Surviving Hallow Hill: A Supernatural

Prison Academy Reverse Harem

Romance A.K. Koonce
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SURVIVING HALLOW HILL
 A.K. KOONCE
ALEERA ANAYA CERES
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
Also by A.K. Koonce
Also by Aleera Anaya Ceres
About A.K. Koonce
About Aleera Anaya Ceres
Surviving Hallow Hill
Copyright 2020 A.K. Koonce & Aleera Anaya Ceres
All Rights Reserved
Editing by Copeland Edits
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written
permission from the author. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Created with Vellum
 ONE

T here ’ s a stark , numbing moment among the screaming chaos, and

the erratic surroundings of the world open up, and my classmates
becoming my enemies. There’s a slip of time where I’m not looking
at the blood or the rage in everyone’s eyes or even the long, jagged
nails of the hands that are clawing their way out of the dry dirt. In
that bizarre pass of minutes, the cloth against my dirty skin shifts. It
feels like it’s attacking all on its own, as if my shirt might very well
be the death of me.
Instead of strangling me with its threads, the material melds
together with my pants. A surprised gasp sounds through the air,
and I notice the others are experiencing the same.
The dozen or so men and women pause, the sound of terror
pausing right along with them, as my shirt and pants turn into a
soft, violet-colored jumpsuit.
It’s then that I hear a familiar voice for the first time.
“What the fuck,” Sia grumbles.
I peer across the blood-soaked terrain and spot the last Sekar in
all the world.
The last aside from myself.
And his hard, slitted eyes are glaring down at his pretty purple
jumpsuit like it truly has assaulted him. My first instinct is to run to
him. Wrap my arms around the brooding bastard and just be
thankful he’s all right among so much wrong in this fucked-up world.
 My attention drifts, though. I catch sight of the same violet
clothing on the dragon man just a few feet away. A slender, beautiful
girl stands in a huddled circle with a few other women. They, too,
wear purple now.
Five or so students start to come together when they realize
they’re all wearing a jade color of green. Among all the colors, I’ve
lost sight of Kira. I scan the area again and again, but she’s just
gone.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Across the hellacious hole in the ground, colors of red and yellow
can be seen.
One single man on our side of the cliff wears a deep red
jumpsuit. He’s surrounded by a sea of purple-and-green. The dozen
or so students on the other side of the deadly cliff wear that same
crimson color he wears. But the lone man cannot get to the others,
who are clearly meant to be his team.
And I’ve never seen someone so afraid of his peers. His wide
brown eyes shift from one of us, to the next, to the next.
No one moves.
The booming voice calls out to us, and it’s then that I spot the
speaker through the trees. A golden wall glints in the sunlight. The
height of it stretches so monstrously tall that it appears to be trying
to replace the skies entirely. And at the center of the glittering, gold
wall is a tiny speck of a man.
“Two teams can easily become four just for my own
entertainment. Four teams. Four sets of the most elite supernaturals
in all the world. Soon, there will be two sets. And soon, there will be
one. And those pretty creatures . . .” A giggling manic laugh clatters
from his throat, and I can’t look away from the demented, shapeless
speck of a man. “Those will be the strong that survive. Those will be
the ones who walk out of the Hallow.”
He pauses then, while I peer around at the purple-clad students
who are now my team. I measure them up, finding the dragon man
to have the largest, most physically impressive build. But size isn’t
everything.
Magic is.
 “But do not think it is only each other you have to survive. Oh
no.” The cackling sound of the speaker’s amusement sparks through
the forest, and it’s then that I remember the lone team member
who’s separated from his pack.
His feet pound over the ruddy dirt to put space between us and
him.
He’s faster to respond than we are. None of us so much as take a
step in his direction.
We’re all too confused. Too uncertain.
That doesn’t seem to matter.
Not in the Hallow.
A battered hand finally reaches the cliff’s edge. Its sharp, cracked
nails sink into the dirt. And half of a man pulls himself up from the
depths of hell. He’s entirely nude, but that isn’t at all the strangest
thing about him.
Black hair is matted into his blistered and burned features. One
arm hangs loosely at his side, held onto his charred body by fraying
threads of mangled flesh. The other arm is gone, but we all know it’s
unlike the Doctor to let someone go without. Not when mechanics
are so readily available. A shining black club extends from his
shoulder. His right leg is shredded flesh from the knee down, and
that, too, has so generously been replaced for the walking dead
man. A metal rod sticks out where his leg falls short. It’s uneven and
weak and causes every one of his steps to jar and rock his meaty,
burned corpse.
But none of that stops him. The creature of the dead swings his
shining metal club out, and with shocking force, he embeds it hard
into the temple of the fearful running man.
Our enemy—the nameless man from the red team—he stops
dead in his tracks.
Literally.
Only the hard-hitting thump of metal meeting bone cracks
through the air. The weapon of an arm is sunk into the man’s
temple. His eyes are still wide open but unblinking. Blood slides
down his eyes and lips.
He’s dead before his gaping skull hits the dirt.
 More of the creatures of the dead drag themselves up. More and
more and more, until there are hundreds of them and very few of
us.
And then it’s my turn to run.
With my blade held tightly in my fist, my brain tells me logically
to just focus on space. Put as much space between me and those
things as possible until I can get the upper ground and attack on my
own terms.
All of that fucking logic goes out the window, and I zig-zag my
way through the crowd of students and monsters alike. My hand
grabs a fleshy piece of rotting arm, and with all my strength, I rip
the limb from the creature’s body. In a blur of swinging attacks and
slamming flesh meeting hollow skulls, I finally make it to where my
heart leads me.
While my brain curses my heart the entire fucking time.
But none of that matters as I look up into stormy eyes and find
comfort in the only other supernatural who is just like me.
Our Holy Lady of Death brought us together for a reason.
He’s my twin flame.
“You’re a reckless idiot,” Sialen spits, gripping my hand and
dragging me away as fast as our feet can carry us. “Why didn’t you
run? Why? Why would you stupidly put yourself in danger just to get
to me? Why are you always such a pain in my ass?”
His words lash out at me, and we never stop. We never stop
running.
Even as I scream right back at him, “Because I fucking love you,
you barbaric piece of fuck!”
He stumbles. The leaves drag against his boots, and before he
rights himself, he falls, forehead nearly hitting the dirt before his
palms have time to save face. And I let him. I release his hand and
release all the anger I’m holding right along with it when he rolls
over to his back and stares up at me like I’m the sun itself.
His lips part, but they’re empty without reply. He looks broken. I
always thought love would be this warm and saving feeling.
It’s not.
It’s fucking terrifying.
 And that terror and confusion is deep in his gaze right now.
“Keep moving, Em,” he says instead. He says it like the words
hurt him. Like simply breathing hurts him in this moment.
It hurts me, too.
The air hits my tense lungs, and I shake the last thirty seconds
from my head. I shove aside all those pretty and dangerous feelings.
I refuse to feel heartbroken when I should be fighting for my life.
I refuse to let Sialen break my heart.
Even if I think it’s too late.
 TWO

