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.”