Forbidden (47 page)

The monklike-hooded Frankenstein of a soul catcher appears out of nowhere and offers up the cauldron for any takers. The exit is another hallway across the room. It seems simple enough, so Duffy says, “No way, man. We’re not giving up any souls here.”

That’s when the first snake drops from the ceiling. We gasp and cling to each other all over again.

The Plexiglas ceiling is drilled with holes every five feet, and the snakes are slithering over each other to find the openings. Long and black, the snake on the floor raises its head, flicking out a thin red tongue to sense the distance of its prey. Then another snake drops, and Rachel crawls up Holden’s back.

“I’m giving a soul! I’m giving a soul!”

Bailey cowers behind Duffy and peers over his shoulder. “They can’t be real, right?” The snakes hiss and slide, and we know.

Holden unwinds the lasso from his belt and provokes the snakes in a different direction. Two more drop, and then another.

“There’s no time!” Duffy barks, unsheathing his plastic pirate sword and jabbing at a snake. They are moving in, so Duffy orders Bailey to climb onto his back.

“Sophia, come on!” She reaches for me as they start across the room.

“No, you go ahead.” It’s obvious that Duffy can’t hold both of us. He tells me to stay close behind them but this won’t work either. There are too many snakes dangling
and dropping from the ceiling, and the thought of one creeping up my dress is petrifying.

“I’m fine!” I croak. “I’ll give up a soul and meet you on the other side!” I look down at the two remaining crosses in my hand and comprehend what I have done. I didn’t win the battle with Dante. And now I’m at a bigger disadvantage.

When my friends are safely across the room and the floor is amassed with snakes, I drop the cross into the cauldron. There is no resounding clang to indicate it hit bottom, but a wall to my left slides open, and the soul catcher abruptly pushes me into the gaping hole. I yelp and stumble backward. Panic hits me as the wall slams shut and I am thrown into pitch-darkness. I cry out, reaching for the opening.

It’s the kind of blackness you find in caves, as though light never even bothered to look inside. Boiling hot with stale, rancid air, I suck in a breath and then cover my mouth. Not only does it taste foul, I realize I’m standing in six inches of smelly water. Terror fills me, and I grope the wall for a lever or crevice, anything to help pry it open. I pound and yell until my throat closes up. It’s too hot and I can’t breathe. I think something long and slimy just swam along the hem of my dress.

I flatten against the wall as fear curls my stomach. I hear splashing in the dark and start making outlandish deals with the higher-ups. Sweat prickles my skin but I feel clammy and light-headed, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Without warning, the air is sucked from the room and the intake pulls at my dress. To my right, a rectangular shaft of light cuts into the blackness, and I see I’m at the wrong end of a long corridor. A door is open and a dark figure is standing aside, waiting.

I clutch my dress, running and splashing until I am up the incline and several yards through the doorway. I hear squealing and thrashing in the water behind me, and then the door slams and I whirl around.

Wolfgang.

I am shaking and fighting to catch my breath. On the whole, I’d rather not leave myself in Wolfgang’s care, so I stave off a deep desire to pass out and be done with it all.

Wolfgang has evolved from Evil Skeleton Man to Evil Captain of the Guard. He is dressed in a formal blue uniform with shiny brass buttons, gold cuffs, formal tails, white gloves, black pants, and boots. His hair is slicked back and his face shaven. Wolfgang is twitchy like an impatient waiter.

We are standing in an expansive ballroom that can’t possibly fit inside the mansion. It’s better suited for a palace, with its baroque walls and gilded mirrors, its spacious dance floor and glittering chandelier.

Wolfgang walks toward me, his boots throwing echoes against the lofty ceiling. He is tugging off the white gloves and watching me with an absence of sympathy for my
terrifying experience.

“Hello, Sophia.” His voice is deeper and more potent in the hollow room.

“Now what?” I make a stab at coming off unaffected, but my voice does a lovely vibrato and betrays me. I can’t calm down yet. Wolfgang’s eyes fall on the remaining cross clutched in my hand.
Yeah, okay. I didn’t get past the first intrigue without losing a soul. Funny thing is, I don’t care
.

“You gave up another soul.” He clicks his tongue disdainfully as though he’s disappointed yet not surprised. “Not too attached to them, are you?”