W e run as far as Hyde will let us, it seems. We meet the shining
golden wall within an hour, and it’s like Sialen and I have the same
idea. As does the dragon man and a few of the petite women clad in
violet jumpsuits like ourselves.
Kira doesn't come through.
The one person I tried to save, I abandoned.
I fucking hate myself right now.
The women, they’re banshees. Their arms are spindly, their nails
curved and black with pointed tips. Their plump lips are large, and
when they speak, sharp, vicious teeth can be seen between words.
“We’re safe here with our backs protected by the wall, but we
don’t want to corner ourselves either,” dragon man informs us as if
I’m not already aware.
The three women nod. It’s then that I do a small count of our
group.
Six. There are six of us left.
Six of us against hundreds of them.
We won’t make it through the night by holding too much faith in
an academy-built wall. Fuck that. We need a plan.
“What’s your strength?” I ask the women.
Their long green hair shifts around their angled faces as they
smile sharp smirks at one another.
“Our mouths, of course,” the middle one says, and she slides her
tongue across her weapon of teeth.
 Their screams are deadly, they can sense when death is near . . .
Are they cannibals, too?
I vomit a bit in my mouth and try not to dwell on what the idea
of rotting flesh might taste like.
“And you,” Sia tilts his chin at the man with the scaly tail
sweeping between his legs.
Tail Boy shifts his golden eyes toward us as if he’s too high above
our kind to even explain himself or his powers.
“I’m wise,” Reptile Tail says bluntly.
Wow.
Surviving this man’s ego might be the real challenge.
“Great,” Sialen mumbles with so much sarcasm I can taste it in
the air before brushing the guy off entirely and checking the trees
once more.
Violent screams still kiss the horizon. The creatures seem busy
feeding off of the flesh of our fallen coeds.
Possibly even Kira.
While we waste time belittling each other.
“Anything else? You got anything else that might help us right
now?” I bark out, pivoting on the heel of my boot to face the man
who’s much too tall for me to really be glaring down at the moment.
His lips curl and before he even says more, his shoulders flex.
And with that small gesture, his jumpsuit tatters away around his
broad back.
Just as deep green wings flash out behind him. With my mouth
hanging open, I wait for the dragon inside of him to make an
appearance.
But it never does.
Massive wings loom around him, shadowing his hard physique as
he glares at me.
He isn’t a shifter at all, at least, not fully. He’s a hybrid: half-man,
half-dragon, and so he can only take on a mere aspect of the beast.
“Like I said, I’m wise. I’m wise enough to check our
surroundings. If you’d have taken the time to look up, you’d find
that there are divots in the wall. They’re not quite low enough for
the average person to reach. And with each one, they’re spaced
farther and farther apart. It’s mental torture to imagine escape. Even
a flyer like myself would die of dehydration before reaching the top.”
“How is that helpful right now?” I snap back at the arrogant
cock-flobber.
He takes a daunting step toward me, and it stuns me when
Sialen shifts between us. Tension twists his solid body into a thing of
fearless strength.
He’s distracting. I don’t need a protector. Why is he doing this?
Why did I have to go and make things even more complicated
between us?
“Because we don’t need an escape. We need time.” Dragon Dude
tilts his head arrogantly. “And those divots can’t be reached by man
or monster. So, we need to buy our time there.”
“You mean hide?” the Sekar in front of me says with so much
disgust, it’s like a foul taste on my own tongue.
Dragon Dick takes a menacing step towards Sia, literal steam
blooming from his nostrils. His posture is menacing, his chest puffed,
and the testosterone in the air is so fucking prominent, I know it
won’t be long until they start swinging fists.
That’s the last thing we need right now.
I sidle in between the two, holding my hands out before they can
go at each other.
My palm collides with Dragon Dude’s chest, and I swear, if I’d
have pressed any harder, I would’ve broken my fucking fingers.
Ow.
He needs to calm down on the gym membership for a while.
“Alright, Charizard.” I pierce him with a glare. “Settle down.”
“Charizard . . .” he murmurs, his eyes flicking up to the sky like
he’s trying to search through that reptilian brain of his to find out
where he’s heard of that name before.
He obviously comes up blank.
White steam curls from his nose unhappily, and he huffs a
breath.
Once I can tell both he and Sia are calm, I speak. “Look, we’re in
a fucked-up situation, and we have no idea what’s going on. I think
hiding in one of those wall caves isn’t such a bad idea . . . for now,”
I add when Sia growls in my direction.
Seriously?
Asshole.
“We need to gather our strength and assess the situation, scope
out the enemy.” I give Sia a glare. This is what Krist had us doing
every night. Killing people. What makes this any different?
It’s not.
Once again, I’m thrown into a fucked-up situation I have no
control over. Only this time, I have my sword, so I’m not entirely
helpless. And for now, I have this team.
And I’ll do anything to survive.
I slide my blade through a belt loop along my jump suit and take
a slow breath. “You and I both know it’s not smart to go in there
blindly.”
As if the fucked-up Hallow is in tune with my words, echoing
screams and dying gurgles ring out like the soundtrack to this
fucked-up place.
Ah, the sweet scent of death.
No, I’m not being sarcastic.
My sword even hums with delight at the sound. It can feel all the
souls of the dying, and it just wants to slurp them up to fuel its own
selfish desires.
Not today, buddy.
I can almost feel it growl like an irritable puppy.
“So, how are we getting up there?” My palm meets the hilt of my
sword, and I stroke it to calm it down while my eyes stray up the
wall and the divots.
From here, they look like mere specks, but I have no doubt that
my buddy Charizard over here can see further than I can and can
gauge their real sizes.
Charizard’s wings span out at my question, drawing my attention
to them. They’re scarred and brutal, covered in scales and thick
muscle. Just the sight of them makes me ache.
They make me think of Rue, of Styx.
Oh, Lady of Death, Styx. My knees almost buckle.
 Now that darkness descends, the cries of the dying sound louder
in my ears.
Fuck, what if Rue’s hurt? What if Styx is hurt?
A feral sensation rises up inside me that I can’t describe. Styx, I
need to protect him. I need to fucking find him.
Both of them.
My gaze spans out to the shadows and chaos below. He’s down
there somewhere. He could be hurt, bleeding. I’ll go in there and
reap every last fucking soul of this place if I fucking have to—
We’re safe, chère.
My head snaps up. “Rue?” I say this aloud, earning an annoyed
glance from Charizard, mocking titters from the banshees, and a
curious stare from Sia.
My face flushes, so I turn away from them as if I’m taking a
private call.
What’s going on? Where are you? Where’s Styx? Are you hurt?
Fucking tell me!
A chuckle breezes through my mind like the softest whisper of
wind. Then comes the phantom feel of claws grazing gently down
my back. I have to fight back a shiver.
Relax, chère. Styx is with me. He is alive and unharmed. Contrary
to what your alpha instincts will have you believe, he is quite
capable of taking care of himself. We’ve got us a little bet going on
who can kill the m—
Save it. Tell me where you are. I don’t want to hear how much
danger Styx has been in. If I do, I just might explode and go after
him despite the danger.
We’re safe. With the Blood Pack; bunch of lunatics and cannibals.
They keep calling you guys the Extinction Pack. Seems you’re the
rarest of the rare. But I already knew that about my chère.
I feel my head spin. Rue!
He chuckles, and his Cajun-French accent thickens with humor.
Calm down. We will be fine. I’m trying to tell you that if you come to
us, you will not be. They’ll take one look at that pretty little body in
that violet jumpsuit and cream themselves right before they murder
you.
 My eyes roll to the back of my head. You’re such a—wait, how do
you know what color jumpsuit I’m wearing.
I saw you, he purrs. We are bonded, you and I. And that
jumpsuit . . . Hmm . . . I hear the subtle sound of a mocking slurp
and a kiss. Delicious, the way it hugs your every curve like a second
skin, the way it molds onto the curves of your ass. Makes me want
to bite your ass cheeks.
A flush heats my face, and I stammer internally. Is that a thing
you’re into?
His chuckle is my only response before all goes quiet in my mind.
Perhaps he’s caring for Styx or talking to his team members. I’ll ask
him about the abrupt ending later. After we get into one of those
little caves.
I guess for now, I’ll have to trust in Rue to keep Styx safe and
guarded. I hate relinquishing that control, but I trust Rue with my
life and not just because it's tethered so tightly to his.
I’ve never been able to say that about anyone before.
I turn to face my teammates and clap my hands softly together.
“Alright, so what are we—”
My words are cut off by the soft growl in my ear. Come for me.
The impact of my orgasm has me doubling over and gasping in
breaths, palms pressed to my thighs in an attempt to keep me
upright.
“Oh, fuck—ahhhhh, oooh . . .” I can’t help the way my orgasm
screams out of my mouth. The pleasure is almost too much inside
me, rippling in tiny bursting aftershocks all through my body.
Once it ebbs, I’m almost too embarrassed to stand up, but I do,
my face flushed brightly and Rue’s laughter in my mind.
Charizard looks at me strangely. “Did you just—”
“She did,” Sia interrupts. “It’s her thing. Now will you stop fucking
staring and get us up there, Wing Boy?”
I’m going to fucking kill you, I growl to Rue.
Aw, I needed the sound of your moans to get me through this
lonely night, chère.
Bastard.
 “Riighttt . . .” Charizard is staring at me strangely. The expression
lasts a moment before he’s all business and turns to one of the
banshees. “You first,” he growls. After wrapping her in his tight grip,
his wings shoot out and flap. A gust of wind rushes over us, his
knees bend, and then he’s soaring through the air.
I watch as he goes up and becomes little more than a speck in
the darkening sky.
My whole body is tense as I wait for him to come back down. He
takes the banshees up first, and when I’m alone with Sia, his fingers
slide down the length of my arm. “Rue and Styx okay?” he asks on a
soft whisper.
My gaze snaps to him, but he’s not staring at me. He’s looking up
at the heavy wing beats becoming smaller and smaller with each
stroke. But the thing is, he doesn’t have to be looking at me for me
to know.
I have always thought of Sialen as mysterious. But what if what’s
inside him isn’t a mystery at all? He’s like me. He keeps everything
so tightly locked inside him that he’s hardened along the edges, and
it’s not that he’s forgotten how to care, it’s just he doesn’t show his
emotions because that’s the easiest way to lose what you care
about.
And he fucking cares.
It warms my little otaku heart.
“They’re fine. On the Blood Pack team.”
He grunts, and I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. “Aww,”
I tease. “You care.”
He grunts, and then there’s silence again. I can’t stand it. It has
me fidgeting uncomfortably in place. I usually ignore the brooding of
the man beside me, but after all we’ve been through together, this
whole fucked-up situation, it has me anxious.
“Have you ever heard of this place before?” I ask. “The
Hallow . . .”
His arms cross against his chest like he’s steeling himself for an
uncomfortable conversation. “In passing,” he murmurs. “Nothing in
detail. I’ve heard the name whispered. It was like an urban legend
at the academy. A place they sent the supernaturals who didn’t
know how to behave.”
And we just landed ass-first into the thick of it.
Fucking great.
“What’s the purpose of this game?” Fierce wing beats almost
silence my question. Air blasts over my face, and I squint at the sky
as Charizard descends once again.
“I don’t know,” Sia confesses before the dragon’s feet touch the
ground. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”
 THREE

