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Mysteries of the Dressrious Salon — Chapter 92
The chamber was staggering in scale, as vast as four basketball courts. As they stepped off the vanishing rug, torches ignited along the walls in a synchronized flare. The orange light danced over gruesome bas-reliefs: giant serpents strangling lions, vultures feasting on the fallen, and hellish landscapes choked with skeletons.
“What is this place?” Trevor whispered, his voice swallowed by the sheer volume of the hall.
“How the hell do we get back? There’s no rug, no sigil. Nothing but cold stone and a door to nowhere.” Spion stared out into the hallway’s absolute blackness, where the only sound was a dry, rhythmic whispering drifting up from the depths.
“Check around,” Trevor urged, gesturing toward the darkness.
As they crept toward the door, a flickering amber glow began to bleed into the darkness. They emerged onto a mezzanine corridor that overlooked the vast lobby below, where the murmur of voices rose like smoke. Trevor reached out, his hand recoiling slightly from the stone railing; it was strangely cold, as if the rock were leeching the very heat from the air. Peering over the edge, they saw a hall of staggering proportions. At the far end sat an enormous, empty throne carved from obsidian, flanked by a yawning archway. Below it, a dozen figures stood in a silent semi-circle, their faces hidden behind masks and their bodies draped in a jarring array of ritualistic robes.
“My sources tell me the Queen still prefers negotiation, despite the buildup in the Persian Gulf,” a man in a blood-red robe said, his voice echoing.
“Every incompetent dictator is a lion at home and a coward abroad. That is precisely why she needs a push.” The voice was deep and resonant, belonging to a man draped in crimson robes accented with heavy gold trim.
“So, do we proceed? The FIA is already watching,” a third voice asked. Trevor’s blood ran cold. It was Will. He stood there in a dark gray robe, his posture hunched and trembling.
“The assassins have arrived. The operation has begun,” the golden-trimmed figure declared. “We do not abandon the plan for the sake of your incompetence.”
“We’re sorry… we never thought it was a trap,” Will stammered.
“That happened only because you are weak, because you lacked the stomach to execute a simple eavesdropper and, in your cowardice, cost us a warrior.” The voice was loud and authoritative, cutting through the hall as a tall, slender figure stepped through the archway near the throne. He moved with a ghostly silence, draped in royal purple robes with gold trim, his face hidden behind a striking scarlet mask. Two figures in black robes and expressionless masks followed him like twin shadows.
Silence smothered the room as he ascended the dais and took his seat. His two black-clad attendants stood beside him like silent sentinels, their eyes fixed on the trembling crowd below.
“The trial begins,” the Lord announced. The words sent a physical chill down Trevor’s spine.
“My Lord, please,” Will pleaded, dropping to his knees. “I’ll kill him this time. I promise!”
“Failure is a rot, and it is unforgivable. We suffered a humiliating blow in Salem; I will not tolerate another.” The Lord paused, his scarlet mask sweeping across the room. No one dared move; even the sound of breathing seemed to have died in the hall. Satisfied by their terror, he continued, “Bran has confessed the truth. You threw the man into the river when you should have carved out his heart. We have no room for pity. You will serve our cause in the underworld. Your sentence is death.”
The Lord raised a gloved hand in a sharp, final gesture.
The two black-clad shadows glided toward Will. He began to sob, his body racking with tremors as they stripped the mask from his face. Though Trevor and Spion couldn’t see his features clearly, the raw terror in his muffled cries was unmistakable.
The executioners reached out, pressing long, unnaturally slender index fingers against his cheeks. A harrowing scream tore through the rafters. Wisps of acrid smoke hissed from Will’s skin as his flesh ignited, turning a searing, molten red. In a heartbeat, the screams collapsed into a hollow rattle. He didn’t just die, he disintegrated. Will was reduced to a pile of fine gray ash in an instant, leaving nothing behind but an empty, slumped robe on the cold stone floor.
Paralyzed by the horror, Trevor and Spion remained frozen in the shadows, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
“Now, Bran,” the Lord gestured to the second gray-robed figure. “You will execute the backup plan if the primary assassin fails. Do not let me down.”
“I won’t, My Lord,” Bran replied, his voice a sharp, humble rasp.
“I don’t want to see Athena’s knights win again,” the Lord mused. Then, his head tilted upward. His scarlet mask seemed to stare directly through the stone railing. “However, it seems we have mice in the rafters. Up there! Catch them!” His arm snapped up, his finger like a spear pointing directly at the shadows where Trevor and Spion were crouched.
Trevor’s heart hammered against his ribs so hard it hurt, and his breath hitched in a sharp, terrified gasp that felt like ice in his lungs.
“Run!” Spion hissed, grabbing Trevor’s sleeve.
“To where?” Trevor gasped as the cultists below surged toward the stairs.
“There are dozens of rooms, just pick one!” Spion hissed between ragged breaths. He veered left, wrenching open a heavy wooden door that led into a void of absolute darkness.
They threw themselves inside and threw the bolt just as footsteps thundered into the corridor. The moment the door clicked shut, wall torches flared to life in a synchronized burst of fire. This chamber was a twin to the one they had arrived in, but the peaceful hunting scenes were gone. These walls were a testament to slaughter: towering reliefs of ancient hoplites, thundering chariots, and armored war elephants. Siege engines and warships clashed across the stone, and in the center of the carnage stood a massive, haunting carving of a wooden horse.
“It’s empty,” Spion said, drawing his pistol. “I’ll hold the door. Find us a way out!”
Trevor scanned the grim reliefs, his mind racing. “There has to be a way out—a trigger, a seal, anything,” he whispered, his fingers trailing over the stone. The wall felt extremely cold, slick with a thin film of moisture that sent a shiver up his arm.
“Where are they?” a muffled snarl drifted from the hallway. “Check every room! They’re trapped!”
One by one, doors down the hall were kicked open with a violent crack. Then, the footsteps stopped right outside. The handle rattled aggressively. “This one’s locked!” a voice bellowed. A heavy thud shook the frame as someone threw their shoulder against it.
Spion didn’t move; he simply leveled his gun, his gaze fixed on the center of the door with lethal focus.
Ignoring the deafening rhythm of the impact, Trevor nervously continued to examine the room. Soon he found something—not on the wall, but on the ground. At the far end of the room, beneath the dust of the heavy stone slabs, faint crimson lines bled through the grime, forming a perfect circle on the ground.
“Come here!”
The door splintered. A man burst through, but Spion was faster. A single shot rang out, dropping the intruder instantly.
“Scheiße, die haben Waffen!” someone yelled in the hall.
The red circle began to glow as Trevor stepped inside it. “Now!” Trevor yelled.
Spion retreated toward the circle, his movements a blur of practiced precision. He laid down a wall of suppressive fire, the thunder of his pistol echoing off the stone walls. An assailant appeared in the doorway, leveling a rifle, but Spion’s shot found him first; the man crumpled before his finger could even graze the trigger.
The moment Spion’s heel hit the center of the crimson ring, the world detonated into white light, swallowing the chamber and the sounds of gunfire in a heartbeat.
When their vision cleared, the damp chill of the stone chamber was gone, replaced by a wave of stale, heated air. They found themselves in a luxuriously appointed study: mahogany sofas with velvet cushions, a thick and exquisite red rug underfoot, and walls draped in gilded frames. The classical oil paintings staring down at them felt like silent witnesses to their sudden, impossible arrival.
A sharp clatter echoed in the room. Trevor turned to see a man standing by a desk, a dropped coffee cup shattered at his feet. The man was staring at them with wide, terrified eyes.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Brother Mark stammered, his face turning as white as the porcelain on the floor.