“So what happens now? Where are the others?”

“I don’t think you’ll be seeing them again. They took a … different path. I’d say they had more guts than you.”

“I just don’t like playing games.”

“Oh, I think you do.” He circles me, slow and menacingly. “I think you played Dante pretty well. Strung him along—”

“I didn’t string anyone along.” I turn, watching him watching me. “Tell me what happens now.”

We face off, and he slaps the gloves against his palm. “You have two choices. So let’s see how brave you are.” He gestures around us. “We are in a ballroom, Sophia. You can either dance with me or …” He flips the gloves in the direction of a wall to my right.

There is a hidden door in the ornate gold wall that I hadn’t noticed before.

“That’s all?”

Wolfgang’s face becomes dark, and he looks at me with your garden-variety serial killer smile, Hannibal Lecter before he takes that first spoonful of brains. I step back and he cocks his head in question. I assess my surroundings and fail to find any doors or windows or wizards with balloons willing to take me home. I hear a deep machine-gun-esque noise; Wolfgang is laughing, or rather, the place in his chest where his heart should be is.

I throw my chin up and say in my
Yes, I am stupider than I look
voice, “I don’t get it. I play Dirty Dancing with you or What’s Behind Door Number One?”

He stares.

“So … what
is
behind the door anyway?”

I blink, and Wolfgang is beside me with his hand clutching my throat. My cockiness falls off as I claw at his hand and struggle to breathe. My eyes shift nervously as he leans to my ear.

“Now that would be cheating if I told you. And we can’t cheat fate, can we? So you have to decide. What do you fear most? What you can see? Or what you cannot see?”

His breath is fire in my ear, and I imagine it burning through to bone. I want to cringe but he is holding me too tight.

I’m thinking this is some insane joke that will end any second, that Wolfgang won’t hurt me, that the snakes weren’t real, none of it is.

And then the screams come. Somewhere in the mansion, tortured screams echo and stab at my ears. Not special effects but the cries of my friends. I look at Wolfgang and see madness in his eyes. They are as black as obsidian and swirling. I stare in horror, the rotation making my head swim. I close my eyes and scramble for a practical thought.

“No music,” I murmur, and immediately hear a symphony swell inside the room.

Wolfgang releases me, and I clutch my neck, gasping for air. He smiles and tosses the gloves aside.

“I’d like to feel your skin beneath my hands. I’ve been wondering how soft your thighs could be.” He thinks I have consented and offers a large calloused hand.

Wolfgang’s definition of dancing obviously differs from mine.
How far is he meaning to take this game?
More screams make me twitch, and then Wolfgang runs his tongue over his teeth in anticipation.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” I say, my voice quivering. The hand and the smile drop. “Please, Wolfgang, I can’t go through the door; the last door was … I think something bit me. Please!”

He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, relishing my fear. “Ah, the begging.” My pathetic plea is an elixir that gets him high. He grins dreamily, and then opens his eyes. They are glassy and turning like pinwheels again. He stares hard at me.

“Dance with me,” he commands.

“What if I give up the last cross?”

He frowns, confused by my unwillingness to submit. His eyes flare with rage. “Sophia! There is no bargaining at this stage! You
must
take one of the options out of here! Besides, you don’t want to give up your last ‘soul.’ You would have to finish the intrigues without protection, and I promise you, Vaughn spared nothing to make this—what did Santi call it—the X Games of haunted houses? But it’s your choice. My advice? Dance with me; it will be unforgettable. I guarantee it.” Again, he offers an evil smile and his hand.

There is a guttural purr emanating from his chest. Wolfgang is antsy, and all my alarms are ringing. I shake my head and carefully maneuver around him. His pinwheel eyes narrow, tracking me.

I make for the secret door on shaky legs, half expecting him to yank me back by my hair. But he doesn’t; he was telling the truth; the choice was mine to make.

I push against the wall and the hidden door springs open toward me. I grab it, peering inside. Just as I feared, more darkness.