“I’ ll take first watch ,” Charizard growls. His shoulders are so tense,
I swear there’s a stick shoved up his ass and through his spine. And
that’s how he stands, looking out into the screaming night,
observing the chaos ripping across the horizon.
The divot within the wall is a ledge the size of a small room. Just
large enough to lie down and catch your breath and think you might
actually survive in this misery-ridden place.
The three emerald-haired banshees all stretch in unison before
tangling their thin arms around one another and making a pile of
dames of death on the smooth, golden floor. Their long lashes don’t
flutter once the moment their eyes are closed.
What’s that like: sleeping soundly without fear?
I’ll probably never know.
“Come. Sleep,” Sia whispers, his breath so close that it kisses the
line of my jaw so, so close to my neck.
I don’t dare move. If I move, I’ll angle my neck up for him, lean
into him. And make myself look even more like a fool, as far as my
Sekar friend and I are concerned.
My entire body is so tense as I shift awkwardly around him that I
almost feel guilty for judging Dragon Boy Z. Like a short-fused robot,
I jarringly lower to the floor. The cold metal kisses my fingertips, and
I don’t know what possesses me to look up, but I’m eye level with
Sialen’s hips, erotically gazing up through my lashes at the heat in
his eyes.
 And the sparks between us are ablaze.
On FUCKING FIRE.
A terrified breath shoves from my lungs.
Why are we like this? Why does our magic react like this? Why—
why does my heart react like this?
I’m a fucking idiot.
I lie flat and clench my eyes closed. I should be thinking about
those monsters. And this game. And everyone whose lives are at
stake. And—
And then his rough palm skims ever so lightly over my abdomen.
The heat of his tense breath wafts through my hair and along my
skin. Strong biceps flex around me and then pull me closer, harder
against his chest.
My heart is pounding for me to notice him. It’s knocking for me
to pay attention to this beautiful, broken man.
Instead, I clench my eyes closed once more. And pretend I don’t
notice the absurdly sexy man wrapped so damn perfectly around
me.
I won't do it. I won’t make myself look stupid again. I won’t pry
further into what his touch means. I won't. I refuse. I’m too
stubborn.
“I love you, too, Em” he whispers painfully.
And fuck my stubborn resolve.
Soft, gentle lips press promisingly over the back of my spine, just
above the hard metal and against the smooth, sensitive flesh there.
Every nerve ending in my body violently collides at once with the
sweet feel of his mouth against my skin.
The breath in my lungs is gone, and I’m not even aware that it’s
missing. Air is suddenly meaningless.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. I . . . I didn’t know how to
respond. No one’s ever said that to me before,” he confesses so
quietly the breath of his words ghosts around the cavernous space.
He didn’t know how to respond? How far from love do you have
to be to not know the typical response to I love you?
I twist in his arms and gaze into the broken, steely eyes of the
only other last remaining Sekar in this world.
 My heart shivers at the verge of shattering.
He’s so far from love, he has no idea what it feels like.
Until now.
His head dips; his pale hair teases against my inky locks.
And then his lips seal to mine. Hesitant. Uncertain. Fearful.
Every single thing that Sialen isn’t is shyly pressed between the
meld of our lips. And I taste it. I tasted all the things he never shows
anyone. I take hold of those sweet emotions with both hands as my
fingers thrust through his hair, and I pull him harder against me.
It’s a bitter pleasure, the way our magic burns within my chest.
Mingling and igniting to find a path for us to travel.
Together.
The idea of sharing a path within anyone, it’s terrifying.
But I want it.
I want him.
Even as he pulls back, with burning colors lighting up his dark,
steely eyes. It’s a lustful look of power. It’s beautiful the way he
looks at me.
It almost chases out all that fear of the uncertainty.
Almost.
“Witch. It’s your turn,” A growling voice orders.
Heavy boots kick at the ground as the dragon man storms past
the two of us, glaring daggers at the way we’re wound together.
I don’t even blame him, if I’m being honest. My hormones are
fucked right now. There are screams of death and destruction in the
distance, and I’m dry humping Sialen’s leg like it’s the last orgasm I’ll
ever have in this miserable life.
Get some perspective, Emmera.
Without shame, but with a new-founded self-awareness, I stand
and make my way to the ledge of the wall. With the fading sunlight,
it no longer shines with golden wealth and prosperity. It’s dull. The
pretentious allure the academy always throws into everything can’t
be seen in the darkness. It’s something they’ll never understand: no
matter how much you force your fake appearance of perfection on
people, the pretty shine always dulls.
 “What’s your name, anyway?” Sia asks as he sits up and gives
Charizard a moment of real camaraderie.
What a fucking waste.
One of us will be dead by tomorrow.
It’s easier if we know as little as possible about one another.
“Dom,” he says carefully, like he doesn’t even trust the Sekar
with his name.
He acts like we’re fae instead of witches.
“So, Dom the Dragon, what’s your plan?” I ask flatly, leaning into
the wall and getting as comfortable as I can without actually getting
comfortable enough to sleep.
I feel his glare heat across the back of my skull, but I feign
ignorance and stare on at the darkening skyline. From here, I can’t
tell where the jagged crack in the earth lies. Only miles of trees and
a span of inky water far off in the distance can be seen.
“My plan is to attack.”
Good plan. Good plan.
A little vague, but hopefully Dom the Dragon can explain how he
plans to attack the corpse monsters. He does, in fact, elaborate. “If
you noticed, the walking dead didn’t come after us when they
thought we were going to kill the man in red. They wanted us to.
They gave us a chance to kill one another. And when we didn’t, they
did it for us.”
Wait. Timeout. Come a-fucking-gain?
I spin so fast on my heels that I expect to startle him, but his
cocky gaze is as calm as ever. And he’s staring me down the way I’m
staring him down.
“You want to kill the other teams?” My teeth grind together hard
as I close my mouth and force myself to let him correct himself.
Because he must have misspoken.
“Yes,” he says without apology.
“No,” I counter, my feet striding the small space toward him
without a second thought.
He stands the moment I’m close, and the calm in our little golden
cave has blown to shit as he tenses as hard as I’m tensing. Though
not a sound is made, hissing of feminine threats kisses the air,
stinging my ear drums with the quiet whisper of danger.
Banshees.
Sialen’s feet scuff the floor, and I feel his body close to mine. He
doesn’t say a word.
“They want to save the strongest. They want the strongest to
prove themselves. Either we fuckin’ prove it, or we all die lying
down.” Dom’s head cocks to the side. “And I’m too damn strong to
die without a fight. Make the first move. Break into their hiding spot
before they overtake ours.”
My nails bite into my palms at the thought of him eliminating the
other teams. Kira. What if he gets Kira? He’s fucking massive. Rue
and Styx are powerful, but . . . what if it’s not enough?
I won’t risk it.
I—I need a better plan.
My plan.
“Okay,” I whisper with as much serenity as I can force into the
simple word.
A line creases between his thick dark eyebrows, but he doesn’t
press me. I nod. He nods. Composure, if forced, between two deadly
supernaturals once more.
We’re all in agreement.
We’ll find their hiding spot. Dom will try to kill my mates. My
friends.
And I’ll kill him first.
 FOUR

