Ollie leaned against the wall. He cracked his knuckles. Pop, pop, pop. He paced. Still, the time ticked by.
What was taking so long?
Tera had disappeared through the office door five minutes ago, or maybe longer. Her eyes purposefully downcast. Her ankles still shackled. Her cart stacked with cups, a pitcher, cloth napkins, assorted handmade crackers, and some kind of thick, brown spread. It shouldn’t be taking this long, he knew. In and out. That was the plan.
So, where was she?
Every second she stayed in there was a second too long.
He had just started scratching the skin on his arm, digging into the flesh with painful acuity, when she emerged. Ollie let out a rush of breath.
“All set?” he whispered, watching Tera step out onto the landing and close the door behind her.
She nodded, smiling.
“And he…?”
She nodded again. “The whole damn thing.”
They grinned at each other. Ollie felt a hit of buoyancy trip through his veins. “You’re incredible,” he said.
“Eh,” she waved away the compliment with faux modesty. “I get by.”
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“I guess that means I’m up.”
“Like a Butcher to a slaughterhouse,” she agreed, a smile still curling her lips.
He gave her an unamused look.
“What?” she asked. “You’re gonna go in there and filet the guy, right? Ground up the chuck? Trim the fat?”
“Tera, this is serious.”
“You’re right,” she said, covering her mouth with a hand. “I’ll stop.”
“Listen, if this goes wrong…”
“It won’t,” she interrupted. “The hard part is already done.”
“But if this goes wrong,” Ollie continued, staring into her brown eyes. This was important. She had to hear him; she had to understand. “I want you to know…it was all worth it. And I’d do it again.”
Just to find you, he wanted to add.
Tera’s smile dissipated. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, me, too.”
They stood like that for several seconds, neither speaking. There was nothing left to say.
Ollie squeezed her tiny hands. He could swear he felt the moxie vibrating through her skin, seeping into his own. Eyes closed, he let the sensation linger. He remembered the things he had seen. The things he had suffered. He felt every inch of it, letting it all simmer and come to a boil. Then he let go, faced the doorway, and plowed his big body right on through.
* * *
The Warden was sitting at his desk, right where Ollie expected him to be. He didn’t even look up.
“Not now,” the man grunted, sifting through various papers with a pinched expression. The office looked much as Ollie remembered it from his last visit: streamlined and tidy. The wastebasket was empty. The shelves displayed generic containers, unlabeled folders, and books without titles. Tera’s cart sat abandoned near the back wall.
Ollie took a few steps closer. He studied the Warden with a distant, almost impartial lens. Wire-rimmed glasses. Spindly, long limbs. Did the man own twenty gray suits? Or did he always wear the same one? That day’s tie—silk, from the looks of it—was emerald-green. Slicked-back reddish hair, with a thin combover. His real name was probably Clark, Ollie guessed. Or Fisher. Or Cooper. One of those preppy monikers meant to evoke an old-timey profession. His last name would be something equally at home on a Yale application: Whittington. Calloway. McMoneybags. Or maybe Ollie had it backward. Maybe the Warden was an imposter—a scrapper who had inflicted all kinds of pain during his long, uphill climb out of the trailer park, and now expended all of his energy trying not to fall back down. That was the most dangerous kind of asshole, Ollie knew. The kind with a secret to keep.
It took a minute for the Warden to notice that his command had been ignored, but when he did, he pulled off his glasses and looked up at the intruder with annoyance.
“I said, not now,” he repeated. It was more of a growl than a request.
Ollie gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid now’s all we’ve got, Mr. Warden.” An unfamiliar feeling rattled throughout his body. It tasted like the first few sips of an orange soda: bright, sweet, and invigorating. His consciousness was drowning in carbonation.
The well-dressed man stared at him, clearly shocked by the impudence. “Who let you in here?” he asked.
“I let myself in,” Ollie said, wandering over to the desk. He took a seat in the chair facing opposite. The same chair Axel the Axe Man had sat in just a few days earlier, watching his friend get bludgeoned to death. “I’ve been curious…” Ollie continued. “Do you kill them yourself? Or do you have one of your men do the heavy lifting?”
The Warden laid his glasses on the desk. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but—”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m Ollie,” he interrupted, holding out a hand jovially. “Formerly of the Floor Five Labor Force. Oh, and the Knockdowns. You might know me better as The Butcher. Went down hard against Dozer in match three?”
The Warden ignored Ollie’s outstretched hand. Barely contained fury spread across his features. “Young man, you are making the biggest mistake of your life,” he hissed.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Ollie said. “You obviously didn’t see my try-outs for the track team.” He pulled his hand back. “Well, in any case, it’s great to meet you. Officially, I mean. Heck of a job you’re doing here at Herrick’s End. Really whipping the place into shape. Literally, in some cases. Am I right?” He gave an exaggerated wink, then lifted his right foot and propped it up on his left knee.
“I’m going to suggest you walk out of here, now,” the Warden said through gritted teeth. But confusion was starting to register. Something else, too. His eyes slid to the doorway.
