Author’s note:
Before you read this story, if you haven’t already, please take a moment to view the Valentine’s Day picture that FiendWithoutaFace posted to the boards in the Preston-Child Related Fiction section. If it hadn’t been for that beautiful and amazing portrait, this story would never have come about. Also, gratitude/apologies to our own dear Mr. Preston and Mr. Child who gave this story a far better ending that it deserves.



He hurt everywhere. He had been battling against the pain for some time, willing it away, forcing it from his conscious thought, but now he had nothing left to battle with. He recognized this as fact. His wounds hurt, all of them, his face, his hands. He tried very hard not to move at all, not his head, or his arms, not even to shift his weight. For a while the strategy worked, but not forever. The pain was everywhere. The dog bites alternately burned and pierced with a sharp, smarting twinge that made his breath catch. No doubt they were becoming infected although he realized this was not an urgent problem. Not in his current circumstances. His head ached. His muscles were a torment. A great deal of that was due to dehydration. He realized this was also not an urgent problem.

The gases would claim him first, perhaps carbon monoxide, so common in underground caverns, but most certainly the carbon dioxide he himself produced. The chain across his chest was beyond an irritation. He found himself leaning against it from time to time to escape the mundane, ridiculous, yet inevitable fact that his feet hurt, simply from having been on them for hours. His legs were not shackled and he rested each foot, one at a time, raising it up, planting it flat against the wall at his back, but he could not hold the position for more than a few short minutes. The chain at his chest bit into him cruelly whenever he tried to change his stance. How long had he been imprisoned here in this hell? He usually had a good sense of time, but in this complete darkness he was no longer sure. He estimated 45-some hours. Certainly over 40.

His night vision was still reasonably good, but he no longer trusted what he saw when his eyes were open. There had been no light for so long that he had been watching something like fireworks going off in the dark for hours on end. He knew this was simple hallucination; some sort of stimulus to keep his optic nerves busy. His nose itched and he turned his head to rub against his shoulder as best he could, wincing as the damp fabric of his shirt caught on the ragged, bloody edges of the gash on his cheek.

The time was as heavy as the air, here. He used hours in deep meditation, controlling his breathing, shutting down the pain and the grim knowledge of his situation. When he emerged from his meditative state, he allowed his thoughts to stray where they would, provided he could keep from growing too agitated. His thoughts were thus sometimes a consolation, sometimes a great burden. He was glad, grateful, that Vincent had been able to escape. Surely with weapon in hand he would be able to convince the colonello to come to Castel Fosco. He didn’t allow himself to hope for rescue; nonetheless the hope remained, though it, too, was dwindling. He knew it was possible, even probable, that by the time Vincent returned with help he himself would be beyond any sort of aid. He accepted that.

What he had more trouble accepting was leaving Vincent on his own to deal with Diogenes. If only... The words were bitter and he pushed them back. If only what? What more would he have done? He had analyzed and re-analyzed everything he and Vincent had done in the past weeks, and try as he might, he could not see any other steps they might have taken. So unless something he could not predict was to happen, and happen soon, Vincent would be pitted against the most brilliant psychopath the world had ever had misfortune to suffer. Proctor would help, and that was no trivial asset. But Constance... He nearly groaned aloud for everything he had left undone.

Enough. He had to control his breathing, save what air he could, try to hang on until... He allowed his head to drop forward again, let himself go slightly limp despite the bite of the chain against the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn’t even allow himself to recognize that he was growing cold. He closed his eyes—were they closed? It was so difficult to know—and began to drift.

“Mr. Pendergast.”

His eyes popped open of their own accord, and he raised his head despite the voice within telling him that what he was hearing was an impossibility, that it was nothing, just some sort of waking dream sprung from pain and despair.

“Aloysius...”

This he could not ignore. The first time his name had been called, the inflection in his surname—only she had said it that way. For as long as they had been together, not nearly long enough, not as long as they had intended, certainly, she had often called him by his surname, sometimes formally, sometimes as if they had been at boarding school together. But then the whispered use of his first name—that had come to him in the dark like a caress. His name had been a blessing when she spoke it.