T he next morning , Dom flies us down the wall. As much as it’d be

nice to stay there and away from this mess Dr. Hyde threw us into,
we refuse to be sitting ducks. Staying in the corner is the easiest
way to find yourself backed into it with your throat slit and your soul
shoved face-first in Lady Death’s river of souls.
Plus, I’m a fighter, and sitting around makes me anxious. Styx,
Rue, and Kira are out there somewhere. Safe for now, but there’s
still the heavy urge inside me to find them, to make sure they’re safe
for myself.
Not that I don’t trust that Rue is being honest, but this might be
some savage alpha instinct. Fuck if I know. Sometimes I feel like this
new alpha, mind-reading, three-way connection and whatever the
hell is going on with me is like puberty all over again: one giant,
uncomfortable mess.
“Stay on alert,” Dom snaps, taking the lead, sliding easily down a
slippery slope of dirt soaked dark with blood.
It’s squishy on my boots as I step down after him, and I try to
keep my mind off the fact that I’m literally stepping on some poor
asshole’s guts and blood.
Squish-squish.
Every step makes it ooze, and stenches permeate around us that
are so atrocious, I have to force back a gag.
“Why do they have to make this so nasty?” I’ve killed before, but
I always make clean blows. This is some Sweeney Todd bullshit. “Are
those—are those brains?” My heel has nowhere safe to land and just
squashes them anyway.
Sia’s hand encloses over my arm, and he tugs me faster. “Stop
fucking looking at the body parts.”
“I can’t help it. It’s morbid and I’m a freak. Is that an arm? Left
or right, do you think?”
He sighs like I’m hopeless. Maybe I am, but honestly, it’s just
because I’m getting nervous. Usually when I’m hunting prey, I know
every intricate detail of their lives, what they are, who they are, so I
have an intelligent advantage.
I know nothing here, and witnessing all this carnage is a sharp
reminder that we’re all playing someone else’s game.
“Looks like we’re on the set of The Terminator.” Robotic parts
littered everywhere among the blood and fleshy bits. The sun is high
in the sky and beating down on us fiercely. I squint up at it, wiping
the sweat pooling against my forehead and point. “What the fuck is
that?”
“Seriously? Can you shut up back there?” Dom growls.
“No seriously, what the fuck is that?” I stumble to a stop, and
everyone else does the same, looking up to where I’m pointing at
the black silhouettes circling the sun.
“Birds,” one of the banshees suggests.
“That’s not fucking birds. Too big. Besides, have you seen any
wildlife since we’ve been here?”
The silhouettes suddenly stop circling and dive-bomb straight
towards us.
Not fucking good.
Sia lets out a curse. “We need to move. Now!”
We start to run and panic sets in. I dare a peek up at the sky and
inhale sharply when they come closer, and I catch sight of them.
Vultures.
Half-metal, half-flesh. Their wings are boney expanses with
skeletal feathers and mangled skin for underbellies. About the sizes
of deranged wild horses, they head straight for us with their vicious
mouths open in whizzing shrieks that sounds like shredding metal.
 “Fuck! Run, run, run!” Sia tugs me closer, and my legs move
faster, but we aren’t fast enough for creatures this powerful. They
swoop down low, their bodies colliding against us with a force that
sends us all sprawling to the ground.
My palms sink into smelly goo, but I force myself not to think and
push myself to my feet, sinking deeper into mud, blood, and guts.
My sword is in my palm before I can think of anything else. Before I
register Sia’s shouts to look out or the shrill screams of the
banshees. A scream that marks death, or the subtle hint of my
Lady’s touch.
Then I feel pain.
It sears through my shoulders and down my spine. My whole
body arches, and I can’t help the cry of agony that rips through my
throat.
“Em!” Sia’s call pierces through the banshees’ screams of deadly
premonition.
I open my eyes through the stabbing noise just enough to see
Sia rushing towards me.
He doesn’t make it two feet in front of me.
Claws dig into my shoulders and yank me up. Next thing I know,
I’m rising . . . rising . . . rising. The ground drops away below me,
and my feet are dangling, helpless. Higher and higher the vulture
takes me, soaring through the sky.
Wind slaps at my face from this altitude, causing a rush of tears
to slide down my cheeks. I struggle for breath, my hand tightening
around the hilt of my sword. Instinct tells me to twist and slice
through this hybrid fucker’s metal claws, but the minute I do, I’ll fall
to my death.
Emmera! I hear Rue’s shriek of worry in my mind. It’s crazy that
through all of this, I smirk at the sound of my name in his voice.
The creature carrying me lets out a shrill shriek that drowns out
my musings. Fuck. I need to get out of this.
And there’s only one fucking way.
I look down. Even from here, I can make out the speck that is
Charizard, his wings spanning, preparing for flight.
“You better fucking catch me!” I scream.
 And I twist in the vulture’s grip, gritting my teeth as the pain
radiates through my body, but I’ve been through worse. My arm
muscles scream at me as I slice the blade of Damios through the
joints where metal meets flesh.
Claws slip from my body, wings rip back, and screeches ring
loudly in my ears. My sword slashes out again, this time slicing
through the vulture’s chest cavity. Just like that, the banshees stop
screaming, and I can no longer sense my Lady’s presence.
Death has come.
And then I’m falling from the sky.
My stomach clenches from the rapid rush of falling.
EMMERA!
I don’t know who screams my name. It’s drowned out by the
whistling rush of wind. I hold my breath, my heart pounds . . .
I collide against a body of solid flesh. Strong arms wrap around
me, and my eyes fly open to stare into Dom’s stern expression.
My forehead presses against his chest. “Thank fuck.”
I don’t want him to know how scared I was, but fuck, that was
insane.
I’m insane.
Our slow descent back to the earth gives my heart time to calm
its rapid beating. Once my feet touch the ground, Sia is pulling me
into his arms, fingers digging into the roots of my hair to the point
where pain and pleasure mesh. Then his lips are on mine. Fierce,
unyielding, his tongue dives past the seams of my lips to tangle
against my own.
“Don’t ever fucking do that aga—”
“I hate to interrupt your fucking lovefest, but there’s still more of
those things,” Dom interjects with annoyance. “We can’t fight them
all off. We need to move. Now.”
“Later,” I promise Sia. Our fingers thread together, and we’re
running. Weapons and magic, screams and claws all slash out
against the creatures that want us dead. We dodge our way around
them, running as fast as our exhausted limbs can carry us.
Some of the animals veer away and head towards a different
direction, until eventually they stop chasing us altogether.
 Still, we don’t stop. It’s too dangerous to do that here. To stop
means certain death, and no one has to say those words for us to
know it’s true.
Chère . . . Rue’s voice whispers through my mind.
“A little . . . busy at the . . . moment . . .” I pant out loud.
I feel you close. Don’t. They’ll kill you.
My feet trip up the hill we’re forcing ourselves over. With a grunt,
I find purchase with my boots, digging my heels into the slippery
slope, and climb, pumping one leg after the other.
When we make it to the top, my heart slams into my chest,
harder and harder. My instincts scream at me to run to him, to Styx.
He’s here. A wolf with a crimson collar around his neck that tells
us exactly what team he’s a part of. My enemy in these deadly
games, and yet my heart elates with happiness as I take him in.
Unharmed. Safe.
And this insane instinct inside of me urges me to run to him and
protect.
His body shifts to the side, and big dark eyes meet mine. Our
souls seem to fizzle, an invisible bond that unites us.
He whines and starts forward.
But before he can reach me, the banshees close in on him.
And they scream.
 FIVE

