Page 62 of Harder Betrayal
“Because if things were truly different, you would know.”
20
CAULDRON
“This is a bad idea.” Grave stood beside me on the dark sidewalk near the bridge, his breath so thick it looked like smoke from a cigar. “You’re walking into their lair without invitation.”
“He’ll respect me more because of it.”
“Or he’ll kill you.”
“I’m not asking you to come with me, Grave.” I didn’t ask him to drive there with me either. I could handle this on my own, but he insisted on joining.
“We know he does business with Roan.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“It’s relevant because he’ll know we’re no longer estranged if I show my face.”
“Then stay here.”
Grave wore that irritated look, like I’d just asked him to do the impossible.
“I’ve survived worse.” I walked on, headed down the hill to the hidden location.
“If you aren’t back within the hour, I’m coming after you.”
I kept going, making my way down to the bottom of the bridge until I reached the entrance. There were no guards, not when anyone stationed outside would make the area look conspicuous. I moved through the dark pipe for nearly five minutes before I reached the bedrock.
Then I saw the glow of torches. I saw the colored limestone, the skulls that had been part of the foundation for hundreds of years. The air was immediately stale and dank, like it hadn’t moved in a thousand years. I turned down the tunnel, coming face-to-face with one of the men stationed at the entrance.
With a cold look, he sized me up.
“I’m here for Bartholomew.”
“Bartholomew has no standing appointments.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“So do a lot of people. Get out.”
“Tell him it’s about Camille. Trust me, he’ll want to see me then.”
He sized me up again. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Cauldron Beaufort.” I would have called him, but his information was impossible to track down. He was a well-known player in Paris, but he was constantly elusive, untouchable.
“Stay here.” He rounded the corner of the tunnel and disappeared.
I stayed there, breathing in the underground musk, listening to the random echoes that traveled through the tunnels. Sound carried through the air like a wired microphone. I could hear the conversation between two men who were nowhere near me.
The guy finally returned fifteen minutes later. He gave a nod for me to follow him.
We moved through the tunnels, guided by the lit torches. Nooks in the walls showed piles of skulls, untouched for several lifetimes. The Catacombs underneath the streets of Paris were once open to the public, but Bartholomew managed to strike a deal with men in high places to claim it as his. The Parisian government was aware of its criminal purposes, but they looked the other way because the price was right. It was impressive because most criminals had to operate in the shadows.
The cavern started to open, and I found myself in an enormous room that housed hundreds of men, all sitting at tables drinking ale out of tankards. They all looked at me, all armed, their eyes like bullets.
I’d left my gun in the car, but I should have brought it since they didn’t check me. I doubted it was due to negligence. More like arrogance.