries of the damned.

A thick fog rose from the damp earth, slithering through the narrow lanes and curling around the huts of the settlement. It carried with it the acrid scent of decay, a pungent stench of rot and damp that seeped into the marrow of the villagers’ bones.

As the hour of the ritual drew near, the villagers gathered together, seeking solace and strength in each other’s company as, beneath them, an ancient force stirred.

Flora, a young mother, whispered a fervent prayer to the goddess as she cowered by her hearthside. Perhaps if she stayed inside, hidden, she would not have to witness what lay ahead. Her words were a plea for protection as the midnight hour approached, a time when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Flora trembled as she clutched her baby girl, Ailsa, tight to her chest.

She had witnessed the price of defiance, the heavy burden that might threaten her precious child in years to come. To withhold an offering was to invite destruction upon their village, but she was terrified that her own blood might one day be demanded as payment.

As she rocked Ailsa, Flora reached out to touch the small clay pot that contained the ashes of her ancestors. They had done whatever they could to ensure the continuation of the village, and now Flora must do the same. She took a deep breath and walked outside to take her place amongst the gathering villagers.

The solemn drum beat began, the deep resonance marking the start of their annual abomination.

Ailsa, swaddled in a tattered woollen blanket, whimpered softly, sensing her mother’s fear. Flora gently rocked the child, her eyes welling with tears as she stifled Ailsa’s muffled cries so as not to draw attention.

A sliver of moonlight pierced the fog as the tribal elder led a procession through the narrow lane between the huts of the settlement. He was a hulking figure with a weathered face etched by time, like the rocky crags surrounding the village. Long, snow-white hair cascaded down his back, a stark contrast to the ritual cloak of tattered skins that hung heavily from his broad shoulders, used by generations of priests before him. He wore an obsidian talisman around his neck, the black stone seeming to draw the night inside it.

As the elder walked by, Flora looked up and met his piercing gaze. His eyes were the colour of storm clouds that held the weight of countless years of sacrifice and unspoken secrets. They seemed to bore into her soul, demanding unwavering loyalty and unspoken acquiescence to the ritual that was about to unfold. Flora looked away quickly, her heart pounding as she clutched Ailsa closer to her chest.

Behind the elder, two hooded priests walked at a deliberate, measured pace, carrying flaming torches held high. Their flickering light danced upon the damp earth, casting eerie, elongated shadows that seemed to twist and writhe like tortured souls.

Between the two torch-bearing priests, a slender young woman struggled to keep up with the sombre march. Her wrists were bound with coarse rope, the fibres rubbing her delicate skin to angry, red welts.

She stumbled on the uneven path, her bare feet bruised and bloodied by the jagged stones. With tear-streaked eyes, wide with terror, she desperately searched the faces of her kin for solace but found only downcast gazes and lips pressed tight with fear.

The young woman’s once-lustrous auburn hair hung in matted, tangled strands, her once-vibrant green eyes now dull from the herbs she’d been given to ease the way ahead. Her ragged breaths were loud against the silence of the villagers, each gasp a second closer to her last.

As the priests passed by, the villagers joined the procession, walking behind with solemn steps in time with the drum.

They reached the outskirts of the settlement, where the oppressive darkness of night seemed to coalesce and gather, hungry and expectant. The ground beneath their feet grew rougher, slick with moisture from the ever-present fog that clung to the earth like a spectral shroud. The air grew colder, heavy with the dank scent of decay and the metallic tang of blood that saturated the soil upon which they trod.

At the outer boundary of the village, a jagged, imposing rock loomed from the earth, its gnarled surface covered with layers of moss and lichen, marking the entrance to a dark and foreboding cave. The wind howled a mournful dirge as it swept past the entrance, carrying with it the whispers of restless souls who haunted this unholy place.

In the flickering torchlight, the elder raised his arms, his tattered cloak billowing around him like the wings of a malevolent bird. He chanted ancient words passed down through generations, a sombre incantation in a language long forgotten by all but the most devout practitioners of their dark rites.

The villagers, compelled by fear and tradition, hesitantly joined in. Their voices wove together to form a mournful chorus that echoed across the darkened landscape.