M y ear drums nearly shatter at the sound. Whatever discomfort I

may feel, it’s worse for Styx. He whimpers and drags his massive
wolf head across the ground, howling and scratching at his ears with
his paws.
I feel his pain through our bond, and my rage soars to new
heights.
How dare they? How fucking dare they harm what is mine!
I’m running, pushing myself between them and him, my sword
slicing across three different bodies, silencing their shrieks of death.
They stumble back, staring down at their oozing blood and then
back up at me, baring their sharp teeth.
“You treacherous bitch!” one of them snaps.
I place myself in front of Styx, holding my sword up. They will
not harm him. I never should have let them get that far.
“He’s the enemy!” another banshee hisses.
“Kill him before he kills us.” Her eyes shine as green as her wild
hair.
Just the thought has me seeing red and calling forth my Lady.
Because of those threats alone, they will die today, my sword will
taste their souls, and my Lady’s river will be ripe to the brim.
“Touch one hair on his body, and I will fucking end you.”
Adrenaline shakes through me so hard, it’s impossible to keep my
voice steady.
Another random document with
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 The B. Virgin and Isaias, from Cemetery of St. Priscilla.

Our Blessed Lady appears principally in the scene of the

Adoration of the Magi. Two, three, or four of these men (according to
the arrangement of the group and the space at the artist’s disposal)
stand in their Oriental dress, presenting their gifts to Christ who sits
on Mary’s knee. Once or twice also the Holy Child appears in His
Mother’s arms, or before her breast, without reference apparently to
any particular event in their lives, but either absolutely alone, or
standing opposite to Isaias, as though presenting in themselves the
fulfilment of his prophecies. One of these paintings in the Catacomb
on the Via Nomentana belongs to the fourth century; but for another
of far higher artistic merit, to be seen in the Catacomb of St. Priscilla,
the most competent judges do not hesitate to claim almost apostolic
antiquity; and the claim is supported by many and weighty
arguments. We cannot, however, discuss them here, for we have
already exceeded the limits we had proposed to ourselves.

The B. Virgin and Magi.

The B. Virgin, from the Cemetery on Via Nomentana.

In conclusion, we will give a slight sketch of the successive phases

in the development of Christian art within the limits of the first three
centuries; for, thanks to De Rossi’s almost microscopic examination
of every accessible corner of subterranean Rome, even this is now
possible. As each of these phases was derived from its predecessor
by a natural sequence of ideas, it is not pretended that they are
separated from one another by strict chronological boundaries which
are never transgressed; yet the characteristics of the several periods
are, in the main, sufficiently distinct to allow of their being followed as
safe guides in determining, at least approximately, the age of any
particular class, or even individual specimen of ornamentation.
We have already seen that primitive Christian art sprung out of an
alliance of ancient forms with new ideas; in its outward physiognomy
it proceeded directly, in point of style and method of execution, from
the school of Pagan decorative art, but it was animated by a new life;
and therefore it began at once to create a pictorial cycle for itself,
taken partly from historical and partly from allegorical materials. At
first the allegorical element greatly predominated. The fish and the
anchor, the lamb and the dove, the shepherd and the fisherman,
may be named as the most prominent examples; and all these
during the first, or, as it has been styled, the hieroglyphic or
ideographic period of Christian art, were characterised by the utmost
simplicity. The principal figure usually stood alone; the fisherman is
catching a fish, or the shepherd is carrying a sheep upon his
shoulders, and nothing more.
In the second period—i.e., from the middle of the second to the
middle of the third century—the Good Shepherd occurs less
frequently, and is represented less simply; he carries a goat, or he
plays his pipe; he stands amid trees in a garden, or in the midst of
his flock, and the several members of his flock stand in different
attitudes towards him, marking a difference of internal disposition.
Other figures also undergo similar changes; different emblems or
different typical histories are blended together, and the result is more
artistic; a more brilliant translation, so to speak, is thus given of the
same thoughts and ideas with which we have been familiar in a more
elementary form from the beginning. This change, or rather this
growth, was in truth only the natural result of time and of the pious
meditation of successive generations of Christians exercised upon
the history of their faith and upon the outward representations of its
mysteries, in which their forefathers had always delighted. The bud
had expanded, and the full-blown flower displayed new beauties—
beauties which had been there indeed before, but unseen. Thus we
meet again with the apostolic fisherman, but the river in which he
fishes is now a mystical river, formed by the waters which have
flowed from the rock struck by Moses. More Bible histories are made
use of; or, if not now introduced for the first time, are used more
frequently—the history of Daniel and of Jonas, the sacrifice of
Abraham, the resurrection of Lazarus, the healing of the paralytic at
Bethsaida, and others. And as all these histories have been
illustrated in the writings of cotemporary Fathers, the monuments
which represent them are of the highest value as an historical
expression of what Christians in those days believed and taught.
Both the writings and the paintings are evidently the faithful echo of
the same doctrinal teaching and tradition.

Glass from the Catacombs, now in Vatican Library.

 Then follows a third period in the history of Christian art, which, if
the first two have been justly compared to its spring and summer,
may itself be certainly called its autumn. It extends from the middle
of the third century to the age of Constantine; and during this period
there is a certain falling off of leaves, accompanied by a further
development of the flower, without, however, any addition to its
beauty. The symbolical element is sensibly diminished; what we
have ventured to call Christian hieroglyphics are almost or quite
abandoned; the parables also are less used, and even the historical
types are represented in a more hard and literal form. If Moses is still
seen striking the mystical rock, the literal or historical Moses is at his
side, taking off his shoes before drawing near to the burning bush; or
the Jews are there, in their low round caps, drinking of the waters; or
if it is desired to keep the mystical sense of the history before the
people, it is deemed necessary to inscribe the name of Petrus over
the head of Moses, as we see in two or three specimens of the
gilded glasses found in the Catacombs, and belonging probably to
the fourth century. Christ no longer appears as the Good Shepherd,
but sits or stands in the midst of His Apostles, or, still more
frequently, miraculously multiplies the loaves and fishes. The fish is
no longer the mystical monogram, “containing a multitude of
mysteries,” but appears only as a necessary feature in the
representation of this same miracle. Lazarus appears swathed like a
mummy, in accordance, as we know, with the fact; but earlier artists
had idealised him, and made him rise from the tomb young, free, and
active. The three children refusing to adore the image set up by
Nabuchodonosor are brought forward, and placed in juxtaposition
with the three wise men adoring the Infant Jesus, suggesting a
comparison, or rather a contrast, very suitable to the altered
circumstances of the times.
This last remark, however, must not be allowed to mislead us. We
must not imagine that the chronological sketch which has been here
attempted of the development of Christian art has been in any way
suggested by a consideration of what was likely to have been its
course in consequence of the history of the Christian society. The
sketch is really the result of a very careful induction from the
laborious researches which De Rossi has made into the chronology
of the several parts of the Catacombs; and if there proves to be a
correspondence between the successive variations of character in
the works of art that are found there, and the natural progress of the
Christian mind or the outward condition of the Christian Church,
these are purely “undesigned coincidences,” which may justly be
urged in confirmation of our conclusion, though they formed no part
of the premisses. We may venture also to add, that the conclusions
were as contrary to the preconceived opinion of their discoverer as
of the Christian world in general. Nothing but the overwhelming
evidence of facts has forced their acceptance; but from these there
is no escape. When it was found that the oldest areæ in the
cemeteries are precisely those that are richest in paintings, and
those in the best style, whereas in the more modern areæ the
paintings are less in number, poorer in conception, and inferior in
point of execution, it was impossible not to suspect the justice of the
popular belief, that the infant Church, engaged in deadly conflict with
idolatry, had rejected all use of the fine arts, and that it was only in a
later and less prudent age that they had crept, as it were,
unobservedly into her service; and as fresh and fresh evidence of
the same kind has been multiplied in the course of the excavations,
a complete revolution has at length been effected in public opinion
on this matter. Even Protestant writers no longer deny that, from the
very first, Christians ornamented their subterranean cemeteries with
painting; only they insist that this was done, “not because it was
congenial to the mind of Christianity so to illustrate the faith, but
because it was the heathen custom so to honour the dead.” If by this
it is only meant that Christians, though renewed interiorly by the
grace of baptism, yet continued, in everything where conscience was
not directly engaged, to live conformably to the usages of their
former life, and that to ornament the tombs of the dead had been
one of those usages—it is, of course, quite true. Nevertheless it is
plain from the history that has here been given, that the earliest
essays of Christian art were much more concerned with illustrating
the mysteries of the faith than with doing honour to the dead.
Our space will not allow, neither is it necessary, that we should
enter at any length into the history of Christian sculpture, since the
same general laws of growth presided over this as over painting. It
must be remembered, however, that sculpture was used much more
sparingly, and did not attain its full Christian development nearly so
soon as the sister art. There was no room for it in the Catacombs
except on the faces and sides of the sarcophagi, which were
sometimes used there for the burial of the dead; neither was it
possible to execute it with the same freedom as painting. The
painter, buried in the bowels of the earth, prosecuted his labours in
secret, and, therefore, in comparative security, without fear of any
intrusion from the profane; but the work of the sculptor was
necessarily more public; it could not even be conveyed from the city
to the cemetery without the help of many hands, and it must always
have run the risk of attracting a dangerous degree of general
attention. We are not surprised, therefore, at hearing that some of
those sarcophagi which are found in the most ancient parts of the
Catacombs seem rather to have been purchased from Pagan
workshops than executed by Christians; those, for instance, on
which are figured scenes of pastoral life, of farming, of the vintage,
or of the chase, genii, dolphins, or other subjects equally harmless.
Sometimes it might almost seem as though the subjects had been
suggested by a Christian, but their Christian character blurred in the
execution by some Pagan hand, which added a doubtful or
unmeaning accessory,—e.g., a dog at the side of the shepherd. On
some others there are real Pagan subjects, but these were either
carefully defaced by the chisel, or covered up with plaster, or hidden
from sight by being turned towards the wall.

