Lybid and Lucien did not linger among the stalls.
They led Mephisto toward a central structure that stood like a hollowed-out cathedral within the cavern.
The building was a jarring echo of the past. Its silhouette resembled the modest town hall of the settlement Faust had lived in during his time in the New World, but here, the wood had been replaced by ancient, soot-stained stone, and the simple lines were choked with intricate Gothic flourishes.
Gargoyles, which were cracked and missed some of its parts, with weeping eyes leaned over the lintels, and the air inside smelled of cold iron and old parchment.
As they stepped through the heavy oak doors, a secretary—a woman with eyes as pale as milk—looked up from a massive ledger.
The moment her gaze fell upon Lucien, her eyes widened in a mixture of reverence and terror.
"Grandmaster," she whispered, her voice trembling as she bowed her head.
Mephisto's bells gave a soft, discordant jingle as he shifted his weight.
Grandmaster.
He had known Lucien was more than a simple traveler.
A man who carried pistols and silenced supernatural whispers in the dark was a physical threat, but as Faust looked at Lybid, the shivers returned.
If Lucien was the blade, Lybid was the poison; she possessed an aura that didn't just threaten the body, but seemed to gnaw at the very edges of his soul.
They entered a vast circular hall dominated by a round table of dark, polished oak.
As he entered his eyes drifted on the bookshelves noticing one particular tome.
But it wasn't the furniture that stopped Faust's breath.
Sitting atop the table was a creature that looked as if it had been plucked from a Pharaoh's nightmare.
It was a large, almost entirely hairless black cat. Its skin was as dark as the abyss, stretched tight over a muscular, human-like frame. One of its eyes was a startling, stark white, while in place of the other sat a polished onyx jewel that seemed to drink in the torchlight, hypnotizing Mephisto with its depth.
Around its thin neck hung a necklace of pure, translucent diamonds.
Faust's eye twitched involuntarily.
As a Patriarch of Herzog family of Saxe-Weimar who had lived over a century, he had appraised the crowns of kings and the dowries of empresses.
This onyx eye and the diamond strand easily entered the top fifty most valuable objects he had ever seen.
As Mephisto pulled out a chair, the cat arched its back and hissed—a sound that was more like steam escaping a pressurized valve than a feline warning.
Its claws unsheathed, and as they swiped through the air, they left behind a trail of glittering, crystalline dust that hung in the atmosphere for a heartbeat before dissolving.
"Cherubim, enough!" Lybid snapped.
The cat let out a dissatisfied meow that sounded eerily like a human groan, and then, with a flicker of shadow, it vanished into thin air, leaving only the scent of ozone and puprle sparks behind.
Mephisto wiped his eyes, his doctor's mind frantically trying to rationalize the disappearance.
Lybid let out a low, musical chuckle at his confusion.
Lucien sat down directly across from Mephisto, the heavy doors behind them swinging shut with a final, echoing thud.
He reached up and removed the Mask of Saint Cyprian, revealing the tanned, scarred face and the burning amber eyes.
"Let us dispense with the theater of the fool for a moment," the man said, his voice regaining its natural, gravelly depth. "I believe it is time I reintroduce myself properly, Mephisto."
He leaned forward, the torchlight casting long shadows across his sharp features.
"I am the 27th Grandmaster of the Order of Ash," he stated with a gravity that made the "multiple heartbeats" in Faust's chest hammer in unison. "My name is Azazel Weyer."