As the chanting reached a crescendo, the elder led the young woman to the jagged rock and secured her to its cold, unforgiving surface.

Her cries of desperation echoed within the cave entrance as the skies above swirled with menacing clouds. The air grew thick and a roll of thunder boomed out from the approaching storm. The wind howled like a beast in torment, its voice carrying the echoes of a thousand anguished cries, heralding the approach of the ancient creature.

From the depths of the earth, the Grendsluagh emerged.

It was a monstrous abomination born of darkness and chaos. Its vast form was a grotesque fusion of man and demon, an unholy testament to its malevolent power. The creature’s skin was the colour of a tar pit, slick and oozing with a foul ichor that glistened in the flickering torchlight. Towering above the trembling villagers, its hulking body was a twisted mass of sinew and muscle, contorted limbs ending in jagged, razor-sharp talons that gouged the earth.

Its misshapen head bore a twisted mockery of what once might have been a human face, its features warped and elongated into a snarling mask of rage and hunger. The Grendsluagh’s eyes were soulless, twin orbs of black that seemed to drain what was left of the light. Its mouth, a gaping maw filled with rows of jagged, yellowed teeth, dripped with an acrid saliva that hissed and sizzled as it met the dirt beneath.

As it loomed over the sacrifice, it gave a guttural growl, a sound torn from the bowels of the earth.

The elder and priests increased the tempo of their fervent chanting, beseeching the creature to accept the offering and spare the village from its wrath.

The Grendsluagh turned away from the lone sacrifice.

It looked at the gathered villagers and took a step toward them with malevolent intent. Flora gasped, holding Ailsa more tightly against her chest, as she tried to stop herself from fleeing. To attract attention now — from the creature or the elder — might only serve to seal their fate in blood.

The elder spoke ancient words of power as he lifted the obsidian talisman high.

The Grendsluagh reeled back with a growl, snarling with rage — but it turned away from the villagers.

It reached for the terrified young woman and ripped her from the rock with its massive, clawed hands. The Grendsluagh’s grip closed around her with a sickening crunch, the force of its grasp shredding the rope that bound her to the rock like mere thread.

As it dragged her struggling and writhing form into the cave, the Grendsluagh’s grotesque silhouette was briefly illuminated by the torchlight, casting monstrous shadows that merged with the darkness beyond.

The villagers averted their eyes. They could not bear witness to the horror that unfolded before them as the night was pierced by the young woman’s final, anguished scream.

Once the echo of her cries had faded into darkness, the villagers returned to their homes, the weight of the ritual heavy upon their hearts. Tonight they would grieve the dead, but tomorrow they would feast to celebrate the living.

As Flora tucked Ailsa into her nest of blankets, she kissed the tiny girl’s forehead and sent up a prayer of gratitude to the goddess.

In the coming months, the fields would deliver a bountiful harvest and their animals would remain healthy and multiply. The young mothers would deliver without fear of death in childbirth, and the settlement would grow richer and more prosperous.

At least for another year.

 

Chapter 1

The Edinburgh theatre was a relic of an age gone by, its Victorian grandeur now faded, but still retaining an ethereal charm. The stage was a world in itself where stories came to life, where characters breathed and words written centuries ago still inspired the enraptured audience.

Walker Kane stood at the back, a solitary figure in the dimmed auditorium, his gaze riveted on the stage as he watched his daughter perform. The audience knew her as the compassionate, sheltered Miranda, daughter of the banished Prospero in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, but to him, she would always be his little girl, Emily.

At first glance, Walker appeared nondescript, just another man in the crowd. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans that hugged his lean frame, paired with a black leather jacket that bore the battered marks of time. His dark hair was cropped short with specks of white at his temples, and day-old stubble framed his angular jaw.

But his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much. They were an intense steel grey, with a flash of danger, a silent warning, lingering in their depths.

His hands, large and capable, bore the imprints of his past. Scars crisscrossed his rough skin, a map of every rescue mission, each dangerous extraction, and every life he had pulled from the jaws of death. Down the side of his neck, barely visible above the collar of his jacket, was the puckered trail of a burn. An ugly reminder of a near-death experience, a mission that had gone terribly wrong, trapping him underground in a burning tomb. The scar wound its path down his body, hidden under layers of clothing but always present in its reminder of a past he wished he could forget.