Sarcophagus still to be seen in the Cemetery of San Callisto.

 Very ancient Sarcophagus, found in Crypt of St. Lucina.

When, however, in progress of time, all fear of danger was past,

the same series of sacred subjects as are seen in the fresco-
paintings of the second and third centuries is reproduced in the
marble monuments of the fourth and fifth; only they appear, of
course, in their later, and not in their earlier form; often even in a still
more developed and literally historical form than in any of the
subterranean paintings. Thus Adam and Eve no longer stand alone,
one on either side of the fatal tree, but the Three Persons of the Holy
Trinity are introduced in the work of creation and the promise of
redemption. Adam receives a wheat sheaf, in token that as a
punishment for his sin he shall till the ground, and to Eve a lamb is
presented, the spinning of whose wool is to be part of her labour.
Daniel does not stand alone in the lions’ den, but Habacuc is there
also, bearing in his hand bread, and sometimes fish, for the
prophet’s sustenance. To the resurrection of Lazarus the figure of
one of his sisters is added, kneeling at our Lord’s feet, as though
petitioning for the miracle. Our Lord stands between St. Peter and
St. Paul, and He gives to one of them a volume, roll, or tablet,
representing the new law of the Gospel. On the gilded glasses which
belong to the same period the legend is added, Lex Domini, or
Dominus legem dat. The Apostles are distinguished, the one as the
Apostle of the Jews, the other of the Gentiles; and even two small
temples or churches are added, out of which sheep are coming forth;
and over one is written Jerusalem, and over the other Bethlehem.
This is a scene with which we are familiar in the grand old mosaics
of the Roman Basilicas, a further development of Christian art, to
which, as far as the choice of subjects is concerned and the mode of
executing them, the sculpture may be considered a sort of
intermediate step after the decline of painting.

Glass in the Vatican Library.

Representing Christ between SS. Peter and Paul; also Christ as the Lamb, and the
faithful as Lambs—Jews and Gentiles coming from Jerusalem and Bethlehem
(Becle) to Mount Sion, whence flow the four Evangelical Streams, united in the
Mystical Jordan.

We may still further add, that the cycle of scriptural subjects was
somewhat enlarged by the sculptors; at least, we do not know of any
paintings in the Catacombs which represent our Lord giving sight to
the blind, or raising the dead child to life, or healing the woman who
touched the hem of His garment; or His nativity, His triumphant entry
into Jerusalem, or certain scenes of His Passion; yet all these, and
some others besides, may be seen carved on the old Christian
monuments collected in the Lateran Museum at Rome and
elsewhere. The sarcophagus which has the representation of the
Nativity, and with the traditional ox and ass by the manger, has its
own date upon it, a.d. 343; but, as we are not here writing a
complete history of Christian art, it must suffice to have given this
general idea of its earliest efforts both in painting and sculpture.
 CHAPTER VI.
THEIR INSCRIPTIONS.