“Aloysius, wake up...”

He was fully alert, now. What madness was he suffering? He opened his mouth to speak and stopped as abruptly. Speak to what? A ghost? A hope? The sick imaginings of a dying mind?

“Lover, I am here...”

He swallowed dry-mouthed, nearly choked, before attempting to speak. “Show yourself.” It came out somewhere between a croak and a whisper.

There was a shimmering at the wall Fosco had built, just the slightest bit of a glimmer, and then she stood there looking at him, such concern on her face that his heart ached. There was a veiled light around her, a soft glow that illuminated the tomb.

Had he not been bound to the wall he would surely have been trying to take her into his arms, feel her warmth, smell the fragrance of her hair. The chains holding him fast even as he pulled against them gave reality to his hallucination. “You...are not here,” he said staring, his voice failing him, but whether from his current physical state or from the emotions coming to the fore despite himself, he was not sure.

“You used to try and do that before, remember?” There was a slight laugh in her voice. “You would try and tell me what I was about. Mr. Pendergast, you are the most enlightened of men but at the end of the day, the truth will out. There are times you are just one of the boys.” This time she did laugh and the sound was bright sunshine in his tomb. It both warmed and wounded him.

“And you are an illusion. A lovely one, but an illusion,” he said sadly. “The last mental exertions of a dying man.”

“Aloysius, you are not going to die. I came here to make sure of that. To wait with you for the rest of the duration.”

“Wait for what? I am wasting oxygen speaking to someone who is not here. I am using energy and not focusing on what could prolong my life. And yet...” He eyed her. “If I am to die, and you are really here, take me with you. Take me with you now. There is...quite a bit of pain.” Even in his current straits he could not bring himself to complain to her. He would die silent of complaint and he knew it, stoically, stubbornly. It was the Pendergast way.

She shook her head, long dark hair brushing against her shoulders in the way he remembered. “I cannot take you with me. It is not time, yet.” There was deep sadness in her eyes as she regarded him. She studied his torn face, his shredded clothing, the way she would have in life. But she made no move toward him.

“And how much longer must I wait? Even now I am breathing less and less oxygen. I will be dead shortly.”

Again she shook her head, vehemently. “You only have a little while before he comes for you.” Her voice shook slightly. “Whether or not you would wish it, he will be your rescuer.” There was a note of resentment there that he would not understand until much later. “And he is coming for you. He cannot let you die.”

“He put me here,” Pendergast said, not understanding. “He built the wall himself.”

“Not Fosco. No, the one who physically carried you here is coming back. Think, Aloysius. Could Fosco have done that, brought you here drugged and unconscious and then chained you to that wall?”

He thought back, remembering as much as he could, which was not a great deal. He remembered the dogs: the baying, the slavering, the teeth. He remembered the handlers and their rough hands, being beaten and kicked even as he fought coldly and methodically to hold them off. And then there had been a sharp sting in his arm and everything had gone away. “His men,” he began. “The ones who caught me. They would—”

“You killed Pinketts. You killed some of them in the castle. Do you remember?” She watched him nod. “ So. A group of what remained of his men captured you. One of them in particular, and Fosco did not care who it was, brought you here, placed you against that wall, and fastened those chains about you.”

He shook his head, still not understanding. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in your survival. Can you move your hands?”

He moved his arms, chains clinking coldly as he tried to bring his hands forward. “Just a little. It doesn’t matter. Fosco took every tool I have.”

“Yes, he did. And the man who carried you here gave you something back. You are chained at the chest and the wrists. Move your hips and check your waistband.”

Wondering what further madness his oxygen-starved brain could conjure up, he nonetheless managed to move his hip closer to his right hand. There was a bit of give in the manacles, perhaps a few inches or so, but it was enough. He explored the section of waistband that he could reach with cold, stiffened fingers and was shocked to find a set of picks tucked against his boxers. But Fosco... He looked at her, confused. “This man you speak of—”

“Do not ask me to say that name! You’ll know soon enough. But for now you are running out of time. Free yourself, lover. Free yourself and see if the air is slightly better when you’re lower to the ground.”