As Emily performed her lines with grace, Walker remembered when she used to prance around their old living room, a makeshift stage for her childhood antics and a precursor to the acting career she now pursued.

“O, brave new world, that has such people in it!”

Emily’s speech as Miranda resonated with emotion, carrying a pitch-perfect blend of hope and innocence. Walker heard in it an echo of the girl she once was, and the woman she was fast becoming. He stifled a sigh. How many years had he missed that he could never get back?

His military service had been a tempest of its own, a maelstrom of violence and despair that he’d refused to let touch his daughter. And yet, standing in the shadows of the theatre, he wondered if his absence had inadvertently summoned its own kind of storm in her life.

As the last act of The Tempest came to a close, the curtain fell on the final scene and the theatre erupted into applause. Walker joined in, clapping until his palms stung.

The curtain came back up, and the actors walked on stage for a bow.

Emily stood hand in hand with the young actor who’d played Ferdinand, the chemistry between them undeniable. As she glanced up at him with mischief in her eyes, Walker wondered what else he didn’t know about his daughter’s life.

The final curtain came down, and the theatre began to empty. The worn-out velvet seats creaked as people rose. The cacophony of chatter filled the air; the heavy scent of perfume mingled with the musty smell of the old theatre.

Walker made his way outside and around the back of the theatre to the stage door.

It was a balmy night and the excitement of the festival that captivated the city every summer was in full swing. A small crowd of family, friends, and well-wishers eagerly awaited the actors. They chattered and laughed together, some swigging from bottles of prosecco or craft beer as preparations began for the night of celebration ahead.

Amongst the crowd, a familiar face stood out.

Maggie, Walker’s ex-wife, with Bill, her husband of more than a decade. Their arms were casually draped around each other in a familiar embrace. They seemed happy, content in a way that Walker could only remember as a faint glimmer from the past he had run from.

Time had etched its presence on Maggie’s face, softening the sharp angles of her youth to a mature beauty. But Walker could still see the vibrant woman he had fallen in love with so long ago, and the echoes of her in Emily now.

Maggie’s gaze was focused on the stage door as she chatted with Bill, his quiet words eliciting a laugh that rang out in the evening air. She used to laugh like that with him years ago, but Walker had left to protect both her and Emily — at least that’s what he told himself back then.

Over the years, Maggie had sent him pictures of Emily, and Walker was grateful for her attempt to keep the dying embers of their connection alive. He had been a ghost, lingering on the outskirts of their lives, too tangled in the adrenalin of constant missions to realise what he was losing as the days ticked past.

A part of him ached at the sight of Maggie’s happiness, a sharp reminder of what he’d given up. But the better part of him was glad to see her smile, glad that she had found someone who could be there for her and Emily. Walker couldn’t make up for the past, but perhaps he could now build on the embers of what he’d burned down.

The stage door creaked open, revealing a group of actors basking in the afterglow of their successful performance. Emily stood among them, her fingers interlaced with those of the young man from the stage, their shared triumph evident in their beaming smiles.

A burst of applause erupted from the crowd as the actors walked out to join the well-wishers. Emily and her boyfriend walked straight to her mother.

Maggie enveloped Emily in a warm hug. “Congratulations, Petal! You were fantastic — and you too, Tom.” Maggie put a hand out to touch the young man’s arm. “I hope you can have a wonderful evening celebrating together.”

Walker’s heart beat faster as he heard Maggie say Emily’s nickname. They had started calling her that when she had eaten May cherry blossom petals as a baby, her chubby fingers stroking the soft pink as she chuckled with happiness.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the small jewellery box nestled within.

It contained a locket, a delicate piece he had chosen carefully for Emily’s eighteenth birthday and engraved for her. But was it appropriate? Would she even be happy to see him here?

Walker had often faced uncertainty in his line of duty, but this was different. This was personal, a battle with his own fear and insecurity. He was trained to face enemies and overcome obstacles, but now he was as vulnerable as a ship caught in a tempest, unable to find a way ahead.

He clutched the jewellery box a little tighter, the sharp edges pressing against his palm. He couldn’t leave without seeing Emily. He had to step back into her world, regardless of the outcome.