What student of antiquity, or what merely intelligent observer of

men and manners, is content to leave an old church or churchyard
without first casting his eye over its monumental inscriptions? In like
manner, we think our readers would justly complain if we bade them
take leave of the Catacombs without saying a word about their
epitaphs. And if the study of any considerable number of epitaphs
anywhere is pretty sure to be rewarded by the discovery of
something more or less interesting, how much more have we not a
right to expect from the monuments of Roman Christianity during a
period of three or four hundred years!
And truly, if all these monuments had been preserved and
gathered together into one place, or, better still, had all been left in
their original places, they would have formed an invaluable and
inexhaustible library for the Christian archæologist. This, however,
has not been their lot. Hundreds and thousands of them have been
destroyed by those who have broken into the Catacombs from time
to time during the last thousand years, and drawn from them
materials for building. Others, again, and amongst them some of the
most valuable, have been given to learned antiquarians or devout
ecclesiastics, who coveted them for their own private possession,
and carried them off to their own distant homes, without reflecting
upon the grievous injury which they were thus inflicting upon those
that should come after them. A much larger number have been most
injudiciously placed, even by persons who knew their value, and
were anxious for their preservation, in the pavements of Roman
churches, where they have been either gradually effaced by the
constant tread of worshippers, or thoughtlessly removed and lost
sight of on occasion of some subsequent restoration of this portion of
the church. A few have been more securely placed in the museums
of the Capitol and of the Roman College, in the porticoes of some of
the Roman churches, or in the cloisters of convents. Lastly, twelve or
thirteen hundred were brought together, some eighty or ninety years
ago, in the Library and Lapidarian Gallery at the Vatican—a number
sufficiently great to enable us to appreciate their value, and to
increase our regret that so many more should have been dispersed
and lost.
It is to the sovereign Pontiffs that we are principally indebted for
whatever fragments have been preserved from the general wreck.
As early as the middle of the fifteenth century, Pope Nicholas V.
seems to have entertained the idea of collecting all the lapidarian
monuments of early Christianity which had at that time been
discovered; and both Eugenius IV., his immediate predecessor, and
Calixtus III. who succeeded him, forbade, under heavy penalties, the
alienation or destruction of anything belonging to this class of
monuments. When Leo X., too, appointed Raphael to superintend
the works at the rebuilding of St. Peter’s, he gave him a special
charge that the res lapidaria should not be injured. In later times,
these injunctions became more earnest and more frequent, in
proportion to the increasing number and importance of the
inscriptions that were brought to light. Still nothing practical appears
to have been devised until the reign of Benedict XIV., who appointed
the learned Francesco Bianchini to collect all the inscribed stones
that could be found; and it was he who recommended the long
narrow gallery leading to the Vatican Library and Museum as a
convenient place for their preservation. Even then political and other
difficulties interfered to prevent the execution of the design, so that it
was not until the close of the last century that it was really carried out
by Gaetano Marini, under the orders of Pope Pius VI. It is to be
regretted that he took so little pains to make the most of such
materials as he had. He merely inserted the monuments in the wall,
without giving any indication of the places where they had been
found, or making any attempts to classify them, beyond separating
the few which contain the names of the consuls from those which are
without this chronological note. A small selection has since been
made, in our own day, by De Rossi, in obedience to the orders of
Pope Pius IX., and placed in a gallery of the Lateran Palace,
adjoining the Christian Museum. The arrangement of these
specimens (few as they are, comparatively speaking) makes it a
valuable guide to those who would study this part of our subject to
any profit.
The collections at the Vatican and the Lateran together do not
exceed two thousand. Hundreds of others, recovered by more recent
excavations, have not yet found a suitable home; many have been
left in their original sites. Still it will always remain true that the
number actually in existence is quite insignificant when compared
with those which have been destroyed or lost. A large proportion,
however, even of these have not altogether perished; they were
copied, not always with accuracy, yet with praiseworthy diligence, by
various scholars, even from the eighth and ninth centuries; and since
the invention of printing, similar collections have been, of course,
more frequent. We need not enter into any detailed account of these;
we will say but a brief word even about De Rossi’s collection, for as
yet he has only published the first volume, which contains all the
Christian inscriptions of Rome during the first six centuries, whose
date is indisputably fixed by the names of the consuls having been
appended to them.
Of these, only one belongs to the first century, two to the second,
the third supplies twenty, and the fourth and fifth about five hundred
each. Of this last century, of course, only those which belong to the
first ten years can be claimed for the Catacombs, because, as we
have already seen, they ceased after that period to be the common
cemetery of the faithful. It appears, then, that all the dated
inscriptions of gravestones found in the Catacombs up to the year
1864 do not amount to six hundred: whence some writers have
argued that in the earliest ages Christians were not in the habit of
inscribing epitaphs on their graves. This conclusion, however, is
obviously illogical; for we have no right to assume that the proportion
between dated and undated inscriptions remained uniform during the
first four centuries. If there are only six hundred epitaphs bearing the
names of consuls, there are more than twice as many thousands
without those names; and we must seek, by independent processes
of inquiry, to establish other chronological criteria, which, if not
equally exact, may yet be shown to be generally trustworthy. And
this is what De Rossi has done, with a zeal tempered by caution
which is beyond all praise. It would be impossible to exaggerate,
first, the slow and patient industry with which he has accumulated
observations; then the care and assiduity with which he compares
the innumerable examples he has collected with one another, so as
to ascertain their marks of resemblance and difference; and finally,
the moderation with which he has drawn his conclusions. These vary
in value, from mere conjecture to the highest degree of probability, or
even of moral certainty. In a popular work like this, there is no room
for discussion; we must confine ourselves to a statement of some of
the best ascertained and most important facts, resting upon certain
chronological canons, which a daily increasing experience warrants
us in saying are now demonstrated with palpable and almost
mathematical exactness.
First, then, De Rossi observes it as a notable fact, attested by the
contents of all the Catacombs, that the most ancient inscriptions on
Christian tombs differ from those of the Pagans “more by what they
do not say, than by what they do say.” The language of Christian
epigraphy was not created in a day any more than Christian art was.
There were urgent reasons for changing or omitting what the Pagans
had been wont to use; but the Church did not at once provide
anything else in its stead. Hence the very earliest Christian
tombstones only recorded the bare name or names of the deceased,
to which, in a very few instances, chiefly of ladies, one or two words,
or the initials of words, were added, to denote the rank or title which
belonged to them—e.g., C.F., clarissima femina, or lady of senatorial
rank. Generally speaking, however, there is an entire absence from
these epitaphs of all those titles of rank and dignity with which Pagan
monuments are so commonly overloaded. And the same must be
said of those titles also which belong to the other extremity of the
social scale, such as servus and libertus. One cannot study a dozen
monuments of Pagan Rome without coming across some trace of
this great social division of the ancient world into freemen and
slaves. Yet in a number of Christian inscriptions in Rome, exceeding
twelve or thirteen thousand, and all belonging to centuries during
which slavery still flourished, scarcely ten have been found—and
even two or three of these are doubtful—containing any allusion
whatever to this fundamental division of ancient Roman society. It is
not to be supposed that there was any legislation upon the subject;
not even, perhaps, a hint from the clergy; it was simply the
spontaneous effect of the religious doctrines of the new society,
reflected in their epigraphy as in a faithful mirror. The children of the
Primitive Church did not record on their monuments titles of earthly
dignity, because they knew that with the God whom they served
there was no respect of persons; neither did they care to mention the
fact of their bondage, or of their deliverance from bondage, to some
earthly master, because they thought only of that higher and more
perfect liberty “wherewith Christ had set them free;” remembering
that “he that was called, being a bondman, was yet a freeman of the
Lord; and likewise he that was called, being free, was still the
bondman of Christ.”
We repeat, then, that the most ancient inscriptions on Christian
gravestones in Rome consisted merely of the name of the deceased;
ordinarily his cognomen only, though in some of the very earliest
date the name of the gens was also added; not, we may be sure,
from a motive of vanity, but merely for the purpose of identification.
Large groups of inscriptions of this kind may still be seen in some of
the oldest portions of subterranean Rome; traced in vermilion on the
tiles, as in the Catacomb of Sta. Priscilla, or engraved in letters of
most beautiful classical form, as in the Cœmeterium Ostrianum and
the Cemetery of Pretextatus. The names are often of classical origin;
nearly a hundred instances of Claudii, Flavii, Ulpii, Aurelii, and others
of the same date, carrying us back to the period between Nero and
the first of the Antonines. Very often there is added after the names,
as on Pagan tombstones, such words as filio dulcissimo, conjugi
dulcissimo, or, incomparabili, dulcissimis parentibus, and nothing
else. In fact, these epitaphs vary so little from the old classical type,
that had they not been seen by Marini and other competent
witnesses—some of them even by De Rossi himself—in their original
position, and some of them been marked with the Christian symbol
of the anchor, we might have hesitated whether they ought not rather
to be classed among Pagan monuments; as it is, we are sure that
they belonged to the earliest Christian period; that they are the
gravestones of men who died in the Apostolic, or immediately post-
Apostolic age.
 It was not to be expected, however, that Christian epitaphs should
always remain so brief and bare a record. In the light of Christian
doctrine, death had altogether changed its character; it was no
longer an everlasting sleep, though here and there a Christian
epitaph may still be found to call it so; it was no longer a final and
perpetual separation from those who were left behind; it was
recognised as the necessary gate of admission to a new and nobler
life; and it was only likely, therefore, that some tokens of this change
of feeling and belief should, sooner or later, find expression in the
places where the dead were laid. Amid the almost innumerable
monumental inscriptions of Pagan Rome that have been preserved
to us, we seek in vain for any token of belief in a future life. Generally
speaking, there is a total silence on the subject; but if the silence is
broken, it is by faint traces of poetical imagery, not by the distinct
utterances of a firm hope, much less of a clear and certain belief.
The Christian epitaphs first broke this silence by the frequent use of
a symbol, the anchor indicating hope, carved or rudely scratched
beside the name upon the gravestone. Presently they added words
also; words which were the natural outpourings of hearts which were
full of Christian faith and love. On a few gravestones in those parts of
the Catacomb of Sta. Priscilla already spoken of, we read the
Apostolic salutation, Pax tecum, or Pax tibi; on one in the
Cœmeterium Ostrianum, Vivas in Deo, and these are the first germs,
out of which Christian epigraphy grew.
The epitaphs on the gravestones of the latter half of the second
and of the third centuries are only a development of the fundamental
ideas contained in these ejaculations. They still keep silence as to
the worldly rank, or the Christian virtues of the deceased; they do not
even, for the most part, tell us anything as to his age, or his
relationship to the survivor who sets up the stone; most commonly,
not even the day of his death or burial. But they announce with
confident assurance that his soul has been admitted to that happy lot
reserved for the just who have left this world in peace, that he is
united with the saints, that he is in God, and in the enjoyment of
good things; or they breathe a humble and loving prayer that he may
soon be admitted to a participation in these blessings. They ask for
the departed soul peace, and light, and refreshment, and rest in God
and in Christ. Sometimes, also, they invoke the help of his prayers
(since he, they know, still lives in God) for the surviving relatives
whose time of trial is not yet ended. In a word, they proceed upon
the assumption that there is an incessant interchange of kindly
offices between this world and the next, between the living and the
dead; they represent all the faithful as living members of one Body,
the Body of Christ; as forming one great family, knit together in the
closest bonds of love; and this love finding its chief work and
happiness in prayer, prayer of the survivors for those who have gone
before, prayer of the blessed for those who are left behind. We
subjoin a few examples of the class of epitaphs of which we speak;
and to secure accuracy, we will only give those that we have
ourselves copied from the originals, and which every visitor to Rome
may, therefore, still see if he pleases. The figures which we have
appended to some of these inscriptions denote the column and the
number under which they will be found in the gallery at the Lateran;
the letters k.m. refer to the Kircherian Museum at the Roman
College; and the last four may be seen where they were found, in the
Catacomb of SS. Nereus and Achilles.

