Mark of Betrayal

Page 20

“Baby, you can't. It’s okay. It’s all right.”
“No. It’s not.” I grabbed his shirt, hearing the desperate shrieks of that child became nothing but a whimper. “He’s just a little boy.”
“Mate,” Mike called out. “That’s enough!”
“I decide when it’s enough.” The caretaker jammed the stick down again, and this time, the child didn’t even move.
My throat trapped my breath, tears coating my eyes. I felt Mike shift, felt him go to stand but stop. Then, he took a larger breath and yelled in his thunderous cop voice, “I said that’s enough. Leave the boy alone!”
The caretaker stopped mid-thrust and groaned. “As you wish.”
From the border of the shadows, a hand came out and grabbed the limp boy’s wrist, dragging him into the darkest corner of the cell, leaving a trail of blood behind in the last dregs of light from the lantern.
Mike hauled me away from the bars, and I heard the great, groaning creak of the door slamming shut.
“How could you?” I wiped my face, looking up at the haggard old man, sobbing so hard I had hiccups.
“How could I?” he said. “My lady, if I had not, you would have no scalp.”
I jumped to my feet. “There are other ways to deal with children! This is not acceptable.”
“Baby—”
“No.” I shoved Mike off me. “I won’t stand for this.”
“The boy will heal, Ara. He’s immortal, remember?”
“How can you say that, Mike?” I clenched my teeth tight enough to taste blood. “How can you think this is okay?”
“I don't. Not even a little bit. But there’s nothing you can do for them, baby. They can't be taught. They live by instinct—like animals.”
I shoved him again when he tried to hug me. “Even animals deserve better than this.”
“And what do you propose we do?” asked the caretaker.
“Try. I don't know. But we have to try.”
“Come here.” Mike took my shoulders and turned me to face him. “You're shaking.”
Of course I was, but I couldn’t feel it. I felt only numb—the beating of that boy repeating itself in my mind—blending with the horrible thought that it probably wasn’t the first time. And for what? Probably to satiate the caretaker’s own wicked needs to feel like a master.
Hatred for him burned through me, coming out in a piercing gaze. “How often are you in charge of these children?”
“Only during feeding times,” the caretaker said. “Then, they’re on their own.”
“How long have you been their keeper?”
“’Bout—” the man paused, taking a breath, “—two hundred years, give or take.”
“Well—” I walked away from Mike, rubbing the ache of torn hair at the back of my neck. “As of now, you're fired.”
“What?” both Mike and the man said at the same time.
“You heard me,” I said. “Mike? See Mr. Keeper to a new position in the manor, would you? Perhaps toilet cleaning.”
“Ar, come back, baby,” he called after me.
“No!” I walked away, barely aware that Mike hadn’t followed, unable to see but in no state to care. I felt my way along the wall in the darkness, tripping when I found the stairs suddenly, then clambered up, using my hands to feel the curves of each one. I have no idea how long I climbed those stairs for, but it felt like forever, moving inch by inch, one at a time, on my hands and knees until my head hit a wooden panel—the door.
I looked back into the darkness behind me; Mike’s torch was nowhere to be seen. He probably went the other way.
When I pushed the door open and landed in an exhausted heap in the calming but dim light, I’d never been so happy to breathe warm air in all of my life. I laid on the slightly turned-up rug, my arms out wide, letting my heart beat its erratic tale until it eventually calmed and my breathing finally slowed—allowing me to feel the pain of my broken flesh from the scratches the children left.
“Okay, I’ll go check on her.” Mike’s scuffing steps came up the stairs; I jumped to my feet and darted behind the curtain. “Okay, mate. See ya later.” He slipped his phone in his pocket as he surfaced, then stood for a second and looked around; I stayed hidden, peering out through a small gap. “Ar?”
I held my breath.
“Ar, you here, baby?” He shrugged, then walked away, closing the throne room door behind him, but left the secret passage open.
Two decisions weighed on me; I looked at the light coming in through a crack under the Throne Room doors, then back at the drafty depths of the cellblock. And despite everything that hurt, I pushed the curtains aside and ran into the darkness again, closing the door behind me.
I needed to make sure the children were all right.
Navigating downward through the dark was trickier than it had been upward. I sat down and felt for the ledge of each step with my toes, then slid my bottom onto it, using my hands to acknowledge the step behind me.
When I finally reached the base again, I let out the breath I’d been holding; the gentle vocalisation of that relief sat in the cool air like a helium balloon—no echo, not even a light acoustic reverberation—just a dense, flat sound, lingering right in front of me. And I know it should have scared me—all of it; the dark, the chill, the feel of…something down here—something that was lurking like a creep walking behind me on a dark, empty street, matching my footsteps exactly. I felt like, at any minute, I’d turn around and see his face. And screaming wouldn’t be enough. Running wouldn’t save me. I’d reach the end of the tunnel, feel for the gap in that brick wall, and it would be gone. I would have to face him, alone—not knowing what he wanted or what terrors he had lived through that made him compassionless—able to do…unspeakable things to young girls. But none of those fears were enough to stop me planting my hand to the wall and following it along—toward those children. They needed me more than I needed to feel to safe. I just kept imagining them in that cell, hugging themselves for comfort after being beaten for trying to eat. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. I just wanted to wrap them all up in my arms and tell them it would be all right. Then make it all right. Words weren't enough. Promises, no good. It was time to take action.
