Secrets
The moth-eaten blanket stank of rot. Myra’s fist clenched the tattered fabric so hard, she nearly tore it apart. The cloth was so thin, her fingers touched in between the threads. Her eyes darted around the cellar: pitch dark and silent, apart from the familiar, high-pitched scratching—rat claws over stone.
She turned on the hard cot, willing herself to sleep, but her mind was reeling. It’s actually happening. The Resistance had captured Tristan alive. For the first time in fifty years, they held real, tangible power. And she, a selfish, dumb traitor, had promised to let Tristan go.
But self-reproach would help no one. Myra sat up and reached out in the darkness, finding two pieces of flint. She searched for the candle next to her bedside and frowned when her fingers found only a smooth, greasy blob of wax. Cold and solid on the outside, but the surface gave under her touch. Of course—she had let the candle burn down completely. What an efficient use of our scarce supplies. Just two months at the Prince’s Palace had made her spoiled and wasteful.
Myra opened a wooden box she had pulled from underneath her cot and rummaged through old papers, pens, forks, buttons, threads… and needles, she realized belatedly as a sharp sting shot up her finger. Finally, she found a new candle. She lit it with the flint and brought it closer to the large mechanical watch on the table. The hour hand had barely passed the second mark. No way. Had she been tossing and turning in bed for only a couple of hours? She would have sworn it had been much longer.
That meant she had to wait for four more hours until breakfast, and only then would the Warriors’ Council visit and feed the prisoner. If the last couple of hours had been such torture for her, what had they been for Tristan? Vlad had claimed vampires drained of blood would feel as if drowning in a sea of dreadful nightmares until someone fed them. She had promised the Prince she would take care of Tristan, but she had left him to suffer.
Myra stood up, running a hand through her hair so hard she pulled a few strands loose. She had betrayed everyone—both Zack and the Prince. The very least she could do now was try to keep at least one of her empty promises.
She raised the candle and took a step, wincing at the loud sound her feet made on the stone floor. The hinges squeaked as she opened the door, and her breath caught in her throat. Myra expected the whole Resistance to come rushing in, demanding to know why she was leaving her room in the middle of the night. She stood frozen still for a few minutes, hardly daring to breathe. When no sound came, she stepped into the corridor.
She squinted, trying to see beyond the candle flame. Myra spotted no guards, but she knew they would be patrolling all night. Perhaps she should snuff out her candle. Myra chewed on her bottom lip, gazing into the deep darkness. No. She had to finish this fast and could not risk stumbling into the wrong room. Quickly, she went back inside and retrieved the pieces of flint to put in her pocket—she needed the option to extinguish and relight the candle if she ran into trouble. As she returned to the door, a loud clank came from outside. Myra froze, heart pounding and throat tight. When no other sound followed, she walked on.
The corridor was pitch black and deserted. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cold, and Myra swallowed hard, trying to slow down her racing heart. The candlelight danced on the stone walls, and, for a moment, Myra stared at the play of light and shadow. She could see a fish, and a rat, and a man fighting a hideous two-headed serpent. She bit her lower lip and stared straight ahead. There are no monsters in the shadows. The true monsters live in the real world.
A bright light appeared at the end of the corridor, and Myra gasped. She blew out the candle and stood still, holding her breath.
“Hey. Who’s there?” She heard Lidia’s voice.
Myra squeezed the candleholder, thinking through her options. She could try to run in the darkness and hide back in her room, but Lidia was faster than her. “It’s okay, it’s me,” she called and walked towards her friend. “You startled me, and I dropped my candle. May I?”
Once she had reached Lidia, she used her friend’s candle to rekindle her own. Lidia frowned. “Myra, are you all right? What are you doing here?”
“I’m fine,” Myra said, her voice calm despite the tightness in her chest. “I just couldn’t sleep.” I was on my way to the library to pick up a book, she was about to say, when she realized the library was in the opposite direction. I had a bad dream and wanted to check if Thea is all right. Right, the children’s quarters were not this way either. Was there anything, besides the rat farm, that was this way? The school. “I left a book at the school. I wanted to pick it up; I thought it might help me sleep.”
“Yeah, no wonder you can’t sleep after the last day’s excitement,” Lidia said. “Do you want me to walk with you?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Myra said. “Why are you patrolling? Shouldn’t you be resting and recovering from your wound?”