With a final, steadying breath, Walker stepped out of the shadows and made his way toward the family group, his stride purposeful.

Maggie saw him first.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then confusion and concern. “Walker? I… didn’t know you were coming.”

Emily turned, and a shadow of uncertainty flickered across her features. “Dad?” The word was a hesitant question, a cautious hope.

Then, as if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, her expression transformed. The uncertainty dissolved, replaced by a radiant happiness that took Walker’s breath away.

“Dad!” Emily said once more, the single word carrying so much weight.

The world seemed to pause in that moment, the noise and the crowd fading away. All Walker could see was Emily, her face illuminated with a joy that was directed solely at him. It was a moment Walker wished he could capture, a snapshot of happiness that was as fragile as it was beautiful.

Emily took two steps toward him and then she was in his arms, hugging him as he pulled her close and kissed her hair.

Walker nodded his thanks to Maggie and Bill over her shoulder as they stood back to allow some privacy for the reunion.

“You were a wonderful Miranda,” Walker said as they pulled apart. “I loved the play.”

Emily blushed a little and then turned to introduce the young actor at her side. “Dad, this is Tom. Tom, this is my dad, Walker.”

Tom extended a hand, and they shook with a firm grip.

“Emily told me you’re in the military.”

Walker nodded. “Yes, search and rescue. Well, I was. I’m… taking a break right now.”

The words triggered a sudden onslaught of memory.

The darkness of an ancient tomb, the air thick with dust. Ominous rumbling, then a lethal rain of rock and earth as the walls caved in. Echoes of terrified screams. Cries abruptly silenced as his team was lost, their blood draining into the desert like so many before them, an offering to ancient gods that still demanded sacrifice.

Walker blinked, forcefully pulling himself out of the memory, back into the moment.

Desperate to shift the sombre mood, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the jewellery box, offering it to Emily. “Happy birthday, I know it’s a few days late…”

Emily waved his apology away and took the box. “Thank you. It’s good of you to come.”

She opened the box. Nestled within the velvet lining was a gold locket in the shape of an intricate Celtic knot, a looped pattern that symbolised the eternity of life — and love.

“It’s beautiful.” Emily lifted the locket from the box, the delicate chain dangling from her fingers as she read the inscription on the back. For Emily — Love, Dad.

“Thanks so much, Dad. It’s beautiful, but I won’t wear it right now.” She gestured to her skinny jeans and silver sequined top. “It doesn’t really go with my outfit. But I love it, really. We’re going to burlesque at the Spiegeltent tonight, but maybe we can catch up tomorrow or something?”

“Of course. I’ve put my new number on a card in the jewellery box. Call me when you’re up tomorrow, and we’ll have coffee or something. Have a great night.”

Emily smiled, and Walker’s heart lifted at the warmth in her eyes. Perhaps it really could be possible to rebuild their relationship.

Emily walked over to her mother and planted a warm kiss on Maggie’s cheek before stepping back. With a final wave, she and Tom walked away, their arms around each other.

They were a picture of carefree young love, but as they moved further from the theatre’s halo of light, it seemed to Walker that they were swallowed by encroaching shadow.

 

Chapter 2

As the noise of the festival rang out over Edinburgh, Laurel March approached the university.

Its ancient stones loomed in silhouette against the star-dappled sky, its structure imbued with centuries of knowledge, a testament to the city’s storied past. But it held secrets too, and Laurel was determined to find them.

Curiosity had always driven her to take risks. Her father had once said there was never a loop she didn’t want to close. But what was life, if not an adventure into knowledge? Sometimes, it was worth taking a risk to find the truth, and so, here she was, creeping around at night, chasing a whisper of a possibility of a fragment of a rumour.

Laurel picked her way carefully across the cobblestone courtyard and slipped through a back entrance of the university.

The air was heavy with the musty scent of books and aged wood as the labyrinth of knowledge stretched out into the shadows before her. Moonlight filtering through the tall, Gothic windows bathed the room in a spectral glow, which lent an eerie atmosphere to her forbidden exploration.

But that was probably because she had been reading way too much Lovecraft recently.

