Bloodlines: Ichor || [2]

CXXVII. Chapel of Bones

NICO ASSUMED IT WAS A TRAP. Most things were.

To back up a bit, they'd landed in Portugal about forty hours earlier. Nico had refused to wake up so they had no choice but to let him sleep. When the ghost appeared, he was a little hesitant to follow it. But Coach Hedge promised he could guard Reyna and Elizabeth for a little longer and, on the off chance the spirit had something useful to say, Nico decided it was worth the risk.

He unsheathed his Stygian iron blade and approached the archway. Normally ghosts didn't scare him. (Assuming, of course, Gaia hadn't encased them in shells of stone and turned them into killing machines. That had been a new one for him.) After his experience with Minos, Nico realized that most specters held only as much power as you allowed them to have. They pried into your mind, using fear or anger or longing to influence you. Nico had learned to shield himself. Sometimes he could even turn the tables and bend ghosts to his will.

As he approached the fiery gray apparition, he was fairly sure it was a garden-variety wraith – a lost soul who had died in pain. Shouldn't be a problem.

Still, Nico took nothing for granted. He remembered Croatia all too well. He'd gone into that situation smug and confident, only to have his feet swept out from under him, literally and emotionally.

Nico clenched his sword. Sharing his secret crush hadn't been the worst of it. Eventually he might have done that, in his own time, in his own way. He had already told his sister half of the story, years before. But being forced to talk about Percy, being bullied and harassed and strong-armed simply for Cupid's amusement ...

Tendrils of darkness were now spreading out from his feet, killing all the weeds between the cobblestones. Nico tried to rein in his anger.

When he reached the ghost, he saw it wore a monk's habit – sandals, woolen robes and a wooden cross around his neck. Gray flames swirled around him – burning his sleeves, blistering his face, turning his eyebrows to ashes. He seemed to be stuck in the moment of his immolation, like a black-and-white video on a permanent loop.

"You were burned alive," Nico sensed. "Probably in the Middle Ages?"

The ghost's face distorted in a silent scream of agony, but his eyes looked bored, even a little annoyed, as if the scream was just an automatic reflex he couldn't control.

"What do you want of me?" Nico asked.

The ghost gestured for Nico to follow. It turned and walked through the open gateway. Nico glanced back at Coach Hedge. The satyr just made a shooing gesture like, Go. Do your Underworld thing.

Nico trailed the ghost through the streets of Évora.

They zigzagged through narrow cobblestone walkways, past courtyards with potted hibiscus trees and white stucco buildings with butterscotch trim and wrought-iron balconies. No one noticed the ghost, but the locals looked askance at Nico. A young girl with a fox terrier crossed the street to avoid him. Her dog growled, the hair on its back standing straight up like a dorsal fin.

The ghost led Nico to another public square, anchored at one end by a large square church with whitewashed walls and limestone arches. The ghost passed through the portico and disappeared inside.

Nico hesitated. He had nothing against churches, but this one radiated death. Inside would be tombs, or perhaps something less pleasant ...

He ducked through the doorway. His eyes were drawn to a side chapel, lit from within by eerie golden light. Carved over the door was a Portuguese inscription. Nico didn't speak the language, but somehow he knew. We, the bones that are here, await yours.