Page 85 of Forging Darkness
I’ve been on the wrong end of a Forsaken bite before. The terror that rushed my body had been paralyzing, and I’d been educated about Forsaken and their particular eating habits. Who knows what these humans have been told. They probably think they’re being held by a group of vampires. I can’t decide what’s more horrifying: the truth, or what their minds might have come up with to explain this strange reality.
A voice inside my mind screams at me to walk away. To turn around and do whatever I need to do to keep going. Free the hellhounds, escape Whitehold, find shelter.
What can I really do for these people now, anyway? Wouldn’t it be more helpful for me to escape? Then the Nephilim will know this place exists and there might be a chance of a future rescue . . . at least for the ones that make it that long.
Can I really do that? Turn my back on people who are obviously suffering in order to save myself?
There’s a tug-of-war in my soul. As my fight and flight instincts battle against one another, I’m crippled with indecision. My mind is so deeply steeped in shock, clear thinking becomes impossible.
A small whimper pierces the quiet and my mind is made up for me.
Emerging from the shadows, I enter the room, but only make it a step past the doorway before my muscles lock. There’s at least a body-length of ground between me and the water’s edge, but I’m hesitant to get any closer.
“Mama, I’m hungry,” a child whines. Her cries are high-pitched but muffled as a woman rocks her back and forth.
“I know, sweetling.” The woman speaks gently as her hand moves in smooth circles against the small child’s back. With a full head of honey-blonde hair, she can’t be much older than seven or eight. Tears trek down her mother’s face. “But it’s time for rest now.”
Hopelessness hangs over these people like a heavy cloud. My heart breaks in a way I’m not sure it will ever be put back together again.
“Que etes vous?” The male voice is loud enough to stir several of the exhausted men and woman around him.
Drowsy eyes blink back at me as people come awake. The man who spoke is on the younger side, probably early to mid-twenties. His hair is caked with dried blood, and his face is smudged and dirty, but even so, there’s a sharpness in his gaze that many of the other are lacking.
“Que fais-tu ici?”
Nope. I do not know that language.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demands in heavily accented English.
Most of the group has come awake by now, their gazes a mixture of fear and cautious curiosity. The woman who was comforting her child pulls her little girl fully into her lap, angling her away from me. The only part of her visible to me now are a few matted locks of blonde hair.
“I . . .” Emotion clogs my throat and I have to push past it to speak. “We need to figure out a way to get you out of here.” I eye the deceptively beautiful water. “Can you swim over? I’m pretty sure I can navigate us through the tunnels.”
Wait, did something just move under the surface? The brightness of the water makes it impossible to see clearly.
“Are you here to save us?” someone in the back asks. I can only just make out a pair of eyes and a mop of brown hair behind the mass of bodies.
I swallow hard. “I’m going to try.”
I don’t mention I have zero ideas on how to go about this. How in the world am I going to lead this group through a mountain range? And that’s onlyifI can get them away from the Fallen and Forsaken first. My plan to use the hellhounds is completely shot now. Maybe I can figure out how to disable the cameras instead and then I only have to sneak—
“We can’t get to you,” the man with the French accent answers. “There’s something living in the waters.” As if on cue, a scaled eel-like creature crests the surface, flashing a row of sharp teeth before sinking beneath the ripples.
Oh. Heck. No.
I take a step back, shaking my head. “What is that?” My hand trembles as I point.
“We don’t know, but we already lost someone who tried to swim across.”
I swallow, wetting my suddenly dry throat. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to chill the heck out. Casting my gaze around the space, I note the low ceiling. Flying is out of the question.
“Over there,” someone shouts. “The lever drops a walking bridge.”
Swiveling, I search until I find a wooden handle attached to the wall and pull it. Something groans behind the stones as a structure begins to descend from the ceiling. When it halts to a stop, a plank reaches from one side of the chasm to the other, connecting the peninsula to the shelf of rock where I stand.
Encouraged by the others, the young man takes a tentative step onto the bridge. It sways slightly from the chains suspending it from the ceiling.
“Be careful, Andre!” a woman warns.