I finally make it to the dungeon-like cells, with their creaking hinges and ancient chains. Since I’m alone and there’s no one around to rush me, I let myself stop and look them over for a minute. At night, alone, they’re even creepier than they are during the day. And they’re plenty creepy then.
There are five cells in a row, each one equipped with an iron-barred door. Each door has an ancient padlock threaded through its latch bar, but each of the padlocks is closed (with no keys in sight) so there’s no chance of anyone getting locked in the cells by accident…or, for that matter, not by accident.
The cells themselves are made of giant stones, each one about the width of a dragon’s foot (or at least the width of Flint’s foot, since he’s the only dragon I’ve ever seen), and I wonder if there’s a reason for that or if my imagination is just running wild. Either way, the stones are black and craggy and more than a little ominous-looking.
Then again, everything about the cells is ominous-looking—especially the three sets of shackles driven deep into the wall. Judging by the age of this place and the condition of the padlocks themselves, I would expect the shackles to be in pretty rough shape, too.
But they’re not. Instead, they’re a blindingly bright silver, free of any rust or sign of age. Which, not going to lie, makes me wonder how old they are. And why on earth Katmere Academy—which is run by my uncle, for God’s sake—might have need of shackles thick enough to hold a rampaging dinosaur. Or, you know, a dragon, werewolf, or vampire…
Because thinking about it takes me along a disturbing path, one I’m not ready to go down tonight, I tell myself there must be a reasonable explanation—one that doesn’t involve locking students up in a freezing dungeon for who knows how long.
Figuring I’m going to lose my nerve if I stay here any longer debating this, I take a deep breath and step into the fifth cell, which is the only one with the extra door that leads to the tunnels.
As I do, I brush a hand over the padlock on the door, just to make sure it’s securely locked and no werewolf can come along and trap me in the tunnels.
Except, the moment my fingers brush against the lock, it clicks open…and falls out of the door latch straight into my hands.
Not quite the confidence builder I was looking for, especially considering I know it was locked. I know it.
Totally creeped out now, I slip the lock into the pocket of my hoodie—there’s no way I’m putting it on the door until I’m safely back from the art cottage and heading to bed. Then I bend over and plug in the code Flint taught me for the tunnel door all those months ago.
I enter the last digit and the door swings open, just like it has every other time I’ve gone down here. But every other time I’ve been with someone else, and somehow that’s made it less creepy.
Unless I concentrate on the fact that two of the four people I’ve been in the tunnels with literally tried to kill me here. Then it seems like pretty good odds that I’m by myself.
Deciding I either need to stop freaking myself out or go back to bed, I walk through the door. And try to ignore that all the candles in the sconces and chandeliers are still lit.
Then again, it’s a good thing they are. Because it’s not like I can just flip a switch and flood the place with light. Even though I want to. The bone chandeliers look a million times creepier now that I know they’re actually real bones and not some cool student-made art project.
For a second, I think about forgetting the whole thing. About heading back to my room and to hell with the tunnels. Staring at the ceiling above my bed has to be better than making my way through Katmere’s very own version of the Paris Catacombs on my own.
But the need to paint has been growing exponentially in me since I left my room a little while ago, until I can practically feel the paint brush in my hand. Until I can practically smell the pungent oil of the paints on my canvas.
Besides, if I let these tunnels—and the memories they hold—run me out of here now, I don’t know if I’ll ever again work up the nerve to come back.
With that thought in mind, I pull out my phone and swipe open the music app I downloaded earlier. I choose one of my happy playlists—Summertime (Un)Sadness—and “I’m Born to Run” fills up the silence around me. It’s hard to be scared when American Authors are singing about how they want to live their life like it’s never enough. Talk about an anthem tailor-made for this situation.
So in the end, I do what they suggest. I run. And not some little jog, either. I run my ass off, ignoring how the altitude makes my lungs feel like they want to explode.
Ignoring everything except the need to get through this damn creep-fest as fast as I possibly can.
I don’t slow down until I’m running at a slant up the tunnel that leads to the art cottage. Once I finally make it to the unlocked door, I shove it and practically trip over my feet in my haste to get inside.
The first thing I do is reach for the light switch just to the left of the door. The second thing I do is slam the door shut as hard as I can and flip the lock. I know Dr. MacCleary says she always keeps the door open in case one of her students is inspired, but as far as I know, she didn’t just narrowly escape being a human sacrifice. I figure that gives me at least a little bit of leeway.
Besides, if someone else is actually ridiculous enough to want in here tonight, they can knock. As long as I know for sure they aren’t trying to kill me, I’ll be happy to let them in.
Sure, maybe I’m being paranoid. But I wasn’t paranoid enough four months ago, and all that got me was a vacation I can’t remember and my very own set of horns.
That’s not a mistake I’m going to make a second time.
After spending a minute just catching my breath, I grab the paints I need and head into the classroom. I’ve already got a really clear idea of what I want the finished background to look like—and what I need to do to get it there.
With any luck, the monsters of Katmere Academy will hold off trying to kill me long enough for me to get something done. Then again, the night is young.
18
I Think I Had
Amnesia Once…
or Twice
“Come on, Grace, wake up. You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t get up soon.”
“Sleepy,” I mumble as I roll onto my stomach and away from Macy’s annoyingly cheerful voice.
“I know you’re sleepy, but you have to get up. Class starts in forty minutes and you haven’t even had a shower yet.”
“No shower.” I grab my comforter and pull it over my head, making sure to keep my eyes closed so I won’t be blinded by the hot-pink fabric. Or give Macy the idea that I’m actually awake. Because I very definitely am not.