Van bent to read the museum label. Murderous Martha and her dungeon of fun. Van turned closer and peered at the figure. She crinkled her nose. The statue smelled like wet dirt and dried blood. She looked so life-like—
Martha leaped off the chair, cackling.
Van jumped back, her eyes wide.
The woman swung the meat hook like a lasso.
Van scrambled to get away, nearly tripping on her own feet, and raced down another corridor.
She stopped short when she entered a room with a plump child about nine or ten sitting in a chair. Not a wax figure. A live child.
Scribbled handwriting on the wall read Jacob’s Play Room.
The room was cluttered with wooden toys—trains, dollhouses, horses—and had stacked cages filled with either a live cat or a dog. The animal’s eyes expressed sorrow, their bodies, bone thin. None made any cries for escape like they had been trapped for years and were resigned to their fate.
There was so much to look at, it took Van a moment to realize the boy clutched the legs of a headless chicken. The chicken’s body dangled from his hand, the white feathers around its severed neck were stained red, the fresh cut dripped with blood. The neck twitched as if the bird were not yet dead.
With his other hand, the boy ate the chicken’s head.
He smiled at Van with blood-drenched teeth.
Van’s hand sprung to her mouth as she gagged. She dashed down another corridor in a mad frenzy to escape the funhouse.
She stumbled into another poorly lit room. She heard something shuffle behind her.
Van twisted around. “Who’s there?”
Through the darkness emerged a man dressed in a white and orange polka dotted romper, with a red and white painted face that exaggerated his features. He wore a thick, orange wig and rushed at Van, wielding a bloody machete. He laughed, high-pitched and maniacal.
Van, too terrified to scream, let out a squeak, turned, and dashed away.
The madman chased her. His laughter echoed down the corridor.
She stumbled into a room where a heavy-duty, plastic clown’s head occupied one wall. The clown’s opened mouth formed a passage into another chamber. With the machete-wielding psycho close behind, Van had no choice. She dashed through the mouth of the plastic clown.
She came to a chamber. Painted on the wall were the words Cotton Candy’s Dining Room. There were human-sized pink pods scattered about that looked like they were made with the spun sugar strands from a cotton candy machine. She heard moaning coming from several of the pods and saw moving lumps pushing against the sides. The clown had trapped people inside the cotton candy pods, the same way a spider wraps its prey in a cobweb, and they were trying to get out.
Van gasped. The hair on her arms stood on end.
Echoes of the clown’s skin-crawling laughter ricocheted off the walls.
She rushed out of Cotton Candy’s lair and down another corridor. Her legs flailed in the air as the floor gave way and she fell through a trap door.
With a thud, she landed on her back, perfectly fitting into a cushioned wood coffin.
Before the coffin’s lid slammed closed, she saw the oddest thing.
Spectators.
They sat in tiered seats surrounding a central space, looking down at her. Van figured the viewing area spanned the entire floor plan of the funhouse, including the room where Van lay in the coffin.
The spectators wore metal goggle-like glasses and peered through, what must have been, a bewitched glass ceiling, watching Van and most likely the others as they fought a battle of life or death trying to escape the funhouse.
Right now Van couldn’t see anything. There was no light in the coffin. She banged her palms against the cushioned lid. It was sealed shut. She used her fists to pound against the coffin’s sides. She kicked with her feet as best she could with the little space available.
The fall caused her injured side to ache, and the movement made it worse.
Who cares, I’m trapped in a coffin!
She was going to die—a long uncomfortable death—her muscles cramped—she needed to stretch—right now—but couldn’t—she needed air—I can’t breathe—I’m trapped—
Stop.
She turned inward and halted her racing thoughts. She took control of her breathing and gathered her wits.
She listened, and couldn’t hear any sounds. She was alone.
Think!
Van could only move a few inches in any direction without hitting the sides of the wooden box. The claustrophobia was enough to drive her insane. Perhaps that’s what Willie wanted—for Van to go crazy and become a permanent figure in his house of horrors.
She thought back to when Willie gave them a choice between the two doors. Now, she realized one door led into the funhouse, the other went to the seats of the spectators. Without this prior knowledge, the choice was a roll of the dice, a gamble as to your fate.
The boy eating the chicken’s head entered Van’s thoughts, and she began to gag.
The air was so thick, she couldn’t breathe—there’s no air—I’m suffocating—it’s so dark—I’m going to die. She gagged again. And again. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it was suffocating her. I can’t breathe—
Stop!
Van took a deep breath and cleared her thoughts.
It’s okay. I can find a way out. How? Think. How?
She could blast her way out if Ferox hadn’t taken her Coin…
Frustrated, she beat her fists against the sides of the coffin.
Okay. Relax. There has to be a way out.
She didn’t have the Coin but what did she have?
The jackknife Brux had given her!
She fumbled in her pocket, grasped the knife, and took it out. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the blade and locked it into position.
Van used her fingertips to feel the groove formed by where the lid met the side of the coffin and ran her fingers along it, as far as she could reach.
She felt metal bumps—a latch—near her head.
