Wicked Hungry

“And you, Connor?” I ask.

“I need to find Carolina. And I must open the gate,” he says. “And go home.”

“I too wish to open the gate,” Nye says. “I can’t leave my knights stranded in your world.”

“Do you live in our world, Connor?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “But I serve Clan Whelan.”

We come to a small landing with an enormous door against the far wall. We assemble in front of the door, which is inscribed with runes I can’t figure out.

“Home,” says Rewsin, turning to us. To me, I realize. “Stanley, if you ever need me, say my name three times backwards, then bite your lip and spit blood on the floor. I will come and fulfill my debt.”

Then before we can react, he turns and wrenches the door open, revealing pure red fire. He leaps through the doorway with a cry of joy. His body collapses there in the doorway, shrinking until it’s just a dead dog.

The doorway shuts behind him.

“What happened?” I ask.

“He went home,” Nye says, “but he left his host here on the stairs.”

I look at what was once Frumberg’s dog. “It deserves a burial, at least.” But the body melts, dissolving, leaving behind a nasty stench. The process continues until there’s nothing but a dark stain on the gra

y stone, then nothing at all.

“We must keep moving,” Nye says then. “Time is passing here, I think.”

I climb again, the others following me. My legs are heavy and weak, and I’m filled with questions. How long will we climb, and at midnight, no less? When was the last time I ate? Will the next door lead me to Meredith?

My fist still squeezes the tiny tag, but it feels funny in my hand — solid, metallic and cold — and I bring it up to my eyes as I walk. In the faint light emanating from the walls around us, I see a tiny golden key in my palm.

Without thinking about it, I stick the key in my jeans pocket.

We come to another landing, and here the door is normal-sized. My size. On it, written in script, I can read: “Meredith and Carolina.”

Underneath, more is written.

“The Seelie queen’s chambers.”

“Are we just going to burst into her room?” Karen asks. “That seems foolish.”

“Or we could just waste the rest of our days on this stairwell,” I say.

“The boy has a point,” Nye says, pulling out a blade.

“Would you draw your blade against a queen?” Connor asks.

Nye shrugs. “Who knows what we’ll meet there? It’s best to be cautious. Perhaps the queen needs protection from her own people.”

Before anyone else can say anything, I push the door. It opens into darkness. My feet propel me forward, the others following me.

The air is warm and humid, and the stink hits me before I’m halfway through the door. Fruit. Ripe, tropical fruit. It grows from the ground on short, stunted trees that sit in golden bowls, like some kind of strange bonsai. Mango. Passion fruit. Star fruit. Pineapple. Cantaloupe. The trees and plants stand arranged in gold inlaid bowls on dark wood tables, their fruit so ripe it must be fermenting, calling out to be picked. We have nothing like this in New England, not in my mother’s food co-op, not even at Whole Foods. My mother would be in ecstasy, but I just want to know: where’s the meat? My God, what would I give for a steak right now. Or a rabbit... I am so hungry.

“Where are they?” Karen asks from behind me.

I tear my eyes away from the plants, from my dreams of food. This isn’t a garden, but sleeping chambers, and they’re here somewhere. There, past a pair of pineapple bushes, Carolina and Meredith lie on two cots.

Where are the guards?