“Where are the cells?” I asked.
“At the end.” He held his arm straight, the lantern hanging from his curled finger, swaying with the movement.
I grabbed the base and held it still. “That’s freaky. Don't let it swing like that. I feel like the cliché blond chick in a horror film—you know, the one who gets killed first.”
“Nah,” he said, and started walking. “Your boobs aren’t big enough. You’ll be the one who lives to tell the tale.”
“Hey!” I folded my arms and followed him.
Twenty or so paces ahead, I could just make out hollows in the walls on both sides, and as we neared them, the dry, powdery scent of dirt made me want to take shallower breaths, not letting them slip past the back of my throat.
“You okay, babe?” Mike walked closer to me, matching my footsteps exactly.
“Why are they so silent?”
“No reason to make noise, I guess.”
He was right. There were no windows, no sunlight, no fresh air, not even a drafty breeze. Just…stillness, darkness. When we reached the end of the tunnel, I peered in through the bars on both sides; two cells, sitting directly across from each other, about three classrooms wide, but completely empty. “Where are all the other cells? I know we have more than two.”
He tapped the brick wall. “Through here—this leads back out to the other passage.”
“There’s no door, though.”
“Not all is what it seems.” He winked, then walked to one end of the wall and slipped his hand through it.
“What the hell?” I ran over and traced the length of his arm, following it through the wall. “It’s an illusion?”
“Yes.” He pulled his hand back; he hadn’t put it through the wall at all—there was no wall there. It ended short on that side, but it was so dark in here that, from the way the bricks were lined up, no one would know there was an opening. “Pretty cool, hey?”
“Hell yeah.”
“They say de la Mort is pretty much made up of walls just like this.” He tapped the bricks with a flat palm.
“And that’s why you want the map.”
He looked back at me, lifting the lantern a little to see my face. “Yes.”
“Fine. But I'm telling Arthur you have it.”
“Fine. Then I’ll tell David you drank Arthur’s blood the other day.”
I grumbled to myself. “Fine. I won't tell Arthur you have the map.”
“I knew you’d come to your senses.” He wandered over and shone the lantern into the cage; “Can you see them?”
“No. Are they even in there?”
“They cluster in the back corner.” A man popped up suddenly.
“Oh, God!” I touched a hand to my racing heart. “You scared me.”
“Sorry, Majesty.” His ghastly old face showed in the dim light; the folds in his skin made deep shadows along his jaw and under his eyes, while his crooked nose darkened the gaps in his teeth behind a curt smile. He walked with a hunched gait, as if he’d trolled these low-roofed tunnels for too many centuries and now lacked the ability to stand tall.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Caretaker. Folks call me Mr. Keeper.” He turned away and nodded into the cell. “Strange, really, how they all bunch together like that.” He held his own lantern up to the bars, and I saw them then—little faces, about twenty of them—all huddling against each other like puppies in a small box.
“Oh, my God.” I covered my mouth.
“Yerp. No feelings, no sense, yet they all seem to bunch up, like they’re scared.”
“They are scared.” I grabbed the set of keys from the caretaker’s dirt-covered hands. “They’re children.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the hideous old man warned. “It’s feeding day—you’ll get ripped to shreds.”
“I'm willing to take the risk,” I said, and as I jammed the key in the lock, Mike grabbed my hand.
“Okay, Ara, you’ve had your fun. It stops there.”
“But, Mike?”
“No buts.” He took the keys and hooked them over a nail on the magic wall. “Baby, even if they were capable of humanity, which they’re not, they’re hungry. Look how unreasonable you get when you’re hungry.”
My heart grew bigger and split open inside, filling my chest with a tight ache when I saw the gaze of the few who dared to look up; sad black eyes, like opals, set deeply into pale faces absent of innocence and animation. “How often do you feed them?”
“Couple of humans a month,” the caretaker said.
I spun around quickly to face him. “What? That's not enough for that many children.”
“Ara—” Mike stepped forward, reaching. “Move away from the cage.”
I sidestepped quickly, looking behind me, catching a glimpse of a grey hand stretching through the bars, just out of reach of my hair. The child hissed at me, his mouth gaping like a hollow cave; his eyes completely black and empty.
“That was close.” I chuckled.
“Too close. Now, move a few more steps away,” Mike said, but his eyes went wide, the world going cold all around his soul as my head jerked awkwardly to one side, my feet leaving the ground as my spine hit the bars, the wind bursting from my lungs in a short squeal. Solid little hands circled my face, ripping at my hair; I reached up to pry them away as Mike darted forward, driving his elbow between my neck and the bars. But there were too many—grabbing my skin, scratching it, their dry, sour-tasting fingers slipping into the corner of my mouth, yanking my head against the metal.
They refused to give up, fighting so hard against Mike that I felt like a sack of beans on the backseat of a minivan driving off-road. I couldn't even scream, couldn’t get a breath past the thumping in my throat.
“Snap her neck!” the caretaker yelled over the chaos. “Snap her neck, and they’ll back off.”
My eyes shot to Mike’s; a split second passed as he played that thought out in his mind.
“No,” I breathed.
“Sorry, Ar—” His hands moved in slow motion; one cupping my chin, the other firmly grasping the back of my head.
I screamed, jolting forward as tiny talons dragged my feet backward through the bars. Mike dropped me, reaching out quick, catching my hair as I went down. I heard it rip as my elbows hit the dirt—felt it come lose from my scalp in a big clump that he threw to the floor by my hand.