Of course!
I’d forgotten about this hallway. I’d traveled this way when I’d first trespassed but had been using the main entrances ever since.
Where does it go?
My phone and PLB could be up there.
Without hesitating, I took the steps two at a time and opened the ratty door at the top.
And then, I froze.
A chill ran down my spine.
Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I’d finally found Kas’s bedroom.
I’d found it strange that in all my sleuthing the past week, I hadn’t found an area where Kas slept. No signs of well-worn mattresses or a spot on the carpet somewhere. It was as if he didn’t live in this house at all.
But now, I knew.
He lives here.
In a dormitory of ten single beds all lined up along the walls, end to end, the wrought iron frames all touching as if they were one giant caterpillar circling around the space.
No other furniture.
No rugs or color.
Just gray sheets, gray blankets, and a world of graffiti above each bed on bare gray walls. Scribbles from fingernails, pens, and crayons were the only works of art. Counting off days, depicting flowers, recounting their nightmares with sketches of monsters.
I drifted forward. My hands bunched by my sides as I followed the line of beds. Each bed was impeccably made with tucked corners and fluffed pillows. On top of each pillow rested a book.
All old-fashioned tome in red leather with gold writing. All identical with the words The Fables by Stuart Page. Morals for all occasions stamped into the binding.
Only one bed didn’t hold a book. An empty mattress that seemed even lonelier than the rest. With my heart in my throat, I moved from the empty bed and gathered up one of the books, tipping it open.
I braced myself, not knowing what I’d find.
A dragon blowing fire from the pages?
A minotaur galloping to slay me?
Instead, I found a name.
Drawn in careful calligraphy and duty: Wesley.
Beneath the name was a single sentence: Chosen from the Fable of Madness. Chapter Eight: Wes & the Sparrow.
Holding my breath, I skimmed the contents, then flipped well-fingered pages to chapter eight. The title was in filigree and full of fancy swirls of birds, feathers, and a little boy hanging onto a sparrow’s tail as it fluttered toward the sky.
A printed line stated: The moral of Fable of Madness is not to covet those things you cannot have. Envy will only make you mad.
A handwritten scrawl beneath said: I cannot have Nyx, but I’ll hold on to her feathers until the day I die.
A feminine note had been penned beneath that: I belong to Wes and I’ll fly us both out of here somehow.
Tears I hadn’t even noticed blurred the rest of the fable about a boy falling in love with a sparrow, feeding it, wanting to keep it, then sinking into madness when it flew away.
Closing the book, I went to the next bed.
The same book of Fables waited, but this copy belonged to Maliki. Chosen from Fable of Fortune. Chapter Twelve: Hard-working Maliki.
I skipped to chapter twelve where a juvenile giraffe diligently swept the savannah with a broken broom all while a herd of lazy rhino looked on. He was paid in dust and scorn until his hard work took him to an oasis where his fortune changed in the form of rain and delicious grass.
What was this book?
What does it mean?
Placing Maliki’s copy back on his pillow, I turned to the next bed. Rushing to know what each one hid.
Flipping open the third, I glanced at the title page, frowning as a heavily scratched sentence shouted at me through the years it’d been penned: I won’t choose a slave name from a stupid fable. I choose Neo. I’m Neo from The Matrix. I have powers. I just don’t know it yet. I will end you. You’ll see.
Another sentence had been written beneath that. The penmanship beautiful, but the words icy and brutal: As you wish, Neo. You can believe you have powers. You will prove to be your own fable. A Fable of Disappointment. Signed, Storymaker.
I dropped the book.
Storymaker.
Kas had mentioned him enough times in his nightmares for me to know he was the devil. Worse than the devil. He was the man who’d sourced, trapped, and conditioned an untold number of sexual servants.
I wanted to kill a man I’d never met.
Kas.
My heart tugged me to go check on him.
I hadn’t been to visit all morning. He’d been furious when he’d last woken. Dangerously violent and messed up. Demanding to know how much longer his family would be forced to serve. Snarling that I’d broken my promise not to hurt them. He’d clawed at his chest and thrown himself at my feet, pleading in that murderous tone of his to use him and not them.
I’d clutched my knife, just waiting for him to launch upward and attack me—for my leash around his ankle to fail.