My eyes gradually adjust as I step inside, and then the door slams behind me. I am standing on a dimly lit cobblestone street with waddle, daub, and timber buildings on either side. An old Dickens village with windows shuttered for the night. The street is narrow and short like an alley and reeks of animal waste and rotten cabbage. It’s deserted but I hear gruff female voices echo off the walls, Old English accents and trashy talk. I hear a horse whinny and hooves clomping and then carriage wheels grinding against wet bricks. Gas lanterns hang from poles where they hiss and sputter but provide enough light to see by.

There are no options so I take a small step forward and wait for something horrendous to happen. Nothing. I make out a simple cottage with a thatch roof at the end of the street. Box flowers underscore the windows, and a crude signpost out front reads W
HITE
C
HAPEL
and points to the left.

I grip the pewter cross in my sweaty fist, desperate to get out of here.
Rip it like a Band-Aid, Sophia. The quicker the better
. I force myself to move farther into the street, trusting my legs to do their thing. My eyes jump around like hot popcorn, and my scalp tingles. I fear I am easy prey being stalked.

I reach the end of the street and face the cottage. Still nothing, so I peer around the corner. The stone walls are high and crudely constructed and line both sides of the street. Ominous fog hovers ankle deep over the cobblestones. I look in the opposite direction. Dead end. Again, I have no options. I follow the signpost to the left.

I am negotiating my way cautiously so as not to make any noise, but a few yards in I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind me. I stop, hold my breath, and listen. They stop.
Just my echo. Just my echo
. I am wearing satin slippers, no echo.
Damn!

I look over my shoulder. There is a man in a black suit with a top hat and cape. His face is shadowed but I see the whites of his large, bulbous eyes. I think he might speak but then something metallic flashes in his hands, and I don’t care what he has to say.

I hitch up my dress and take off down the middle of the road. The faster I run the louder his footsteps. The echo crawls up my skin and pricks the back of my neck. My chest is heaving, and I run helter-skelter in search of an opening in the walls.

There is no doorway or break in the stones but I throw myself from one side to the other, groping and not finding. Always the footsteps grinding behind me. The light is fading and I can’t see more than a few feet ahead. The fog looms around my calves, and I
trip on a jutting stone and fall hard onto my hands and knees. The metal cross clangs against the bricks, and I let go a panicked cry. My hands brush blindly along wet, slimy stones beneath the fog. I’m frantic for the cross. The footsteps close in, and I hear his lumbering weight gnashing brine beneath his shoes. Loose, wet breathing whistles from his nose. The fog shifts, bringing up the rotten stench of roadkill. He is getting closer. Almost here …

I snatch the cross, grab my dress, and bolt forward. Cold, bony fingers claw through my hair as I catapult myself down the street. I round a corner and stop cold—a brick wall. I spin around and there he is. The gaslight throws his left side in shadow and illuminates his right. What I see is half a tuxedo, half a black tie, half a mustache, and one black eye shifting unnaturally in its socket. The metal instrument in his hand is a surgeon’s scalpel.

Even as I tell myself he isn’t real, he walks closer and drags the blade across his palm like a whetting stone. His black mustache twitches when he speaks.

“ ’Ello, luv,” he murmurs. “Nothing to fear, ’ere.” His face is the patchwork of a rotten corpse hastily pieced together, the shoddy stitching frayed, the skin puckered and oozing with gunk. His loose eye rolls in his head until it finds its target, my neck. He lifts the scalpel, and I press against the wall.

“Stop it!” My voice is shaky and not near as loud as the screaming in my head. I am trapped on the flip side of logic, in that sliver of space between nightmare and reality. I don’t trust myself to know what’s real anymore. I raise my hands defensively and yell, “Just stop it! I want out!”

He grabs my wrist, killing any hope that he is a figment of my unreliable imagination. His hand is icy and strong as he twists me sideways nearly breaking my arm at the elbow. “Where shall we start?” he muses, and tips the scalpel one way and then another. I’m caught and wait helplessly as the blade touches my throat in a thin cold line. I suck air in short hard breaths, afraid he’ll cut me. He contemplates his options, mesmerized by his task.

“ ’Ere, maybe?” He sets the blade to the base of my throat, and I feel my pulse thump against it. “Or, perhaps … ’ere? At Michael’s ’ollow?” Our eyes lock, and I see he is not deranged but lucid and controlled. He taps the instrument against my collarbone and considers the place for his first incision. My skin recoils, and I push out the only thought in my head.