“Because, petal. You need to know the truth.”
Cainon is all agile grace as he lands atop the rocks on the other side of the chasm of churning water, spinning, looking back at me with expectant eyes. I’m already flying through the burst of misty sea spray, landing beside him in a crouch.
Because, petal. You need to know the truth.
The words spear through my mind as I straighten, brushing sand from my hands. “Now where?”
The storm rumbles in the distance, and he looks me over, then grabs my hand, leading me across sharp, slick stone and barnacle clusters he seems to think I’m incapable of traversing on my own. I let him believe it. Let him guide me around the craggy edge of a small, sheltered cove with a weathered longboat chained to the shore above the waterline, twin oars jutting out from its hollow. We’re not far past it when Cainon turns toward the cliff face, and it’s not until he’s stepping into the tunnel bored through a cleft in the stone that I even notice its presence—hidden in plain sight.
My curiosity sprouts wings and flutters about.
Stairs lead us deep into the ground, and I choose my footfalls delicately to avoid the slippery waterweeds cast across the stone. The farther we go, the less light there is, and the thicker the smell of salt and stagnant water. We turn a sharp corner, plunging into a sheath of darkness, and Cainon shifts my hand to the swell of his shoulder. “Grab the other one, too.”
I oblige, allowing him to lead me deeper,deeper …my chest growing tighter with every step. That voice inside me a gagged scream trying to tell me to stop.
To run.
“How much further have we got to go?”
“Not far,” he mutters, and a glimpse of light swells ahead—a trickle and then a wash of it as the stairwell balloons into a mammoth cavern, a giant cleft running the span of the ceiling. A shard of sun illuminates the puddle of gently sloshing water lining the bottom, like it’s breathing with life of its own.
I frown, letting my hands fall off Cainon’s shoulders, gaze scraping the walls—damp and dappled with large clusters of barnacles and tendrils of weed suctioned to the stone. “This looks like a tidal death trap.”
My words echo.
“It is.” Cainon scales the edge of the wall in smooth, agile motions, grabbing a torch from a high, rocky shelf. “The only access is at low tide,” he grits out, smashing a black stone against the wall so hard sparks burst and ignite the swirl of oily cloth wrapped around the torch’s tip. “There used to be other ways in, but they were closed off years ago.”
He leaps, dropping like a rock, his flame roaring from the rush of wind as he lands directly before me—half his face cast in the flickering, golden light, making his eyes look like shadowed dents.
My foot slides back, but he snatches my hand, tugging me toward the far end of the cavern with long, determined strides that are hard to keep up with, forcing me to jog just to prevent my feet from slipping out from under me.
We reach the wall and another stairwell dug into the stone, the entrance just above the water line. I steal a peek behind before I’m dragged into the dark again—down the seemingly endless steps that eventually bottom out, shooting upward after a small, flattened walkway.
As we climb, the wet, algae-covered stairs are replaced by dry stone that’s powdered with dust, and a different smell tickles the back of my throat, thickening with every step into the unknown. An aged scent hard to choke down. Something that makes me want to lift the front of my shirt and breathe through the material to dull the hit of it.
Death.
Old, long-forgotten death.
That voice inside screams for me to flee.
The tunnel begins to splay, and I stop, yanking on Cainon’s grip. His head whips around, and I feel the blaze of his narrowed stare, his body a dark silhouette plugging the light from the room ahead.
I’m not sure Iwantthis truth.
“Cainon, I—”
Snarling, he yanks me forward, and I stumble up the final step, losing my feet and propelling across the roughly hewn floor. He catches me before I faceplant, curling a powerful arm around my heaving chest and whipping me back against his hard body.
He’s behind me—aroundme—forcing me to look down a wide tunnel sparsely lit from beams of powdery daylight shooting through holes in the low roof. The air is thick and stagnant, despite the unnatural chill that abrades my skin as I take in the cells lining either side of the walkway.
So many.
Toomany.
The one on my left is unlocked, the swung door providing a glimpse into the tiny space and its meager contents: columns of pale, stubbed candles; a filthy, dented mattress; and the twisted knot of a blanket dusted with silky cobwebs.
Cainon grips my chin, ripping my stare to the cell on the right, and a gasp cuts into my lungs like a blade.
