Mark of Betrayal
Page 15
“What?” both Mike and the man said at the same time.
“You heard me,” I said. “Mike? See Mr. Keeper to a new position in the manor, would you? Perhaps toilet cleaning.”
“Ar, come back, baby,” he called after me.
“No!” I walked away, barely aware that Mike hadn’t followed, unable to see but in no state to care. I felt my way along the wall in the darkness, tripping when I found the stairs suddenly, then clambered up, using my hands to feel the curves of each one. I have no idea how long I climbed those stairs for, but it felt like forever, moving inch by inch, one at a time, on my hands and knees until my head hit a wooden panel—the door.
I looked back into the darkness behind me; Mike’s torch was nowhere to be seen. He probably went the other way.
When I pushed the door open and landed in an exhausted heap in the calming but dim light, I’d never been so happy to breathe warm air in all of my life. I laid on the slightly turned-up rug, my arms out wide, letting my heart beat its erratic tale until it eventually calmed and my breathing finally slowed—allowing me to feel the pain of my broken flesh from the scratches the children left.
“Okay, I’ll go check on her.” Mike’s scuffing steps came up the stairs; I jumped to my feet and darted behind the curtain. “Okay, mate. See ya later.” He slipped his phone in his pocket as he surfaced, then stood for a second and looked around; I stayed hidden, peering out through a small gap. “Ar?”
I held my breath.
“Ar, you here, baby?” He shrugged, then walked away, closing the throne room door behind him, but left the secret passage open.
Two decisions weighed on me; I looked at the light coming in through a crack under the Throne Room doors, then back at the drafty depths of the cellblock. And despite everything that hurt, I pushed the curtains aside and ran into the darkness again, closing the door behind me.
I needed to make sure the children were all right.
Navigating downward through the dark was trickier than it had been upward. I sat down and felt for the ledge of each step with my toes, then slid my bottom onto it, using my hands to acknowledge the step behind me.
When I finally reached the base again, I let out the breath I’d been holding; the gentle vocalisation of that relief sat in the cool air like a helium balloon—no echo, not even a light acoustic reverberation—just a dense, flat sound, lingering right in front of me. And I know it should have scared me—all of it; the dark, the chill, the feel of…something down here—something that was lurking like a creep walking behind me on a dark, empty street, matching my footsteps exactly. I felt like, at any minute, I’d turn around and see his face. And screaming wouldn’t be enough. Running wouldn’t save me. I’d reach the end of the tunnel, feel for the gap in that brick wall, and it would be gone. I would have to face him, alone—not knowing what he wanted or what terrors he had lived through that made him compassionless—able to do…unspeakable things to young girls. But none of those fears were enough to stop me planting my hand to the wall and following it along—toward those children. They needed me more than I needed to feel to safe. I just kept imagining them in that cell, hugging themselves for comfort after being beaten for trying to eat. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. I just wanted to wrap them all up in my arms and tell them it would be all right. Then make it all right. Words weren't enough. Promises, no good. It was time to take action.
Each step deeper into the nothing felt like a bad idea, and my pulse was so strong, my heart gunning in my throat so hard it was almost difficult to breathe. The wall under my fingertips felt slimy yet gritty; I lifted my hand every few seconds to wipe some of the smut away, but it stuck to my skin like a bad memory.
“Why did you cry for us?” a little voice asked; I froze—my arms out in front, hands angled to the ground. The voice sounded so close, like the child who owned it was right in front of me.
“Where…where are you?”
“To your left,” it said very quietly.
I turned my head, brushing my hands out blindly in that same direction, stopping on metal, realising then that I came further than I thought. I’d half expected to feel the matchbox at my toes or at least hear the dripping of the leaky faucet I heard before, but there was nothing—not even the murky, rotten smell.
Using the bars, I felt my way down to the floor—hoping the children didn't grab my hand. “Are you—are you out of the cell?” I asked.
“No.”
“Hang on,” I said, combing around the dirt. “I’ll light a match.”
“That big man put them with the lantern,” the child said.
“Where’s the lantern?”
“On the wall.”
“Oh. Okay.” On my knees, I shuffled slowly to the back wall and ran my hands over each bump in the bricks until my fingers met with something cold and hard. And sure enough, the matches were in the lantern. I had to use all my other senses to get the damn box open, pull out a match and strike it, and when my fingertips, wrist and the base of the lantern showed under the flame’s gentle glow, I held my breath instead of exhaling relief, in case I blew it out. The cinder of smoke and warm flame ran past my nostrils, though, despite holding my breath, and circled the calm spot of familiarity inside me.
“Why did you come back?”
I looked up from the lantern to the cell, and saw it then—a child, with its back to me, its pale grey skin hugging each pebble-like bone in its spine.
“I wanted to make sure that little boy was all right.”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“For now. He’s not breathing.”
I covered my mouth with shaky fingers. “Will he be okay?”
“Do you care?”
“Yes,” I said, placing the lantern beside my knees as I sat down in the dirt.
“Why?” the child said, making no effort to look at me. I wondered what I’d see in that face; if he hid it because he knew the truths that burrowed deep within his dark little soul, or if he was hiding because he was shy.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know why they lock you in here?”