“Looking for the kids? Yeah, sorry. They’re taking a little break. And the guards are pretty busy, too. Seems there’s been a bit of a commotion down in the fighting pit. It’s just you and me, Mr. Warden.” Ollie stopped and pointed his finger in the air, as though remembering something. “Oh, wait. That’s not quite right. I should say, it’s just you, me, and a few of my new friends.” He got to his feet, walked to the door, and opened it.
Tera walked in first. Then Leonard. Then a long row of filthy, haggard, brown-suited men and women. Leonard, it seemed, had managed to break out and gather up nearly every resident of the fifth floor Labor Force, including Collins, Milowka, Eduoard, Alfred, Martel, and even poor Jumar, now sporting a bandaged shoulder stump where his arm used to be. Their stink and girth filled the room almost to its edges.
With each new arrival, the Warden’s eyes opened just a bit wider. By the time they were all inside, the bald spot under his combover was moist with sweat.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Great group, isn’t it?” Ollie said, turning to admire the line of agitated, angry prisoners. “Cream of the crop. Sorry to say, though, I think they might have a tiny little bone to pick with you.”
The Warden didn’t immediately respond. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he started to realize: Something was terribly amiss. His anxious gaze jumped from the door to the gathered group and back again to Ollie. “Look, we can work this out,” he finally said. “I understand the working conditions…can be improved. Of course, they can.” A thin smile spread across his lips. “You guys are my heroes, really. My favorites. You’re the rock stars of this place! What is it you’re looking for? Let’s talk.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. They were shaking.
“Whoa!” Ollie exclaimed. “You hear that, guys? Rock stars! What do you think?” When no one answered, Ollie turned back around. “Ouch. Sorry. They don’t seem to be in a talking mood. I guess that’s what happens when you’re wrongly imprisoned in a cursed dungeon for like, all of eternity.” He smiled.
The Warden tried to nod, but only managed a small, awkward jerk. “It’s okay. That’s fine. It’s… We can… I mean, there’s always a way to…” He seemed to have trouble finding his words. Or making his mouth cooperate. He looked at his hands, his arms, confused. Then he looked at Ollie with desperate, dry eyes. “Please, don’t kill me,” he whispered. “Don’t let them kill me. We can work this out.”
Ollie sat back down in the chair. He looked across the desk with a tilt of his head. “Kill you?” he said. “Warden, we’re not going to kill you.”
“You’re not?” The man’s reply came out as a whisper. His suit seemed too big, suddenly, like a costume for dress-up.
“No! Of course not. We’re not even going to hurt you,” Ollie said. “Are we, Tera?”
He glanced at her, and she shrugged.
“Your fate is in your own hands, Sir. It always has been.”
“Wh…what do you mean?” the Warden asked, looking fearfully from face to face.
Ollie sighed. “You recognize Tera? Right there. The one with the apron, and the shackles. Indentured servant? I think her official title down in the pit was Slop Wench Number Eight.”
The Warden looked at Tera, then back at Ollie.
“Of course, you don’t. Why would you? She was only here five minutes ago, serving you that lovely selection of crackers and—” He looked at the cart. “What is that stuff, exactly?”
“Loosemeat spread,” Tera piped in.
“Ah, yes, crackers and loosemeat spread,” Ollie said. “Huh. Not what I would have chosen for a last meal, but to each his own. In any case, all that brown mush must have made you thirsty, which is why you also drank a full cup of that nice refreshing wine, there.”
The Warden eyed the empty container.
“And as you’re probably guessing now, it wasn’t just wine. Your cup also contained a tasteless, dissolving powder called—what’s it called, again, Tera?”
“Dark Heart,” she supplied.
“Yes, right.” Ollie snapped his fingers. “Dark Heart. A reactive powder. I had it myself, once. Nasty stuff. Apparently, it has the ability to peer right inside your soul. Can you imagine?”
“The darker the heart, the more it reacts,” Tera added.
Ollie nodded. “And the harder it works, the harder you get. And not in the good way, I’m afraid,” he added, chuckling. “In a very bad, very permanent way. But you know all this already, don’t you, Warden? If I had to guess, this is the very same powder you snuck into George Herrick’s wine, back in the day.”
The Warden fumbled and sputtered.
“No need to deny it,” Ollie said, tapping the desk. “You had no choice. Everyone knew ol’ George was in good with the witches. Sure, he had screwed them over once. Carted their friends off to the gallows after those sham trials in Salem. But George had learned his lesson. He had repented. The witches forgave him and worked with him to create the Neath. And just like that, the heartless enforcer became ‘a friend to witches,’ as the sign says. Boom. Blessed with a ridiculously long life. Good for him. But bad for you, am I right?”
Ollie leaned closer, staring the wiry man down, and continued. “George was never going anywhere. The witches had seen to that. And if the boss never leaves, the underling never moves up. You were never going to have a shot at running things the way you wanted. You had different ideas for the Neath. You dreamed of vengeance, and torture, and power. Your power. Am I getting warmer? What happened, Warden? Did someone hurt you, a long time ago?”
The Warden stayed tight-lipped.