“Carbon monoxide settles,” he said aloud. Still, had there been that much carbon monoxide present, he should have been dead already. Perhaps there was some niche, some opening, some tiny hole at the base of the wall Fosco had built that admitted fresh air.

The lock picking was a struggle. His hands were so cold and had been immobile for so long that before he even tried, he made himself flex his fingers and wrists repeatedly, willing them to work, forcing the coordination that he took for granted just days ago. At last, he pulled one pick from the secret cache and went to work slowly, painstakingly, using his hip as the only assist he had. The cuff on his wrist seemed unbearably heavy, the lock itself unmanageable as granite. His hand, wounded in places by Fosco’s dogs, was a study in pain every time he bent his wrist and maneuvered the pick awkwardly in his fingers. At one point he nearly dropped it and grasped it again tightly just in time. A wave of despair shook him but when he glanced up she was there before him, wordlessly pleading with him to try again. Silently, he resumed his task, trying to control the trembling in his hand. When the lock opened to him long minutes later, he nearly cried out with relief. Working just as carefully, he freed his left hand, then tugged on the accursed chain across his chest. The lock was too far for him to reach, but with his hands free he was able to push it away from him, giving him just enough room to turn his head and slither out from behind it. No longer chained to the wall, he simply collapsed in a heap where he had been standing.

The air seemed a bit better at ground level. It was not wonderful, but it was helpful. Fosco’s wall had not been completely air tight, not at the base where the tomb floor was so irregular. If he had remained in his standing position, death would have come sooner. But he wondered how much more time he had purchased. Ten minutes, maybe? If that?

He remained as he was, tumbled in a pile of aching limbs, the wounds on his face too sore to be contemplated as he turned his head to try and find a more comfortable position. She had seated herself next to him and he looked up at her. Despite the welcome change in position, despite the marginally better quality of air, he knew he was fading fast. His head was pounding and breathing was becoming more work than he could manage for very long. He tried to push it all away, to focus on her face, those eyes, the curve of her lips. He knew his mind had given him the one hallucination that would have forced his attention, even as he was dying. She had been the only magic in his entire existence—how wondrous to see her this way, and how cruel. “How much longer?” he managed to whisper.

“Not long. Rest a bit. He is on his way.”

He closed his eyes for just a moment, but opened them to look at her again. Even though she was beside him he did not try to touch her, afraid his hand would close on nothing but air. Better to leave the illusion intact. Still, she sat looking down at him and her eyes held the same lights, the same quick intelligence he missed so much. “If you have come to me, I must be dying,” he said softly. “To be able to see you, or at least believe I am seeing you, I must be close—”

She shushed him. “I came to help you fight longer, not to help you surrender. You cannot leave, yet.” She reached her hand out to him then, and for just a moment he felt the beloved sweet touch as she cupped the side of his face, gently traced the line of his jaw. “He has arrived, now. You must hold on, Aloysius. You know this. There is too much you have to do. Just hang on...”

He felt her leaving him then. “No!” he cried out, or tried, but his voice had no issue. There was no more air. He was alone in the dark and nearly dead, giving up and willing himself to find her. Come back, he thought. I am coming to you in just a minute. ...And then he heard it. The first tapping on the brick wall before him. He forced himself forward a few inches, the farthest his failing body would allow, desperately seeking fresh air. His lungs were inflamed, burning, overworked from endless hours of mounting oxygen deprivation. The tapping continued, and then he heard the welcome scrape of mortar being cleared away. He heard, losing consciousness fast, as that first brick was withdrawn. Would that he could have pressed his face to that opening, drawn that first sweet breath of real air. It was almost his last thought before he tumbled from awareness, going down at last into the dark. He knew then that it was too late. Please wait for me, he struggled to tell her, no longer able to speak the words. I did try...



...a soft yellow light shone through the newly opened hole, penetrating the darkness of the tomb.
A moment later, two eyes appeared in the glowing rectangle, gazing in with curiosity, perhaps even anxiety.
Two eyes: one hazel, one blue.*

*Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Brimstone

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