Each step deeper into the nothing felt like a bad idea, and my pulse was so strong, my heart gunning in my throat so hard it was almost difficult to breathe. The wall under my fingertips felt slimy yet gritty; I lifted my hand every few seconds to wipe some of the smut away, but it stuck to my skin like a bad memory.
“Why did you cry for us?” a little voice asked; I froze—my arms out in front, hands angled to the ground. The voice sounded so close, like the child who owned it was right in front of me.
“Where…where are you?”
“To your left,” it said very quietly.
I turned my head, brushing my hands out blindly in that same direction, stopping on metal, realising then that I came further than I thought. I’d half expected to feel the matchbox at my toes or at least hear the dripping of the leaky faucet I heard before, but there was nothing—not even the murky, rotten smell.
Using the bars, I felt my way down to the floor—hoping the children didn't grab my hand. “Are you—are you out of the cell?” I asked.
“No.”
“Hang on,” I said, combing around the dirt. “I’ll light a match.”
“That big man put them with the lantern,” the child said.
“Where’s the lantern?”
“On the wall.”
“Oh. Okay.” On my knees, I shuffled slowly to the back wall and ran my hands over each bump in the bricks until my fingers met with something cold and hard. And sure enough, the matches were in the lantern. I had to use all my other senses to get the damn box open, pull out a match and strike it, and when my fingertips, wrist and the base of the lantern showed under the flame’s gentle glow, I held my breath instead of exhaling relief, in case I blew it out. The cinder of smoke and warm flame ran past my nostrils, though, despite holding my breath, and circled the calm spot of familiarity inside me.
“Why did you come back?”
I looked up from the lantern to the cell, and saw it then—a child, with its back to me, its pale grey skin hugging each pebble-like bone in its spine.
“I wanted to make sure that little boy was all right.”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“For now. He’s not breathing.”
I covered my mouth with shaky fingers. “Will he be okay?”
“Do you care?”
“Yes,” I said, placing the lantern beside my knees as I sat down in the dirt.
“Why?” the child said, making no effort to look at me. I wondered what I’d see in that face; if he hid it because he knew the truths that burrowed deep within his dark little soul, or if he was hiding because he was shy.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know why they lock you in here?”
“Because we’re bad.”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s not because you’re bad—you’re not bad.” I slid closer to the cage. “You’re just a vampire. The ones who lock you away are afraid you won’t control the killing—that you might hurt too many humans.”
He didn't say anything, just kept moving his arm back and forth.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Playing.”
“A game?”
“Yes.”
“What game?”
“Noughts and crosses.”
“I like that game. Can I play, too?”
He turned around and his black eyes looked so chilling, yet full of so much innocence my heart burned. “Do you have a stick?” the boy asked.
“I—” I looked around, not seeing one, so I stood up and grabbed the keys off the wall. “I can use these.”
“Okay,” he said. “You be crosses.”
“Okay.” I took a quick glance into the back of the cell, my mouth dropping when I saw the other children; each one sat in small groups, whispering to each other, watching us or playing games of their own. My hand shook as I made a game board in the dirt—on my side of the bars. “Can you reach this?”
The boy rose onto his knees and slowly placed his stick through the bars. His hand was so tiny—covered in dried and fresh blood, cacked with dirt. His nails were long, really long, with black ridges making lines all the way down them. I felt the sting of the healed scratches those nails had given me.
“I’ll make my cross in the centre,” I said. “That’s always the best place to start.”
He considered the board for a moment, then drew a circle on the far corner.
“Very good,” I said, looking away from his face. “What’s your name?”
“Maggot.”
“Maggot?” I frowned, then laughed. “Oh, is that what the keeper calls you?”
“That's what he calls everyone.”
“Well—” I stopped for a second, listening, sure I heard a distant echo in the direction I came from. “That’s not your name. What did your mum and dad call you before you came here? Do you remember?”
His dark eyes narrowed, strained concentration making his face appear aged beyond his probably only six human years. “Maxwell.”
“Max,” I whispered. “Then, that’s your name—not Maggot.” I stood up and dusted myself off. “I'm coming back for you—all of you, and I'm going to give you a home. You’re not monsters, okay? But you will have to learn to behave. Can you do that?”
“Will you let us play outside—see the grass?” A little girl appeared, her fingers around the bars, her smiling face pressed between them.
“Yes.” I placed my hand over my heart to steady it. “I promise.”
“That's what the last one said,” Max muttered.
“Last one? What last one?”
“The angel,” another piped up from the back of the cell.
“Hair of gold,” said another.
“Arietta.” A tall, almost teenage boy stood up and walked over to me. “She promised to set us free—but she never came back.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She had a baby,” said another. “People don't care about other kids when they have their own.”
“Oh. Oh, no.” I grabbed the bars and pressed my face between them. “You don't understand. She died. She never got to have her baby.”
“Then, are you going to die too?” Max asked.
“No, Max.” I touched his dirty, blonde hair. “I'm the new queen. I—” I looked at the keys on the floor beside the lantern. “I'm going to let you out. Okay?”
“Ara?” Mike grabbed my hand and yanked me back from the bars; the children fled from sight. “What are you doing?”
“They’re not monsters, Mike,” I beamed.
He swept the keys off the floor and stood up again, groaning. “When are you going to learn? You never listen. Never! One day you're going to get yourself killed, girl.”
“Mike, they talked to me. They—”
“Yeah, nice trick, isn't it? They're predators, Ara.” He stepped into me. “What did you think they were doing? They want to eat you—not befriend you.”