“I know.” I grab her hand and force her to keep moving. Near the bottom of the stairs there’s a soft glow. Aspen must think it’s the flicker of a light or a torch. But it’s neither. “Remember, no matter what happens, no screaming.” I look ahead and consider what waits there. “The collectors are the only ones who will definitely recognize I shouldn’t be here. The others may not know.”
The others. The demons and tortured humans. Those others.
I decide not to clarify and instead lead the way. As we move forward, I say a silent prayer to Big Guy that the collectors aren’t here, that they’re all above ground recruiting more sirens or sealing souls or whatever.
Aspen and I step down from the last stair and walk into a circular room. Red dirt covers the floors, and a green glow washes the area. The ground shakes, and I grip Aspen’s hand tighter.
“What’s that sound?” she asks, her voice shaking.
Before I can answer, a bear the size of a barn pads into the room. The familiar green hue radiates from his eyes. It burns bright as he studies us. Aspen stumbles backward as the bear rises up on his hind legs and roars. The sound is deafening. It shakes the bones beneath my skin, and my eardrums feel as if they’ve ruptured.
Hello, old friend.
The bear, coated in thick black fur with teeth the size of my arm, drops down onto all fours. He kneels and opens his mouth wide. It’s so wide, a human could walk into his jaws if they only hunched down.
And that’s exactly what we’ll do.
“We have to go in there,” I say.
Aspen’s face twists with dread. “Inside his mouth?”
“It won’t be for long,” I clarify. After we’d left the Hive, Max and I tried to prepare Aspen for what she should expect in hell. But she wouldn’t listen. She said if she knew too much, she’d be tempted to back out. So I only explain what I have to, when I have to.
Together, Aspen and I approach the bear’s mouth as we would the entrance of a cave. Saliva drips from his teeth like rain falling from the side of a house. We wait just outside his jaws, and his pink tongue rolls out like a red carpet. As soon as we step inside, the snakes come. I’ll give them credit; they waited longer than they usually do, coiled in the pockets of the bear’s cheeks.
At first, Aspen kicks at the serpents, trying in vain to free her legs of them. But they come faster, more and more until we are covered. They twine around our wrists like bracelets and squeeze our middles until it’s hard to breathe.
I can tell Aspen is dangerously close to breaking The Rule.
A snake with black scales and an orange head sinks its fangs into her neck. She cries out but stuffs a fist into her mouth to block the sound. She shakes her head back and forth.
My muscles clench. I don’t want her to be here. I don’t want anyone to know this is where I came from or to experience this level of terror. But I try and push the thought from my mind and focus on the end goaclass="underline" get to the soul storage room and get out of here.
“Aspen,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can. “The snakes won’t hurt you. Just keep walking toward the bear’s throat. We have to go into his belly.”
“Oh, God,” Aspen wails, tears streaming down her face.
She keeps walking.
Darkness swallows us, but I know it won’t last long. I can hear Aspen whimper. She’s strong, so strong that her legs carry her forward even though she’s blinded by fear. Aspen may think she’s failing me, but she’s doing as well as I could’ve possibly hoped.
Slime drips down my back as we stoop low and continue through the bear’s massive throat. Beside me, slick pink ridges quiver when I touch them.
“Aspen, do you trust me?” I ask.
Aspen hesitates. When she speaks, her voice is choked. “I trust you.”
I tickle the bear’s throat with my fingertips. I want to get this over with. The mammoth animal works his tongue so that we’re thrown side to side.
“What are you doing?” Aspen hollers.
I would tell her to keep it down, but it doesn’t matter. Not in here.
The bear swallows.
We slip down his throat like it’s a water park slide. Aspen grabs onto my leg, and we tumble head over heel. My heart pounds against my rib cage. Not because of what’s happening—I’ve done this too many times to be afraid—but because I know how Aspen must feel, how her mind must scream for release.
We land hard, and I pull Aspen to her feet.
She wipes her gloved hands over her eyes and tries to hide the fact that she’s been crying. I don’t know why. She just got swallowed by an oversized bear, for crap’s sake. I think she’s allowed a few tears.
I take her shoulders in my hands. “Are you okay? We’ve got a few more rooms to pass through, not too much longer. This place is an unending labyrinth, but I know the way. Can you make it?”
Aspen’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. “What is this place?” Her face holds a child-like fascination. My stomach lurches; that fascination will soon change to something very different.
“The Hall of Mirrors,” I answer.
The room is a perfect square and filled with reflective objects. An intricate chest, a suspended chandelier, musical instruments, picture frames, scattered furniture, children’s toys, stairs leading to nothing—they’re all mirrors. An uncertain smile slides across Aspen’s face. “It’s so beautiful,” she says, turning to me. “How is it possible?”
Light radiates from an unknown source, illuminating our bodies and bouncing off the mirrors. It’s a pristine palace. A house of wonders.
But it’s also a place of nightmares.
Aspen picks up a sphere and tosses it between her hands. It’s amazing how quickly she goes from tearful to confident curiosity. But then she looks closer at the globe. Her eyes narrow, and her features harden.
“What am I seeing?” Alarm colors Aspen’s voice.
“It isn’t real.” I rush to her side but stop when the images begin bouncing from the mirrors. My mom stands with her back to me, laughing. My father watches, blood dripping down his cheeks. I move toward the center of the room, stepping over glass tiles that play an endless reel of Max being torn open. My mind repeats what I just told Aspen, but it’s hard to believe what I’m saying because it’s all right here.
This room is always hard. No matter how many times I pass through it, my head throbs. My muscles tighten.
I can’t breathe.
Aspen drops down onto the floor and covers her head. She’s in the fetal position muttering about her father. Her back rises and falls too quickly. I’ve got to get to her before her heart gives out.
But it’s hard when Charlie’s face stares back at me, her eyes gouged out.
“You have to believe it isn’t real,” I say to Aspen, and maybe to myself, too. “You have to believe it isn’t real, or we’ll never get out.”
I drop onto the floor and watch Max being dismembered beneath my hands. Then I lunge at Aspen. I yank her into my arms and whisper in her ear, “Think about Sahara. Think about Lincoln. Remember why we’re here. This isn’t real. It’s in your head. Believe what I’m telling you. You have to, Aspen.”
Several seconds pass before her head lifts. She looks around the room, and though her face is contracted in pain, she says, “It isn’t real.”
The moment she speaks those words, I believe them, too.
The room changes colors. It’s red. There are human bodies everywhere, shielding their eyes and screaming for the images to stop. Aspen never knew they were there. But I did.
Beneath us, the floor cracks into a million pieces.
Aspen freezes and I see him—a collector—standing in the Hall of Mirrors, arms folded across his chest.