“Because we’re bad.”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s not because you’re bad—you’re not bad.” I slid closer to the cage. “You’re just a vampire. The ones who lock you away are afraid you won’t control the killing—that you might hurt too many humans.”
He didn't say anything, just kept moving his arm back and forth.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Playing.”
“A game?”
“Yes.”
“What game?”
“Noughts and crosses.”
“I like that game. Can I play, too?”
He turned around and his black eyes looked so chilling, yet full of so much innocence my heart burned. “Do you have a stick?” the boy asked.
“I—” I looked around, not seeing one, so I stood up and grabbed the keys off the wall. “I can use these.”
“Okay,” he said. “You be crosses.”
“Okay.” I took a quick glance into the back of the cell, my mouth dropping when I saw the other children; each one sat in small groups, whispering to each other, watching us or playing games of their own. My hand shook as I made a game board in the dirt—on my side of the bars. “Can you reach this?”
The boy rose onto his knees and slowly placed his stick through the bars. His hand was so tiny—covered in dried and fresh blood, cacked with dirt. His nails were long, really long, with black ridges making lines all the way down them. I felt the sting of the healed scratches those nails had given me.
“I’ll make my cross in the centre,” I said. “That’s always the best place to start.”
He considered the board for a moment, then drew a circle on the far corner.
“Very good,” I said, looking away from his face. “What’s your name?”
“Maggot.”
�
��Maggot?” I frowned, then laughed. “Oh, is that what the keeper calls you?”
“That's what he calls everyone.”
“Well—” I stopped for a second, listening, sure I heard a distant echo in the direction I came from. “That’s not your name. What did your mum and dad call you before you came here? Do you remember?”
His dark eyes narrowed, strained concentration making his face appear aged beyond his probably only six human years. “Maxwell.”
“Max,” I whispered. “Then, that’s your name—not Maggot.” I stood up and dusted myself off. “I'm coming back for you—all of you, and I'm going to give you a home. You’re not monsters, okay? But you will have to learn to behave. Can you do that?”
“Will you let us play outside—see the grass?” A little girl appeared, her fingers around the bars, her smiling face pressed between them.
“Yes.” I placed my hand over my heart to steady it. “I promise.”
“That's what the last one said,” Max muttered.
“Last one? What last one?”
“The angel,” another piped up from the back of the cell.
“Hair of gold,” said another.
“Arietta.” A tall, almost teenage boy stood up and walked over to me. “She promised to set us free—but she never came back.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She had a baby,” said another. “People don't care about other kids when they have their own.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” I grabbed the bars and pressed my face between them. “You don't understand. She died. She never got to have her baby.”
“Then, are you going to die too?” Max asked.
“No, Max.” I touched his dirty, blonde hair. “I'm the new queen. I—” I looked at the keys on the floor beside the lantern. “I'm going to let you out. Okay?”
“Ara?” Mike grabbed my hand and yanked me back from the bars; the children fled from sight. “What are you doing?”
“They’re not monsters, Mike,” I beamed.
He swept the keys off the floor and stood up again, groaning. “When are you going to learn? You never listen. Never! One day you're going to get yourself killed, girl.”
“Mike, they talked to me. They—”
“Yeah, nice trick, isn't it? They're predators, Ara.” He stepped into me. “What did you think they were doing? They want to eat you—not befriend you.”
“No, I—”
“Yes,” Mike yelled, taking both my arms, the keys pressing into my flesh. “Listen carefully. I stayed while they were being fed. I sat there—” he pointed across from the cell, “—I watched the keeper drag a woman in—tied up, unconscious. He threw her into the cell, slammed the door, and the Damned did nothing. Nothing. Until the woman stirred.” He walked a step away, running a hand through his hair. “She started breathing heavily, panicking. Next thing I know, I hear this rip.”
“What kind of rip?”
“The Damned untied her, baby. They unbound her hands and her feet, and they let her run. They let her cower by the bars, screaming for help.”
“Mike, don't. You're lying.”
“I'm not lying,” he yelled. “This is what they do. This is not a joke. David, Eric, even Emily—what they are is not a joke. They kill people. Those Damned moved in on that woman—they ripped her clothes off, held her arms apart and fed on her, kept her alive, her blood warm and pumping until she was goddamn well dry as the Mojave Desert.”
I shook my head, covering my ears. “I don't believe you.”
“You don't? Fine.” He grabbed his phone from his pocket, thumbed it until iTorch came on, then angled it to the back of the cage. “See for yourself.”
I turned my head slowly, squinting at first, then covered my face, squealing as the last dregs of an image shivered through my spine. “That’s not real.” I looked up again at the naked woman, her body spread like a white, fleshy butterfly, glued to the back wall—her bones missing from her skin. “That’s not real.”
“It is real.”
My gut heaved as I folded over, gripping my knees.
“Do you see now? Do you take me seriously now?”
“But—” I walked slowly over to the cage and peered inside. I could hear them in there, playing, laughing, like that dead woman was just a bear-skin rug on the wall in their father’s study. “But, they play, Mike, and I talked with them.”