Van frantically tore away the silky fabric lining the coffin’s interior around the latch. She stuck the blade of the jackknife sideways into the joint and wriggled the knife, not knowing what she was doing, trying to jimmy the lock.
Her efforts seemed futile. She got frustrated again and repeatedly rammed the knife into the groove, hoping it would break the latch.
She heard a click and pushed the top upward.
It lifted by about six inches, light and air rushed into the coffin.
Air!
But another latch down by her ankles held the lid closed.
Given the limited mobility inside the coffin, Van couldn’t bend down and reach that spot.
She focused on the semi-open section, near her head, and used all her strength to push the cover open, praying sheer force would snap the other latch, or break the lid itself.
Her efforts gained her about a foot of space, but the section by her ankles remained locked.
Van couldn’t fit her whole body through the opening—she didn’t care. She squeezed her face and hands through it, anyway.
She rocked her body, throwing her weight against the side of the coffin as she shoved her head and hands into the narrow gap.
Her movement caused the coffin to wobble. It seemed to be elevated on a flimsy narrow table.
Every time Van pounded her body against the coffin’s side, the box swayed.
Again and again, she rocked her body, smashing it against the side.
The table gave way.
Van crashed to the floor, along with the coffin; the sides smashed apart, the lid popped open. Her flank laceration streamed blood from the trauma of the fall.
Van crawled away from the busted coffin and laid curled on the floor, clasping her flank. She saw her jackknife, snatched it, and shoved it into her jacket pocket.
She looked up and saw the spectators—blurred images through the glassy-looking ceiling. They stirred. Van glimpsed c
oins changing hands and knew they were placing bets. Who would make it out of the funhouse alive, who would go crazy? Who would make it out first, last, or never? Wagers on her and the other’s misfortune or death.
No wonder Willie let them in for free. He probably hoped they would choose the funhouse and provide entertainment. If not, they would be spectators, and perhaps buy refreshments and make bets. Either way, he would benefit.
“You’re despicable,” Van shouted at the spectators.
With some effort, she got to her feet. Clutching her bleeding flank, she jogged out the coffin room and down another corridor.
She entered a chamber filled with funhouse mirrors.
“Van?”
“Brux?” Van caught sight of him.
He appeared blurred. No, wait—it was his reflection in one of the mirrors.
Van dashed over hoping to find him. Her eyes darted from mirror to mirror. All she saw was multiple images of her distorted reflection staring back at her.
She peered into the mirror where she thought she saw Brux’s reflection.
Her own image gazed back. Van glimpsed a shadowy figure scurry behind her.
She twisted around and saw nothing but mirror after mirror.
Maniacal laughter filled the room.
She hurried away, dodging the mirrors, trying to find a way out of the room.
She caught sight of Brux again and ran to that mirror.
“Brux!” She placed her hands on the glass, but the frame was empty.
She heard the scuffling getting closer to her and hastily stepped through the mirror, hoping to find Brux.
Van was back in the room she had first encountered when entering the wax museum, the one with the wax figures of the warriors from the Dark War.
She dashed to the wall with the door they had entered through, hoping to find an exit. She ran her hands up and down and felt nothing but smooth wall.
Van sighed.
Her injury ached. She was tired. No way was she going back down the corridor into the funhouse.
She scanned the wax figures and went over to the sculpture of Zurial.
“Help me,” she said to the figure.
Every cell in Van’s body tugged at her as if the figure were pulling her into it, consuming her, wanting her to become embalmed in wax forever, like her.
Van heard something behind her and twisted around—that damn clown again!
Without thinking, she stepped backward, bumping into the wax figure of Zurial.
Van pivoted, startled.
The figure smashed into the wall and bounced forward, hitting Van in the face.
She stumbled as the wax figure toppled and fell on her. They both crashed to the floor.
All at once Van’s nose stung, her flank injury throbbed, and her vision blurred.
Then, everything turned black…
Chapter 30
Nick’s hands wrapped around Zurial’s neck.
She feared for a moment, not of being strangled to death, but of how the love of her life was about to break her heart.
He released his hands and glided them over her jaw to her cheeks and into her hair. He gently caressed her scalp.
“I could never hurt you, my angel.” His lips touched hers.
Zurial turned away. “But I am a Lodian princess. Nick—you are a royal Bale.”
He smiled. “Not a royal—the royal.” He reached out his hand to her for an introductory handshake. “Prince Manik Moore.”
Zurial gasped and stepped aside. “The heir to the Balish throne?”
Terror gripped her heart. She feared not for her life, but for threat against their newfound love. They could never be together. Their differences were too great.
“There are no worries, my angel.” He clasped her shoulders. “It does not change anything about us. But we have much to talk about…later.” He leaned in, his lips caressed hers.
The image blurred. Zurial took Van through a montage of their days enjoying unbridled love and healing that took place in and around the Mother Tree.
The fragmented images stopped.
“It has been weeks. We have to tell our parents,” Manik said. “It is time.”
“Yes, they must be worried about us,” Zurial said. “But they will never understand.” She desired to stay in the Mother Tree, to hold on to their bliss a little longer.
“If you can heal wounds, you don’t have to fight,” Manik said. “We will help our families heal old wounds, just as you have healed me.”
