He stopped short.
The door was not open. It lay in pieces, metal hinges squealing on broken boards. Massive, dirty prints spotted the floor at his feet. Its elongated toes reminded him of a
timber wolf or mastiff, but such creatures did not roam the hills above Lisbon. This was an animal never classified, never catalogued, never displayed in museums to gather dust. This was a thing that should not exist.
The musky fragrance of blood filled his nostrils. He froze.
“I can see you,” he lied.
The dark behind Herculano’s tomb took a breath.
Aaaaaand there goes all hopes of me getting a good night sleep tonight.