“I know. It’s a lure.” He dragged me away from the cage by the arm. “You open that door, they will take you apart.”
“I don't agree.” I pulled my arm free. “That boy held a civil conversation with me. If they were treated properly—fed and loved and—”
“Ara?” Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. “Really? You're too old for this. I can't keep chasing you around—trying to protect you from stupid things like this.”
“Then don't,” I said and grabbed the keys from his hand. “They won't hurt me, Mike. I'm not a kill. I'm not their next meal. They trust me. They want to be free, and I know they can behave.”
“Then open that door.” He presented it, conceit refining his grin.
I thrust my shoulders back, held my head high and jammed the key in the lock, but stopped before turning it. What if he was right? What if they really were monsters?
But David never believed that. He believed we could help them; he wanted me to help them—told me I wasn’t worth a damn if I didn't have the heart to help them.
“Ara?” Mike said gently. “Why don't we just sit down and talk about this?”
I turned my head to look at him. “If I do, will you—”
“Shit, Ara, move!” A breath of shock started my heart when he jumped toward me, my fingers scrunching together around the key as a small hand forced it in a turn. Mike grabbed my wrist, his fingers slipping along it as I jolted forward, landing on my hands and knees, the door hitting the wall with a loud metal echo. “Ara, run!”
I looked up from my dirt-covered fingers, wide eyes taking in the open cage for only a heartbeat before I sunk to the ground, covering my head as the force of twenty screaming children came down on top of me like racing horses. I heard Mike cry out somewhere under the terror of their shrieks, and then, like a storm passing in a whirlwind of racket and chaos, the noise retreated suddenly, leaving me alone on the floor, untouched, with only an eerie still surrounding me. I curled up as small as I could get, trying in vein to quiet my panicked breath.
Several seconds passed, counted out by the thump in my chest.
“Mike?” I slowly pushed up on my hands and turned my head to the dark space he’d been standing before. He was gone. “No.” A small cry of panic quivered in the back of my throat. I reached forward, my hands trembling so viciously my elbows shook, and felt for a wall or the bars—anything. But all I found was cold dirt.
The panic rose again; I shuffled back further into the cell, tucking my knees to my chest, seeing that dead woman in my thoughts as my eyes scanned the darkness.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, my gut expanding then shrinking quickly back in when I saw a silhouette in the corridor; it stood there, three feet high, still as death—looking right at me.
A bubble of dread burst open in the middle of my chest.
“What do you want?” I asked in a small voice.
The thing stepped forward, its slow steps clipped, forced, a raspy, grating sound coming from its throat.
I jumped to my feet, squealing like a small child, and cupped the edge of the iron door, swinging it closed. The twang of metal echoed down the tunnel and its small hand shot in through the bars, the horrid creature spitting and growling at me like it was some kind of rabid beast. It pressed its cheeks against the cage, the skin on its face pulling its eyes into tiny slits, showing bared, bloodied teeth and a long tongue, licking the iron.
The ground stayed under my feet as I took a few slow steps backward, finding the wall with flat palms. But as I stopped, the child pulled back, turning its head slowly to look across from me, then disappeared.
I wished I’d just waited. I wasn't going to open that damn door. I was just trying to make a point, and the worst part was, I couldn’t even remember what point I was trying to make in the first place. I wasn't even sure it mattered. Well, I guess it didn't matter now. I looked around the thick darkness, hardly able to see the red chipped paint on the bars, and certainly blind to the corners and deeper depths of this cell.
I wiped my face and ran forward, grabbing the bars, and shook them. But the door was stuck fast, trapping me in this cage with partially decomposed bodies, the scent enough to make me want to stick my fingers down my throat just be sure I hadn't swallowed any vestiges of rotten flesh. And somewhere under my fear of what was real, what was right outside this door, dangerous enough to rip me apart, I also wondered if the troubled ghosts of those who’d been killed so violently here haunted these cells.
But another thought occurred to me then; even if I did get this door open, how was I to know if the damned weren't just waiting for me—hoping I’d be smart enough to escape, so they could chase me, warm my blood with fear, then tear off my clothes too, and drink my blood. And maybe I wouldn't die from that; maybe I could be regenerated, but I wasn't too excited about being ripped apart.
Weighing options up in my thoughts, I paid no mind to the sound of a soft breeze, until it started to take shape, form into what I thought were words. I stopped thinking, my whole body going still as I listened. But the noise stopped, too.
Maybe it was just the wind. I had no way of knowing which sounds were normal down here, and which weren't. It made me think more about the Damned—how frightening it must be for new children to come here, be thrown away, out of sight, out of mind, never to be seen or heard of again.
I stopped thinking, my ears pricked; the sound of the whisper spreading through the darkness. I tried to focus on it, make out words, but it stopped. After a few seconds of silence, I walked slowly forward, seeing what I thought was an outline of a rock on the floor, and sunk to my knees in front of the bars. There hadn't been any rocks out there in corridor before. I wondered what that was, and as I looked closer, the object sharpened into a boot. A big, heavy, black boot. Mike’s boot.