“I get it, believe me,” Ollie said. “The whole eye-for-an-eye thing… It has its own appeal, no doubt. But George wanted nothing to do with any of that. He was a new man, turned over a new leaf, blah, blah, blah. George wanted a peaceful sanctuary. And you couldn’t kill him, because the witches had blessed him with all that damn long life. He was in your way. So what’s a young, ambitious upstart to do?”
Ollie pointed at Tera, who was holding up the small vial.
“George Herrick was trying to change his life. Change his heart. But you knew that he had done bad things in his past. And you knew the powder would know it, too.” Ollie held out his hands. “He had shown no mercy to those victims in Salem. So many innocent people, accused, hung, or rotted in jail. Terrible, terrible stuff. George had played his role. And the powder would see it all.”
The Warden didn’t reply.
“I think it was the paralysis that tipped me off. After all, a man doesn’t just freeze, does he? Even a really old man. He’d wrinkle, sure, and maybe take some extra naps. But he wouldn’t just freeze into stone. Something caused it. You caused it.” Ollie sat back in his seat. “You know, right before he died, George Herrick told me something strange. He said, ‘As I am, so he will be.’ At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. But now that I’ve had time to consider it… I think, Sir, that he was talking about you.”
The Warden’s fingers twitched on the desk. His eyeballs darted in panic.
Tera stepped closer. She leaned in to peer at his face. “Our Warden is looking a little…stiff,” she said.
Ollie nodded. “Yes, he is.”
“No hiding a dark heart, I guess,” she added.
Ollie looked at the Warden’s expensive watch. The shine of his smooth lapel. The thin, slicked hair. Then he looked at his face. “I just have one more question, before we go,” he said, resting his hands on his lap. “Where are they?”
“Wh—who?” the man asked. Even the one word was garbled, as though his mouth was stuck together with a spoonful of loosemeat spread.
“You know who,” Ollie said wearily. “I’m going to need you to tell me. Where are the witches?”
Tera looked at Ollie in surprise. A murmur of confusion spread throughout the room.
When he got no reply, Ollie sighed. “C’mon, now. There’s no way they would have let you get away with any of this. Not if they had any power left. What did you do to them? Did you kill them? Banish them? Did you freeze them, too? What did you do?”
But it was too late. The Warden’s mouth, like the rest of him, was already tight. The powder had spread like a contagion, fast and fierce. Only his eyes still had free range.
Shit. Ollie balled his hands into fists, frustrated.
Behind him, Leonard and the line of prisoners stood with their arms crossed, silent and seething. Tera, meanwhile, had turned her attention to rooting through the drawers and shelves. When she came across a key, she tried to fit it into the keyhole of her still-locked shackles. With each failure, she tossed the discards onto the desk. One of them, a particularly large ring holding multiple keys, landed with a loud thwack. Ollie looked at the rusted ring, then noticed that the Warden was looking at it, too. Staring, actually. And Ollie wondered why.
He reached out to pick it up. The ring felt heavier than it should have. Bigger, somehow. He dangled one end, letting the keys jingle. The sound hit his ear like a summons.
The Warden was still watching him, and the keys, blinking rapidly.
Tera gave up on the attempt to unlock her shackles. With a sweep of her arm, she pushed all of the remaining keys onto the floor. “What do you think, boys?” she asked, straightening. “I think we’re done here.”
The group agreed. They whooped and advanced like a wave, surrounding the desk, lifting the Warden out of his seat, hoisting him into the air. They kicked boxes and scattered papers, making a path to the door.
“Hold up, hold up!” Ollie said, waving a hand.
The brown-suited crew stopped and turned, still holding the Warden aloft like a particularly well-dressed store mannequin.
“We still need a Warden, right?” Ollie asked.
Murmurings spread throughout the group. Nods. A few agreeable shrugs.
“I nominate Leonard!” Ollie pointed to his friend, who was standing near the bookshelf with an open mouth of surprise.
After a moment of stillness, Tera stepped forward. “I second that motion.”
Ollie spun to face his former fifth floor colleagues. “All in favor?” he asked.
A cheer broke out, nearly deafening inside the small office.
“I think that makes it official,” Tera said, reaching for the big man’s arm and leading him to the now-empty chair behind the desk.
“This is—” Leonard stammered. “I’m… No. There’s not—”
“Don’t worry,” Ollie said with a grin. “We’ll find a bigger chair. Will you consider it?”
Leonard hesitated. He ran his hands along the smooth, wooden desktop. “Maybe,” he finally said.
Ollie gave him a wink. Then he looked up at the former Warden, who was darting his eyes and dripping with terrified sweat. “As for you, Sir, it seems the shareholders have spoken. Time to clear out. No two-week’s notice necessary. In appreciation of your years of service, the company will provide a generous severance package that includes food, water, fresh air, and a lake view. No torture, no imminent death. Pretty generous, I’d say, under the circumstances.” He gestured at the assembled, impatient group. “Our friends here will get you where you need to go.”
Tera reached up and patted the Warden’s arm. “Lucky for you,” she said, “ol’ George saved you a seat.”