Laurel worked here in the daytime as one of the many librarians, but the university library was a different place by night. The grand arches and high ceilings, so familiar and inviting during the day, now loomed above her and stretched into a darkness filled with shifting shadows.

She tried to walk silently, but her footsteps still echoed softly in the cavernous space. In her usual black clothes and carrying only a small backpack, Laurel blended with the shadows of the library, but as she crossed a moonbeam, the faint illumination caught her flame-red curls, tied back with a ribbon as dark as midnight.

A multitude of tattoos adorned her skin. They started at her wrists, coiling like serpents up her toned arms, each symbol a story etched in ink.

On her left forearm, a vivid depiction of the Celtic Tree of Life, its roots intertwined, symbolising the interconnectedness of all life. The owl of the Greek goddess Athena, a symbol of wisdom, nestled in its branches. On her right arm, a stylised representation of the Hindu goddess Kali, dancing with her cycle of time and destruction.

Each image was a testament to Laurel’s love for myth and legend and her hunger for knowledge. The desire to always know more. This drive had led to her career as a librarian, most recently here at the university. Her position gave her access to much that fed her curiosity, but sometimes, she had to bend the rules a little to discover what lay behind the official version of the truth.

As she walked past the towering stacks of books, her fingers brushed lightly against the dusty spines. The faint scent of aged parchment and ink, the perfume of centuries of accumulated wisdom, filled her senses. Laurel was at home here, and libraries had always been her sanctuary.

The books were a fortress against the outside world, and every one she read became a brick in the wall that shielded her from the slings and arrows of modern life. Which, to be honest, she would rather avoid, despite the fact her mother was always dropping hints about wanting grandchildren.

Laurel loved to follow breadcrumbs of knowledge to new discoveries. Last week, she had assisted an architectural student in digging out some old plans of the university from the archives.

She couldn’t help but pore over them herself once he had finished for the day. Cartography was one of her many passions, and she had traced the lines of the library with care as she considered how much history lay beneath the place she worked every day.

But she had found something curious on one old map that had been left off modern plans of the university.

A hidden room.

And tonight, she was determined to find it.

Laurel reached the back of the library and pulled out her phone to examine the photos of the old map. The entrance had to be around here somewhere.

Putting her phone away and pulling out a small torch, she searched the area, examining the stacks for hidden levers or moveable shelves. She was meticulous and patient, having been raised on a steady diet of mystery novels and detective films that made her certain she’d find an entrance somewhere.

If there was a hidden room, there was a hidden door.

Finally, she spotted a bookshelf that, unlike the others nearby, stood a little distance from the stone wall. The shelves were heavy with volumes on the history of tax legislation, but behind them she spotted wood rather than stone. Laurel smiled in triumph as she slipped into the alcove behind the shelf and tried the old oak door.

It was locked.

She felt around the frame looking for a key as she examined the door. It didn’t look like anything special and it would be just her luck if it was a maintenance closet, but something told her it was more than that.

She walked out of the alcove and returned to the stack of tax legislation. If this had been her secret door, she would keep a key somewhere close, somewhere no one would look.

Laurel pulled over a ladder from one of the other stacks and climbed a few steps so she could read the higher levels.

She squinted at the tiny writing as she scanned the thick spines, then noticed one book that was less dusty than the others. One that looked as if it had been opened recently.

The Malt Tax Act of 1725.

Laurel frowned. Surely that would not warrant such regular reading.

She reached up and pulled it down, opening the thick volume to find a hollowed-out chamber within its pages.

And a set of two keys.

They were modern, as if they could belong to a janitor’s cupboard, but now, Laurel was sure it was nothing of the sort.

She walked back around to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it open.

Laurel couldn’t help a smile of triumph at her discovery as she continued inside.

It looked like it had once been an intimate chapel. It had a vaulted ceiling, and pillars flanked a stone altar at one end. But this was a chapel dedicated to no god Laurel recognised.

The walls were adorned with murals of the history of Edinburgh, but beside the stone and brick buildings were otherworldly creatures — beings of myth and nightmare. The artistry was hauntingly beautiful, even as the grotesque forms seemed to writhe and flicker in her torchlight. The cityscape was almost lifelike, each brick and cobblestone meticulously crafted, but this city existed in a monstrous alternate history. What was this place?