1. Pax tecum, Urania, xviii. 17.

2. Spes, Pax tibi. xviii. 20.
3. ΥΓΙΕΙΑ ΖΗΣΕΣ ΜΕΤΑ ΙΣΤΕΡΚΟΡΙΟΥ
ΤΟΥ ΛΕΓΟΜΕΝΟΥ ΥΓΕΙΝΟΥ ΕΝ ΤΕΩ. xix. 23.
4. ΦΙΓΟΥΜΕΝΗ ΕΝ ΕΙΡΗΝΗ ΣΟΥ ΤΟ ΠΝΕΥΜΑ. ix. 28.
5. Lais cum pace. Ispiritus in bonu quescat. ix. 15.
6. Susanna vivas in Deo. xx. 30.
7. Semper in D. vivas, Dulcis anima. ix. 5.
8. Regina, vivas in Domino Zesu. ix. 17.
9. Bolosa, Deus tibi refrigeret quæ vixit annos xxxi. ix. 12.
10. Amerimnus Rufinæ ... Spiritum tuum Deus refrigeret. ix.
13.
11. Refrigera Deus anima Ho.... ix. 14.
12. Kalemere Deus refrigeret spiritum tuum
Una cum sororis tuæ Hilare. k. m.
13. Lucifere ... meruit titulum
 Inscribi ut quisqui de fratribus legerit roget Deu
Ut sancto et innocenti spirito ad Deum suscipiatur. ix.
10.
14. Anatolius filio benemerenti fecit
Qui vixit annis vii mensis vii diebus xx
Ispiritus tuus bene requiescat
In Deo. Petas pro sorore tua. viii. 19.
15. Aurelivs agapetvs et aurelia
Felicissima alvmne felicitati
Dignissimæ qve vicsit anis xxx et vi
Et pete pro celsinianv cojvgem. viii. 21.
16. Pete pro parentes tvos
Matronata matrona
Qve vixit an. i. di. Liii. viii. 18.
17. ΔΙΟΝΥϹΙΟϹ ΝΗΠΙΟϹ ΑΚΑΚΟϹ ΕΝΘΑΔΕ
ΚΕΙΤΕ ΜΕΤΑ ΤΩΝ ΑΓΙΩΝ ΜΝΗϹΚΕϹΘΕ
ΔΕ ΚΑΙ ΗΜΩΝ ΕΝ ΤΑΙϹ ΑΓΙΑΙϹ ΥΜΩΝ
ΠΡΕΥΧΑΙϹ ΚΑΙ ΤΟΥ ΓΛΥΨΑΤΟϹ ΚΑΙ ΓΡΑΨΑΝΤΟϹ. k. m.
18. Gentianvs fidelis in pace qvi vix
It annis xxi menns viii dies
Xvi et in orationis tvis
Roges pro nobis qvia scimvs te in ☧. (Vatican Gallery.)
19. ΔΗΜΗΤΡΙϹ ΕΤ ΛΕΟΝΤΙΑ
ϹΕΙΡΙΚΕ ΦΕΙΛΙΕ ΒΕΝΕΜΕΡΕΝ
ΤΙ ΜΝΗϹΘΗϹ ΙΗϹΟΥϹ
Ο ΚΥΡΙΟϹ ΤΕΚΝΟΝ Ε....
20. Victoria refriger
Isspiritus tus in bono.
21. ... vibas in pace et pete pro nobis.
22. ΖΗϹΑΙϹ ΕΝ ̅Κ̅Ω ΚΑΙ ΕΡΩΤΑ ΥΠΕΡ ΗΜΩΝ.

1. Peace with thee, Urania.

2. Peace to thee, Spes.
3. Hygeia, mayest thou live in God with Stercorius, who is (also)
called Hyginus.
4. Beloved one, may thy spirit be in peace.
 5. Peace with thee, Lais. May thy spirit rest in good [i.e., God].
6. Susanna, mayest thou live in God.
7. Sweet soul, mayest thou always live in God.
8. Regina, mayest thou live in the Lord Jesus.
9. Bolosa, may God refresh thee; who lived thirty-one years.
10. Amerimnus ... to Rufina, may the Lord refresh thy spirit.
11. Refresh, O God, the soul of ...
12. Kalemere, may God refresh thy spirit, together with that of thy
sister Hilare.
13. Lucifera ... deserved that an epitaph should be inscribed to
her, that whoever of the brethren shall read it, may pray
God that her holy and innocent spirit may be received to
God.
14. Anatolius set this up to his well-deserving son, who lived
seven years, seven months, and twenty days. May thy
spirit rest well in God. Pray for thy sister.
15. Aurelius Agapetus and Aurelia Felicissima to their most
excellent foster-child Felicitas, who lived thirty-six years;
and pray for your husband Celsinianus.
16. Pray for your parents, Matronata Matrona, who lived one year
and fifty-three days.
17. Dionysius, an innocent child, lies here with the saints: and
remember us, too, in your holy prayers, both me who
engraved and me who wrote [this inscription].
18. Gentianus, one of the faithful, in peace, who lived twenty-one
years, eight months, and sixteen days: and in your
prayers make petition for us, because we know that thou
art in Christ.
19. Demetrius and Leontia to their well-deserving daughter
Syrica. Remember, O Lord Jesus, our child.
20. Victoria, may thy spirit be refreshed in good [i.e., in God].
21. Mayest thou live in peace and pray for us.
22. Mayest thou live in the Lord and pray for us.

It would be easy to fill several pages with inscriptions of this kind;

but enough has been produced to impress upon the reader a fair
idea of their general character. They abound on the monuments of
the second and third centuries; but after that date they fade out of
use, and are succeeded by a new style of epigraphy, colder and
more historical. Mention is now made of the exact age of the
deceased, and of the length of his married life, not as to years only,
but as to months, and sometimes even as to days and hours; of the
day of his death also, more commonly of his burial, and, in a few
instances, of both. To record the day of the burial (depositio) was
creeping into use before the end of the third century; from the middle
of the fourth, it became little short of universal; and in this century
and the next, mention of the year also was frequently added. During
this period, the phrase in pace became general, as a formula to be
used by itself absolutely without any verb at all. In old Christian
inscriptions in Africa, this phrase frequently occurs with the verb vixit;
in which case the word pax is undoubtedly used in the same sense
in which Tertullian, St. Cyprian, and other ecclesiastical writers
employ it, as denoting peace with God to be obtained through
communion with the Church; and in a community distracted by
schisms and heresies, as the African Church was, such a record on
the tomb of a Christian is intelligible and important. Not so in Rome;
here the purport of the thousands of greetings of peace has
reference to the peace of a joyful resurrection and a happy eternity,
whether spoken of with confidence as already possessed, or only
prayed for with glad expectation. The act of death had been
expressed in earlier epitaphs under Christian phrases:—Translatus
de sæculo; exivit de sæculo; arcessitus a Domino, or ab angelis;
natus in æternum; or, much more commonly, Deo reddidit spiritum;
and this last phrase had come into such established use by the
middle of the third century, that the single letter R was a recognised
abbreviation of it. But, in the second half of that century, and still
more frequently afterwards decessit was used in its stead; and in the
fifth century we find this again superseded by Hic jacet, pausat,
quiescit, or requiescit.
Complimentary phrases as to the goodness, wisdom, innocence,
and holiness of the deceased came into fashion about the age of
Constantine, and in later times were repeated with such uniformity
as to be quite wearisome; we see that they were simply formal and