The coin seared a hole in Jay's pocket, its weight heavier with every step.
He clicked Tom's watch open and shut, open and shut, the snick of its hinge syncing with his heartbeat. The streets blurred—here a beggar's cough, there a child's laugh—until the church's spire speared the dusk, its stone worn to the color of old blood.
A man jostled past him, muttering: "Told her to rest, but she's stubborn as a mule… hope the midwife's there by now…"
Jay froze.
The voice wasn't real. Couldn't be. Yet the man's worry clung like cobwebs, dragging forth a memory:
—Mrs. Lea's hands, rough from laundry, gripping his and Tom's wrists as they squabbled over a stolen apple. "Enough!" she'd laughed, her voice warm as hearth-smoke. "You'll shake the baby loose!"
—Tom, grinning. "What baby? You're just fat, Mama."
—Her mock swat, their shared laughter, Jay's chest aching with a joy he didn't deserve.
"Dammit," Jay whispered, the watch's ticking suddenly deafening. "Not now. Not now."
But the voices were back.
---
The chapel loomed, its oak door scarred with initials and time. Jay knocked, the sound swallowed by the thick wood. Minutes oozed by. A crow cawed. The watch tick-tick-tick.
Then—the creak of hinges.
A priest stood framed in the doorway, his brown robe frayed but clean, his smile a sickle moon. "Welcome, lost lamb," he crooned. "Come. Let us pray for your… burdens."
Jay recoiled. The man's teeth were too white, too even, like the mayor who'd handed out fake gold coins to recruits. "For luck!" he'd said, moments before the mortar fire turned boys into red mist.
"No," Jay rasped, thrusting the serpent coin forward. "I was invited."
The priest's smile died. His eyes—pale as maggot flesh—flickered to the coin. "Follow me quickly."
The door slammed behind them.
Inside, the chapel was a carcass. Pews lay splintered, hymnals rotting in mildewed piles. The air reeked of damp stone and something sweetly rancid—rotten lilies.
"Through here," the priest said, gesturing to a trapdoor hidden beneath the altar.
Jay hesitated. The floorboards groaned beneath his boots, and for a heartbeat, he heard Tom's voice: "Don't do it, you idiot."
But the priest was already descending, his lantern casting claw-like shadows on the walls.
Jay followed.
The stairs spiraled deep, the walls narrowing until they pressed against his ribs like a coffin. Somewhere below, a discordant chant rose—voices layered, overlapping, wrong.
The priest glanced back, his face half-shadowed. "Mind the serpents, myaloktónos. They've been waiting."
Jay's hand found the empty vial in his pocket.
Too late to turn back now.
---