Laurel moved deeper into the room.

The weak light of her torch illuminated gold-embossed spines of books in one niche, their unusual titles a tantalising promise of hidden secrets. The scent of ancient vellum and parchment pervaded the air, alongside the unmistakable smell of centuries-old ink.

There was a large table in the centre of the room, an ornately carved piece of mahogany with a dark patina. An oversized volume bound in worn, almost black leather lay on the top with a title in gold leaf: Codex of the Cabal and the Monstrous Accord.

A title so curious that Laurel couldn’t resist.

She opened the book.

The yellowing pages were filled with elegant calligraphy recording a list of years alongside names of Edinburgh’s most powerful and affluent citizens going back centuries. There were other names listed too, although sometimes only the words female or male. The edges and corners of each page were illustrated with strange carnivorous plants with razor-sharp thorns and the face of a monster drawn over and over again from different angles, all portraying a nightmare come to life.

Laurel turned to the end of the inscribed pages.

The name at the end of the list with the current date was the chancellor of the university, Dr Darcel Knox. Technically, her boss. Or at least her boss’s boss.

Laurel frowned as she regarded the book. Who else was part of this ‘Cabal’ and what was their ‘monstrous accord’? Was this some glorified old boys’ club, or was it something far more sinister?

The sudden creak of a door shattered the silence of the library.

Laurel’s heart lurched in her chest. She froze, straining to listen as a low murmur of deep voices drifted in from the shadowed corridors beyond.

The voices were drawing closer, resonating baritone notes punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of footfalls on wood, the sound amplified by the high-vaulted ceiling.

They were coming this way.

 

Chapter 3

Panic surged through Laurel. Her breath hitched in her throat as she hurried back to the door and quietly eased it shut to at least partially disguise her entry.

She scanned the room for a hiding place.

There was a nook in one corner, obscured by heavy velvet curtains, their deep burgundy hue almost black in the dim light.

She hurried over and slipped behind the drapes, pressing her body against the cold, damp wall as she tried to calm her breathing. The fabric was thick and heavy against her skin, the musty smell of age and dust filling her nostrils. She prayed she wouldn’t sneeze.

The door opened.

Laurel hardly dared breathe as two sets of footsteps entered the room.

“I’m sure I locked the door yesterday, but then I’m sure I had my speech notes with me, too.” A huff of impatience. “Age brings its many challenges.”

The voice was unmistakably familiar. The chancellor, Dr Darcel Knox.

His inflection was as crisp as dry parchment, and his tone carried an undercurrent of authority that could command a room, as he regularly did for his many speeches. His walrus moustache was a source of amusement for the younger members of his staff, but they would never dare mock him in public.

“Ah, here they are. And presumably the other key is on my desk, where I thought my notes were.”

The footsteps came closer to her hiding place.

Laurel froze, her breathing light and shallow.

A rustle of papers.

The footsteps moved away again before the chancellor spoke once more. “The sacrifice must be tonight, Hamish. Any longer and we risk losing everything.”

The second man — Hamish — had a rough voice, like the grinding of gravel. “Shall I get the usual team to pick up someone from the dregs of the festival?”

“I actually have someone in mind. My son’s latest girl. Pretty enough, but not suitable for our lineage. Comes from a common family, a broken home, and she’s encouraging Tom to… act.”

The disdain was evident in the chancellor’s tone.

Hamish gave a low chuckle. “Won’t he object to her as your choice?”

Their footsteps moved back toward the door.

“Tom will do as I say and he’ll find another girl, a better girl, soon enough. Take her quickly, though. The sacrifice must be done before the dawn breaks.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you in the Chamber of Offering at three a.m.”

The two men left the room, closing the door behind them and locking it before walking away. Their footsteps gradually faded into silence.

Laurel let out a shaky breath and waited until she was sure they were gone before she emerged from behind the curtain.

She turned on her torch again and rushed over to the door, checking she could still get out. The key turned in the lock and she was free — she should just leave the library, pretend she was never there, forget this unholy chapel.

But the chancellor’s words — and the young woman’s fate — echoed in her mind.

Laurel turned back to examine a mural on the walls. One haunting depiction now took on a new significance.