Lidia snorted. “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep.” She massaged her neck. “My wound will heal, though I won’t feel better until I kill the beast who did this to me.”
“Kill the Prince?” Myra said. “You know the plan is—”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Lidia rolled her eyes. “The plan is that he’ll help us blow up the WeatherWizard after we send him a few of the pretty vamp’s severed fingers. I still don’t believe that’s going to work.”
“Let’s be more optimistic,” Myra said, forcing herself to smile. “Goodnight, then. I hope you get some rest.”
“You too,” said Lidia and continued on her way.
Myra closed her eyes. She had just looked her friend in the eyes and lied to her. And, in all likelihood, that would not be the last lie she would have to tell.
The rest of her trip was uneventful, and Myra smiled once she reached the metal door that separated her from her goal. She rested her palm against the cold surface, taking a slow breath before she rotated the knob and stepped inside.
Rusty metal cages were stacked on top of each other on the tables and against the walls. Inside each were dark furry rodents, some small enough to fit in her palm, others as long as her forearm. A dozen pink and hairless newborns were in a separate cage, so their parents would not devour them. Bread crumbs, spilled water and rat feces littered all the cages. The stink and the hellish racket nearly made Myra go back, but she took a deep breath of the putrid air, closed the door behind her, and stepped further inside.
The rats squeaked. She closed her eyes and steadied herself for what she was about to do. Myra spotted a metal bucket next to the wall and picked it up, frowning as another thought came to her. Was she supposed to take them dead or alive? If they were alive, they would be unmanageable and would make noise in the bucket, but if she killed them now, their blood would stop flowing, making it harder to feed the unconscious vampire. Feeding Tristan was what mattered the most—she had to take the risk.
Myra donned the thick leather gloves left on the table for whoever needed to handle the rats and unlocked one of the cages. She could not take all the rats from a single cage—someone would notice they were missing—so her best bet was to take a single rat from one cage, a second one from another, until she had a decent number. She gingerly opened the door, not wide enough for a rat to get out, and all the rodents rushed towards the opening. She widened the gap, grabbed the closest rat and threw it into the bucket while she closed and locked the door with her left hand.
The creature hissed and squealed, running around and bumping itself against the metal. That would never work. If she went out in the corridor with a bucket full of these demons, she would wake everyone. She had to kill the rat and hope that Tristan would still manage to drink.
Myra knelt on the floor next to the bucket and reached out for a large sharp knife on the table. She lowered her hand into the bucket, grabbing the creature. It kicked, bit, and scratched, its sharp claws penetrating the thick leather glove and piercing skin and flesh. Myra cursed softly—she would have to clean the wound, and soon. She did not wish to imagine where the rat’s claws had been and what bacteria were now entering her bloodstream.
With a quick move, she thrust the blade into the creature’s throat. Thick, sticky blood sprayed forward, onto her face and blouse, and she dropped the knife. Myra pressed one hand against her mouth and one over her stomach, rocking back and forth and trying not to retch. Panic made her dizzy. If she threw up here, she could never clean it completely.
She slapped herself. What was wrong with her? She had killed plenty of rats in the past, and had baked them and eaten them. Had she become so squeamish after her time in the Palace? Was it easier for her to accept a vampire drinking a living human than a dead rat?
She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. Perhaps on the fresh green grass after the hunt, with Tristan sitting next to her and drawing her the map of their route, the sweet smell of living plants and earth surrounding them. Or perhaps in the Prince’s study, with Vlad playing the piano and Tristan teaching her how to dance. Or perhaps at the opera, with Tristan explaining the plot.
Right. Of course, she preferred hunts and dances and operas to killing rats, but she had to stop being a coward and do what needed to be done. She opened her eyes and walked to the next cage.
After she had killed seven rats, Myra decided those had to be enough and stood up, dusting her knees. It did more harm than good as her bloodied hands left smears along her pants. She stared at the horrific stains—she would need to wash her clothes in secret. This mission was becoming messier at every turn.
Myra spotted a bucket full of water for the animals and used a rug to wash her hands and face. Feeling marginally better, she picked up the rats in one hand and the candle in the other and stepped into the corridor. Vlad, she thought angrily, the things I do for you.