Page 84 of Forging Darkness
I realized early on that with the sentries’ hawk-eyes on the terrain, and the thermal imaging cameras scanning the mountains surrounding Whitehold, the only way I’m going to escape is by creating chaos. The name of the game iscontrolledchaos—or at least chaos I cause with a purpose. One of the sticky variables in my plan is how well I’m going to be able to control the hellhounds. I have a reasonable amount of confidence I can get them out of the coliseum without being torn to shreds. But I also need to lead some of them out of the hold to be released into the mountains with me.
Chaos from within and without. Extra thermal signatures to confuse the cameras, so my captor’s don’t realize I’ve slipped out as well. I’ll flee on foot, then by air. Eventually the reach of the orb will run out and I’ll be able to phase back into the mortal world. Then I’ll only have Forsaken to worry about.
I make another turn and expect to come upon the door leading to the kennel, but the tunnel in front of me doesn’t look right. There’s no wooden door on the right, just another long passageway.
“Shoot.” I must have made a wrong turn along the way.
Backtracking gets me horribly lost within a few short minutes. Stopping, I press my forehead against the chilled wall. Perspiration has collected along my hairline regardless of the cold temperature, so the rough stones provide some relief.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “Think. Think. Think.”
How long do I have before someone, most likely Thorne, discovers I’m not locked in that room anymore? Maybe until morning when he comes to collect me for training, or it could be much sooner. I have no guarantees beyond the next few moments and here I am, wasting precious time.
I mentally retrace every twist and turn I took to get to this exact spot. My eyes pop open when I realize my mistake. I head back in the direction I just came, making three left turns and a right, sure I’m now back to the spot where I made the wrong turn to begin with.
My steps are sure but silent against the hardened ground. I’m speeding along the tunnels when I hear a cough, followed by a whimper.
Halting, I tilt my head to the right, the direction the noise came from. A T-shaped intersection leads in the opposite direction I’m meant to travel. Only a few seconds pass before there’s another cough, this time followed by what may be someone crying. My feet pad soundlessly over the stone floor in the direction of the noises before I realize I’ve made a decision.
Later, I’ll wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t heard the cry or had ignored it and continued on my way. But right now, my heart beats double time as I follow the sound.
I’ve completely lost my bearings after four turns and two sets of stairs, but I’m close. To what, I’m not sure, but I can hear soft moans and sniffles. There’s an open doorway down the corridor.
Whatever I’ve been tracking is there. I’m sure of it.
Slowing my steps, I hold my breath as I near the entrance. A wet cough vibrates the air, followed by muffled words I can’t make out. I know immediately they’re not Enochian. The cadence is too smooth for the guttural language.
A few feet from the doorway, I press my front against the wall’s cold stones. Forcing myself to take slow, even breaths, I inch my head to the side to peek into the doorless chamber.
I tell myself that once I’ve satiated my curiosity, I’ll renew my quest to find the kennels and release the barghest. I tell myself I still have time to execute my plans and that this is just a short detour. I tell myself that whatever is past this doorway is none of my concern and that the ball of worry writhing low in my belly is for nothing.
And then I get my first glimpse of what lies inside the chamber, and I realize I’ve just told myself a bunch of lies.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ihave to blink twice before my eyes adjust to the light. Water stretches out in front of me and to the sides. I’m not sure what this place is, but I don’t think it’s an underground sewage system. It would smell if it was. Maybe it’s Whitehold’s fresh water source?
Across from me, situated on a rough stone peninsula connected to the back of the cavern, a group of people huddle together. A group of humans.
Shock squeezes the breath from my lungs. Humans can’t enter the spectrum world, yet here is a ragged group of about twenty-five or thirty men and women cloistered together in the belly of an enemy stronghold.
Their clothes are worn and dirty. Ripped sleeves, dark stains, frayed edges, missing shoes. Not a single one is wearing a coat. This space is protected from the elements, but is not heated. The chill is uncomfortable to me and I have angel-blood running through my veins, which means the temps here could cause hypothermia in a human.
The water’s usually flattering luminescence only amplifies their pallid complexions, making them all appear sickly. Darkness sits beneath their eyes, standing out against the pale hue of their skin.
Butted up against the wall, with water on the other three sides, they sleep on thin pallets. There aren’t enough blankets to go around, so bodies are huddled together for warmth.
A middle-aged man on the edge of the group lies on his side, coughing, phlegm rattling in his chest. With a round bald spot on top of his head, he’s dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt that might have been white at one time, but certainly isn’t anymore. He’s one of the few people who still has two shoes on his feet—brown leather Dockers that have no business being worn in the Canadian wilderness. If he was cleaned up, he’d be dressed for a casual day at work.
There’s a woman with shoulder-length black hair sitting vigil behind him, rubbing his back. A few streaks of gray frame her face. She’s wearing a thin pink sweater torn at the seam, leaving one of her shoulders half exposed. The man turns his head to give her a weak smile. She tries to return the gesture, but isn’t able to manage more than a slight upturn of the corners of her mouth before they sink again.
Pulling my head back, I lean against the wall.
What do I do?
I can’t un-see this. I can’t scrub the memory of these people from my mind, but with every moment that ticks by, my chances for escape grow smaller.
I wrack my brain for a plausible explanation for why Thorne would be holding a group of humans in Whitehold, but I can’t come up with anything except the obvious: they’re food. Barely living blood bags for the Forsaken to munch on.