The Keep (The Watchers 4)

Thank you, Judge, I thought, with a pang for my beloved-but-now-dead Phenomena teacher.

I cracked the door open as narrowly as possible, terrified the hinges might squeak if I swung it open all the way. I was worried about any makeshift traps, too—setting an alarm constructed of precariously stacked cans seemed like just the sort of thing the sourpuss maintenance man might do.

My heart punched at my chest. There’d be no Carden to save me if I got caught. Though the worst punishment would come from Ronan. I’d disappointed him once before, when they’d discovered my illicit iPod, and the look he’d given me had razed me. I didn’t want to see that expression ever again.

Ever so slowly, I slipped inside, carefully placing a foot, waiting, sliding the other foot forward, waiting, and so on until I was inside. No squeaks, no traps.

I let myself take a quick moment to calm my heartbeat and open my senses to the night. Nothing heard me. Nobody was coming. I was safe.

Originally, I’d wanted to get close to the janitor in order to get my hands on moldable materials, but in the end, that was the one element that’d been easiest to procure—especially as there wasn’t going to be any extreme cliffside castings in my future. When the janitor lit a candle inside his shed, he’d given me the answer I needed. Wax. Duh.

I went straight to the wall of keys. In the blackness of the shed, it was a mass of metal—dangerously noisy metal—but I’d memorized well the approximate location of that one key ring. Shutting my eyes once more, I swept my fingers lightly along until I touched it, that strange infinity shape protruding from the wall differently from the others.

I took it from its hook, cringing at the tinkling sound made by the surrounding keys. I stood frozen, heart pounding, waiting to be caught. But still, no one came.

I worked quickly from there. It was easy to get ahold of candles in this place—the vamps loved all things antiquated—and earlier I’d melted one into a smooth puddle. I quickly warmed it, praying the smell of matches didn’t summon any of the many creatures on this island with hypersensitive noses.

My first attempt was uneven, and finally I decided it’d be best to press the fob itself as flatly as possible into the wax, without the keys in the way, but they were proving remarkably tricky to pull from the ring. I fiddled with the thing, my panic rising with each passing minute. Finally, I just gave it a good twist…but rather than the keys sliding off, something else happened. Something else entirely.

With a soft click, the triangle popped out from the fob.

I stared in disbelief. Then I burst into action, warming the wax in my palms, rolling it into a ball, winding it around the triangle, taking an exact impression.

Later, I’d whittle the ends of several stakes into the same shape. Hopefully one of them would work and be a perfect fit for that strange triangular hole. I’d use the end of a stake to open that padlock. Open the gate.

This was it. It was becoming real.

I’d do this. I was breaking into the castle.

I wondered if I’d ever come out again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I needed to see Ronan. I wanted to say good-bye. To thank him. And maybe there was a part of me that hoped someone cared enough to see what I was doing and stop me. I longed to feel some connection with somebody before I went off pursuing certain death. I wanted someone who wasn’t Vampire to know what’d happened to me. I wanted to feel—or pretend to feel—that somebody gave a damn about my fate.

I didn’t want to just disappear.

Because I had no illusions: I knew well that mine was a suicide mission.

Ronan had said he was off to the village, and so I set off for the village, too. I moved quickly, keeping to the coast. If caught, I’d claim ignorance. Claim I thought my newfound Initiate status protected me. And who knew—maybe it did.

My skin crawled, recalling Ronan’s words, how my status as Alcántara’s greatest amusement protected me, too. I shoved away the thought.

Sundays were generally quiet, and I snuck off at dawn, heading farther north than I’d ever gone. Would I find Ronan? See him among his people? Would there be family who resembled him? Some cousin with his green eyes?

Once I was close enough, I headed inland, perching on a rock, surveying the valley below. Several cottages were huddled into a small settlement. They all looked the same—squat, rough-looking things, constructed of dingy stone connected by sloppy seams of mortar, once white, now weathered to a mossy greenish gray. Every roof was thatched, curving down on either side, close enough to the ground to touch. I tried to picture Ronan moving among them—he’d have to hunch while standing inside.

What struck me first was the quiet. It was a ghost town. Nobody was around. It wasn’t the picture of what I imagined a quaint village to be—there were no laughing children, no gossiping women, no bustle to be seen at all.

I went on alert. This place had a weird vibe. A hostile vibe. And of course it did—I’d be pretty hostile, too, if forced to live in service to a bunch of old vampires.

I thought with a smirk how that was exactly my situation. Servile, hostile: check and check.

I scooted down the far side of the hill for a closer look, moving as stealthily as I could. It went unspoken that vampires and villagers didn’t mingle, but how would these people view me? Lately, it felt like every time I went out alone, I was attacked. I was sure I could deal with a few regular humans, but I’d prefer to avoid a mob if I could.

I began to question this whole endeavor, but still, I waited. I’d wanted a glimpse of Ronan, but now my curiosity consumed me. I wanted to see someone, anyone. Who were these people? Would they be mostly like Tom: a realist who was wary but friendly? Or would they be like that janitor? Fearful. Hateful. Suspicious.

My eyes were drawn to movement just below me, behind one of the cottages on the perimeter. I waited until I saw it again—fabric fluttering. I scooted sideways, craning my head until I was able to peer behind the building. And finally, I saw a person, a woman, moving slowly and methodically, hanging laundry out to dry.