The stairs went down farther than Lucifer expected.
Each step echoed off stone walls that seemed to breathe. The air grew colder the deeper they walked. Not the cold of winter—the cold of places that had never known warmth. Damaris moved ahead of him, his shadow-bandaged wing brushing against the wall, his golden eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Dera followed behind Lucifer. She'd descended without a word, her boots silent on the ancient stone. The Human Authority pulsed around her, a faint warmth in the chill.
"The walls are watching us," she said.
Lucifer had noticed.
The stone wasn't smooth. It was carved with faces—thousands of them, overlapping, their expressions frozen in terror or ecstasy or something in between. Some were human. Some weren't. All of them were old.
"Adam's trophies," Damaris said quietly.
"Not just the ones in cases."
The stairs ended.
