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Terror. The haunting cry of panic, of shock fading quickly into fear.
But there’s no verification, only the dread whispering in my thoughts. If I based my field decisions on dread, I wouldn’t be here today. I have to trust that Max and Asha have their end covered and push on with Orson to clear the basement.
No matter how hard it is to do.
We make another turn, follow along another dimly lit corridor. They seem to be getting dimmer, danker, more ominous. It’s almost as if the longer we spend wandering them, the more they decay. I feel like I’m in someone’s nightmare. It would be my own, but I have this peculiar sense that I'm subsumed under someone else’s fear.
But after learning what the Blood Mages had done to Asha, I know these people are capable of anything. Wherever they live, fear and pain will follow, so this place will be no different. I just hope if we find Asha’s pack, we’ll not only be able to save them from their prison, but also from the things the Blood Mages have done to them.
Orson comes to a halt before an unassuming door, not unlike the other two dozen we’ve passed since we slipped furtively into the stairwell. “Here,” he says.
I stare. Orson can’t be serious. This is nothing. If her people are being kept somewhere, it’s not behind this door.
“Here what?” I finally ask, trying not to sound irritated.
“In my maps, there was a strong magical reading just here. Now, I can see that they are coalesced around the shapes of bodies”
Around? Magic doesn’t come from around a person, it comes from within a person. Has Orson officially lost it? Is this some side-effect of his time being mistreated in prison?
I shoot him a bewildered look. “What’s that mean? Wouldn’t it be emanating from the bodies?”
He looks at me gravely as he replies, “Although I couldn’t see this before, it’s very clear now. The signatures are such that the magic appears to outline them, rather than inhabit them.”
That’s not possible.
The furrow in my brow grows deeper. “What’s that mean?”
“If my map is correct, the people behind this door weren’t using magic. Rather, magic was inflicted upon them.” His eyes drift to the floor. “In substantial amounts.”
Fuck. “So this would be the tortured members of Asha’s Blood Pack. Is that what you’re saying?”
“The evidence seems to suggest that.”
“Then we’ve found exactly what we’re looking for.” I wrap my fist around the knob, but sense hesitancy in my teammate. I question him with my gaze.
He’s got that look I’m starting to recognize. The one that says his thoughts are churning faster than his mouth, probably faster than my brain has ever worked. The smart bastard.
“We don’t know what state they’ll be in. Alive, dead, coherent…mad.”
We know that. We knew that coming here. But we have to try. Not just for Asha, but for the poor people who were taken from their homes and experimented on. They deserve to be saved, if we can. Not just their bodies, but their minds, too.
“One way to find out,” I tell him, fighting the worry in my stomach as I twist the knob.
The dim light of the hallway cuts like dawn through the darkness of the room. In here, there could be more things like Simon. More creatures that could rip us to shreds. Or… people like Asha, broken in some ways, but good down to the core.
We need to be ready for both.
As the dim light diffuses through the pitch black, my eyes slowly adjust. It’s a prison. Cells line up in rows, each containing a shackled and fettered shifter. They look rough. Dirty, malnourished, twitchy. When Orson and I step into the room, more than a few flinch. I cringe, considering the sort of treatment we know Asha was subjected to. What sick, depraved things the Blood Mages have been doing to them.
Orson and I stand by the door for a moment, dressed in our tuxedos, having come from the party above, and stare into the cells where a starving, anxious collection of prisoners stare warily back at us. This is too surreal.
Then, to break the tension, a loud rumble sounds above our heads. Orson and I glance towards the rafters, as though we might see through them to the commotion upstairs.
“Who are you?”
I look down again and notice the older woman in the nearest cage has come to the bars and placed her face between them. Her voice is raspy, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.
I take a step closer, examining her. She’s not old, only worn down in a way that’s aged her. “Who are you?” I counter.
