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“A hundred.”
Phury and Z also dematerialized down, as well as V and Nyx’s grandfather. The passageway was narrow, so it was a single-file situation, and he stayed in front with the female right behind him, the sounds of creaking leather and shuffling boots loud in the silence. Everyone had a gun in their hand, and he was reminded of how much he didn’t like working with civilians. He had no idea what the skills of that pair were, although so far, they were calm and focused. And very comfortable with metal against their palms.
Soon enough, his flashlight became immaterial as a single bulb flared to life and then they reached a no go as they came up to solid wall.
“Let me by,” Nyx said as she pushed him out of the way and patted around.
She must have hit something because a panel slid back—and the bouquet that reached Rhage’s nose was a whole lot of unpleasant: Damp air, mold . . . and blood.
The latter was faint, but it was present and of complex derivation.
A lot of vampires were dead.
The tunnel they progressed through next was broader, and the female seemed to know where to go. The blood smell got thicker, and so did the faded scents of males and females. There were no obvious sounds.
No talking. No running. No screaming.
The silence in the labyrinth was what eerie’d him out the most. And shit, it was a big place. So many halls and branches of tunnels, all of this just under the surface of the earth, away from prying eyes—human and vampire. When Nyx had talked about a thousand prisoners, he’d assumed she was exaggerating.
Now? He could see it. Totally.
They ran into their first body when they came out of one of the tunnel’s turns. Beneath the bald bulbs strung from wire on the ceiling, the loosely clothed female was lying facedown on the rock floor, her feet crossed, one arm outstretched with the fingers scratched into the ground.
The blood was strong, but they didn’t stop to roll her over and find the wounds. She was gone.
More bodies started to show up the farther they went. Two. Three. A fourth and fifth together. All in brown/gray/black tunics and baggy pants.
Animals, he thought—and not in disrespect to the deceased. The prisoners had existed like animals down here, never seeing the moonlight or taking fresh air. This was an atrocity. How had they let this go on for so long?
“Who was in charge here?” he asked out loud.
Nyx glanced at him. Then cleared her throat. “The Command.”
“Is that a warden?”
“Kind of. But from what I understand, it wasn’t an official position, sanctioned by the glymera. It was a created authority, one that was taken by force and intimidation, as the aristocrats lost interest in the prison.”
“Lost interest? Are you fucking kidding me? Like this is a toy they got bored with?” Goddamn, he hated aristocrats. “And the Command was a prisoner, you mean?”
“Yes,” she answered. “A prisoner who took over, gathering power and control and using it to their own ends.”
Rhage shook his head. “This is fucking awful. We should have done something—but we didn’t know. Fuck, Wrath is going to lose it.”
“The Command didn’t want to be found.”
“How the hell did they feed everyone?”
Nyx stopped. Looked around. Leaned forward so she could see around a corner. “Okay, so the barricade is gone.”
“What barricade?”
The female went over to the wall and ran her free hand up a vertical stripe. “It’s been retracted.” She seemed to refocus. “The prison was on lockdown as I left. Most of the tunnels were blocked so that you could only go into certain areas. But that’s been lifted now.”
“So someone’s still here?” V said.
“I don’t know,” the female murmured as she looked to what was ahead. “I have no idea.”
In the end, although Nyx did her best to lead everyone to the Command’s private quarters, she got turned around, and only figured out the miscalculation when she took the group into what had to be the work area.
Hoping to find Jack somewhere, anywhere, she pushed through a pair of steel doors that seemed like they belonged in a human hospital— and discovered a disordered work area the size of a soccer field. Long tables were out of alignment and chairs were toppled over. Stray plastic baggies littered the floor and there were scales here and there.
The kind you used for measuring food portions.
Except there was a lot of suspicious-looking white powder dusting them.
Shit. Drugs, she thought.
The goateed Brother walked over to one of the few tables still on its four legs and picked up a tiny plastic bag that was filled with something that appeared to be facial powder or flour. Licking his pinkie, he put his finger inside, then sucked off the residue.
Peeling his lips back, he licked his front teeth. “Cocaine. And maybe something else.”