“From what I have heard, emotions are something your brother Goustav will never comprehend.”
“Then we will teach him—teach them all—a lesson in harnessing emotions to show strength not force.”
Zurial nodded. She mustered the courage and mentally prepared herself to go through with their plans. “I must cease my selfish desire to stay by your side and let you go to your family alone.” She slid her hands up Manik’s chest. “Your father. He is the key to our truce—and marriage. How will he take the news?”
“Our marriage will end the war. If my father cannot see this as a contract for peace benefitting both sides, then the future of both our tribes will be in jeopardy.” He cupped Zurial’s face in his hands.“I will gladly give up my kingdom for you.”
The image blurred. Van knew this meant Zurial, again, moved her forward through time.
The vision cleared.
Manik and Zurial stood in the forest at the edge of Lodestar Village.
“Perhaps we should not part?” Zurial knew Manik must head back to Balefire alone. They needed to speak with their families individually, for each other’s safety.
Manik carried the Sword of Swords, Zurial the Cup of Life. They had decided that Manik would take the Sword and Zurial would take the Cup so both sides would have a powerful weapon. For each to return home with an item would be seen by their families as an act of good faith.
Zurial loved Manik enough that even if he also kept the Cup, she would trust him.
Van experienced another blur.
Zurial entered a pillared room made of white marble inside Lodestar, in the wing where her family lived.
Her father, King Halldor and her sister, Amaryl rushed into the room. They embraced Zurial, happy for her safe return and even more overjoyed that she had brought them the Cup.
“Where is mother?” Amaryl asked.
Zurial’s eyes darted to the floor, and she shook her head.
“The rumors are true,” King Halldor said, looking grief stricken. “But, we had hoped…”
Amaryl’s eyes filled with tears.
“The Anchoress light has passed to your sister,” King Halldor said to Zurial, keeping a brave face. “She is now queen.”
Zurial turned to Amaryl. “The others?”
“Rowen survived,” Amaryl said. “And so did Romet.”
Despite the pain, Zurial felt over the loss of her mother, she felt relieved over the safe return of her sister’s husband and his brother.
“Do we have the Coin?” Zurial asked.
King Halldor beamed. “We have the Coin and now the Cup.” Then, his face grew darker. “Which leads us to presume the Balish possess both the Sword and the Staff.”
“Romet had no idea what happened to you.” Amaryl placed a tender hand on Zurial’s shoulder. “He came back to us severely injured by a Balish royal who had taken the Sword from him, only to find that you had not yet arrived. We all feared you had been captured by the Balish.”
“Speaking of the Sword and being captured by the Balish…” Zurial’s stomach knotted. “I have something to tell you—”
A pungent smell tore Van from her vision.
She gasped, choking. It smelled like ammonia and burned her nostrils and the back of her throat.
Her eyes popped open to see Ferox kneeling over her. He held an ampule that had been cracked in half.
“Get away from her.” Brux roughly grabbed Ferox by the shoulder.
“It’s spirit of h
artshorn,” Daisy said.
“Take it easy.” Ferox held up his hands. “Daisy’s right. I’m trying to help.”
“Wh-what happened?” Van rested on the wood-planked sidewalk outside the “fun” house.
“Lucky my men were here,” Ferox said, still bending over Van with the hartshorn ampule. “Otherwise, you’d be casualties of the funhouse. One of them had the sense to call me back.”
“His men stormed the place,” Kopius said, impressed.
“They saved us.” Daisy beamed.
“What a nightmare.” Pernilla’s eyes seemed haunted.
Van sat up and began coughing. “Ow!” Blood seeped from the bandage on her side. Her head throbbed. “My wound, it re-opened.” She placed her hand on her flank. It came back blood-soaked.
“I’m taking you to a healer.” Ferox scooped her off the boardwalk.
“You’re not taking her anywhere.” Brux stepped in front of Ferox, blocking him.
“Don’t try and stop—Brux?”
Brux wobbled. He turned pale and dropped to his knees.
“Brux!” Daisy squatted beside her brother.
Van squirmed causing Ferox to place her on her feet. She kneeled next to Brux, too, and put an arm around his shoulders. Her eyes darted to the Savage Polder. The counter where Paley and Jedrek stood was empty.
Van knew why Brux felt ill, she had felt the same way last year. It meant Paley had gone out of range. Brux and Paley held the Twin Gemstones, which meant they couldn’t be separated while in the Living World or they would both die from energy depletion.
“Where’s Paley?” Van asked. She knew Paley would never intentionally walk out of range of Brux and the gemstones. Although, Paley had been drinking, and that boy couldn’t be trusted. “We have to find her.”
Ferox looked at Thyra and gave her a curt nod.
“I find her,” she said and dashed away.
Ferox motioned to his soldiers. “Take them back to the docks. Keep watch on them.”
Two of the soldiers helped Brux stand.
He didn’t resist.
“I’ll see if I can get something that will help,” Ferox said to Brux. “Hang in there.”
Van went to join the others headed back to the dock, when Ferox placed his hand on her shoulder.
Plague of Death Page 25
