The bag beneath Preacher’s right eye twitches. “Indeed. But in light of recent events, there are those who wonder if, perhaps, the Verity got it wrong this time.”
And now I’ve forgotten my line. Someone send in the understudy because I can’t even improvise this one. I don’t know which question to ask first. Who all thinks the Verity got it wrong? Obviously Preacher does, but who else? Joshua? Mom? Haven’t I proven myself? Is it not enough I killed my own grandfather? Not enough I was willing to take on the Void and sacrifice everything for those I love?
Am I ever going to be enough?
“You are enough for me.”
Tears well. Ky’s whisper is so clear, his statement so sure. My heart patters and doubt creeps in. If the Verity is capable of making a mistake, aren’t I? What if I’m not meant to be here? With Joshua? I bite my lower lip and allow the question to form, to become real and tangible for the very first time.
What if I’m meant to be with—?
“Go find your necklace.” Preacher’s concession yanks me from my epiphany. He pushes up his jacket sleeve, checking the time on his out-of-date Rolex. “I’ll wait here. You have ten minutes.” He relaxes against the curved stone wall and tugs his cap over his eyes. “A minute longer and you won’t take so much as a leak without a Guardian nearby, you hear me?”
Mouth agape, I stare at him. Why the sudden change of heart? Pity? Guilt? I guess it doesn’t make a difference. I’ll take what I can get.
“Now you only have nine minutes.”
I pick up my skirt, descend the stairs two at a time.
“I won’t be far,” he calls after me. “No Dragon games.”
I roll my eyes. I may have given Preacher the slip, but I doubt my cunning is any match for a Dragon. Or so I hear. “Okay.”
The lie ricochets up the stairwell as I withdraw my treble clef–heart necklace from my pocket, reattach it, and slip soundlessly through the archway leading into the dungeons.
During my half-star stay last November, compliments of Jasyn Crowe, I only had the opportunity to visit the highest level of dungeon cells. My mind wanders to the prisoner who helped me. The one who called to me through the wall. Did he die? Is he still there? I make a note to ask about him later.
But now is not the time.
Thanks to my snooping skills I know the prisoner I seek hasn’t been afforded such luxury. No, she’ll be enjoying much more . . . moderate accommodations. And if I happen to come across Gage, too, well then, bonus round. Maybe he can tell me where Ky is, or what he meant by “the beginning of the end.”
Maybe. If he’s conscious. Or still alive.
I creep down sconce-lit steps. The stingy light has me wary of my own shadow. Every move and shift plays tricks on my tired eyes in shades of gray on the walls. And then there’s the memory of a boy with blond locks and a cocky grin. Of how he rescued me in more ways than one.
About every thirty steps or so a new archway waits, signaling I’ve reached the next level down. I pass each one without pause, the theme from BBC’s Sherlock playing in my head. When I reach the final arch at the bottom, I exit the stairwell. How deep am I anyway? I must be at least five stories below the hill’s surface. Where are the Guardians? They can’t all have gone to the Reminiscence. At least a few must have remained behind to attend the prisoners. Right?
But the absence of a “Halt, who goes there?” assures me it’s safe to continue. I’m inspired by my favorite Broadway lead. If Wicked’s Elphaba can learn to trust her instincts, so can I, even when no one else does.
“I do.”
Ky’s constant reassurances are becoming commonplace. I almost hate to admit I wait for them. Expect them. Any moment his voice could vanish. And then he’d really be gone.
Iron doors mark my path to the right and left every ten paces. Sconces are positioned between, though only a few produce light. The doors bear no windows, just slender slots at eye level, and iPad-sized cat doors at the bottom. A familiar scent puckers my nose, and I opt to breathe through my mouth. It’s not too far removed from the pungent aroma of a subway tunnel. Urine blended with a hint of spray paint fumes and BO.
I check every peep slot, sliding them across—shick—and back again—clank. Empty, empty, empty. Faster. Five doors. Ten. Three left turns . . . now four. How vast is this level? And how much longer before Preacher realizes I’m not in the kitchen?
Around a fifth corner I careen, stop dead at the brink of yet another identical hallway accommodating more doors, which I have no doubt also host vacant cells. Is it designed as a labyrinth on purpose? Maybe that’s why I haven’t come across a single Guardian. Who needs them when I can’t even locate one measly prisoner?
Hmm, better retrace my steps, see if I missed something. Retreat, run right, sprint right, jog right, walk, ouch-my-knee, limp, slow down—
Wait . . . Is this the way I came? Whirl. Squint. Crud. Nice plan. Maybe everyone’s right. If I can’t navigate a dungeon, perhaps I do need a babysitter.
Shallow breaths and dizziness take precedence. My knee is really starting to throb now. I half expect my heart to beat right out of the pulse residing there. If I just sit for a minute, regain my bearings, I’ll be fine. Using the wall for support I slide onto my rear, good leg sprawled in front of me, bad one bent to my chest. The earthy floor cools my thigh through the fabric of my skirt. I press my palms to my cheeks, swipe sweaty cowlicks from my temples. Drip, drip, drip. A leak plinks into a pot somewhere, washing a memory to my mind’s shore.
To think I believed Jasyn would put me up in a penthouse suite. It had all seemed so real. The comfy bed, the crackling fire, the French pastries. What a joke. I’d been in a dungeon cell the entire time. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to see through his tricks—
My body rigidifies, and my head smacks the wall. Ouch and duh. I rub the sore spot through my thick tangles. Why didn’t I see it? I rise and search the surrounding space. An Amulet has put a façade over this level. Has to be. But I’m usually quick to catch an Amulet’s work. I see through façades before most. It’s one of my strengths as a Mirror.
Fear spreads deeper, winding its roots around my gut. Something is definitely wrong with my Calling. Stormy had trouble with her Magnet when we were with Gage. Joshua couldn’t heal Kuna. Who else has been affected? And how is this possible? If the Callings are sourced by the Verity—
My breath ceases. How did I miss it?
If something is wrong with the Callings . . .
Then something is troubling the Verity, causing it to remain stagnant . . .
Which means the problem lies within me.
This is the reason for the whispers and stares in the halls. Why Joshua won’t let me help. Why Preacher believes the Verity may have been in error.
A wave of nausea sends my hand to my mouth. Something is . . . wrong with me. The thought makes me feel unclean. Could Preacher be right? Did the Verity make a mistake? What if I’m like cancer and something about me is eating away at the Verity, hindering it from empowering the Callings?