A tribe of people stood before a hulking beast, its form swirling and shifting, as if formed from the darkness itself. A lone woman knelt before the creature, her limbs bound with rope, her features frozen in terror as it reached for her with taloned claws.

Under the mural, a single word: Grendsluagh.

It must be the name for the creature, and it brought to Laurel’s mind Grendel, the mythical monster of the Beowulf legend, combined with the sluagh, restless spirits of the Celtic dead.

The style of the painting resembled ecclesiastical artwork. The creature took the place of a deity, the worshippers and sacrifice reminiscent of religious congregation and ritual. But it was a perversion of faith, an ancient blood sacrifice that — judging by the words of the chancellor — continued into the present day.

How could this be possible in modern Edinburgh?

The room seemed to close in around Laurel as her weak torchlight cast long, grotesque shadows that danced and writhed on the stone walls, bringing the creature to a semblance of life.

She shook her head to clear the vision. She had to learn more.

Laurel walked over to the stone altar. An ancient wooden chest sat on top, adorned with the intricate carvings of a Celtic triskelion symbol, three curling arms etched into the wood. They seemed to writhe and twist under her gaze; the lines ebbed and flowed like the tide. Intertwined with each arm were monstrous faces, their expressions twisted into perpetual snarls.

She reached out and opened the chest.

Inside, nestled on a bed of faded crimson velvet, lay a small book. Next to it, a long slim piece of black rock with a hole in one end, as if designed to be worn. Its darkness was so absolute it seemed to swallow the light, giving the stone an otherworldly aura.

Laurel picked it up.

Its weight was surprising, heavier than a rock its size had any right to be. She turned it over in her hands, feeling its smooth surface. It looked like obsidian, volcanic glass formed from rapidly cooling lava. But why was it here, and what significance did it hold?

She put it down and examined the book.

It was small, fitting snugly within her palm as she picked it up. The cover was rough against her fingertips, the texture reminiscent of antique leather. She swallowed hard, pushing aside the nauseating thought that it could be human skin.

As Laurel carefully opened it, the faint scent of mould and decay wafted up from its brittle pages. It was yellowed with age and filled with hand-drawn sketches and cryptic writing by a long-dead hand. A labyrinthine catacomb sprawled across several pages, its intricate design twisting and turning back upon itself as it wound down into the earth below the city.

Sketches of creatures, each more horrifying than the last, were entwined within the catacomb’s design. Skittering mutants with too many eyes, humanoid figures with elongated arms, and writhing masses of bony spiders with cadaverous limbs.

Laurel traced the path leading down to the heart of the catacomb, its network of tunnels and chambers carved down into the ancient volcano on which Edinburgh stood. It had last erupted over 350 million years ago, and its power was thought to lie dormant. But could there be another ecosystem down there, evolving within the caves away from the city?

The path was a descent into the unknown, a journey to the monster in its depths. A journey that a young woman would face tonight — unless Laurel could stop the sacrifice.

The thought crossed her mind, and she immediately dismissed it. How could she possibly hope to stand against a clandestine Cabal that held such power, a society that had clearly orchestrated these monstrous rituals for centuries?

But she couldn’t tear her gaze from the mural of the sacrifice and a lump formed in her throat at the chancellor’s scornful words, his casual dismissal of a life he deemed unworthy.

A spark of determination flickered within her.

Although Laurel might not be able to bring down the Cabal entirely, she could at least warn the young woman they were targeting.

But she had to hurry.

She took some pictures of the room and the mural on her phone, then stuffed the book and the obsidian object into her pack as evidence against the Cabal.

She cast a final glance at the monstrous depiction of the Grendsluagh and shook her head. “You will not have your sacrifice tonight.”

Laurel hurried out of the hidden room, locked the door, and put the key back in the tax book, before heading back out into the city.

If the chancellor’s son, Tom, was an actor, he would likely be performing at one of the festival events. Tonight, the city was alive with celebration and festivities; the streets were filled with students and townsfolk alike, their attention diverted. It would be all too easy to make a young woman disappear amid the chaos.

Shaking off her apprehension, Laurel set off, jogging toward the heart of the festivities. She had to find Tom and this girl in time.