TWENTY-FIVE

The room was dark, nearly pitch black, and Thomas wasn’t alone. A creature was with him, clothed in shadow, filled with deadly intent. It stalked toward him. Raspy breathing echoed in the vast room. Long, razor-sharp claws scratched the marbled floor. Click-scratch, click-scratch, click-scraaaatch.

Thomas scrambled around the edge of the room, frantically searching for a way to escape. The creature stalked, slowly, deliberately. Thomas shouted for help. He was answered with a hiss. A claw dragged across the marble, scrrrreeeatch. The monster closed in, still hidden in shadow, a faceless beast preparing to pounce. Thomas turned and forced himself onto the desk. The bookcase! He grabbed a shelf and pulled himself up. The shelf wobbled, nearly pitching him backward.

He gripped harder, climbed faster. The beast was closing in. His fingers gripped the top ledge. One more pull and he’d be out of reach. A hissing roar shattered the silence. Thomas felt the creature hurtling through the air toward him. Sharp claws sank into his back, cutting through flesh, yanking him backward.

He fell, screaming in pain and fear.

Into nothing. His eyes snapped open, the echo of his own scream lingering in the quiet room. His hands reached for the gaping wound. The spot on his back where the claws had sunk in was tender but uninjured, kinked from sleeping on a couch. He gasped, falling back onto the cushions. There was no monster. It was a dream. A ridiculously vivid dream.

Thomas ran an arm over the thin line of drool at the side of his mouth, his heart still hammering in his chest. His surroundings came into focus, bringing with them a fresh wave of fear. The monster may have been a dream, but the kidnapping wasn’t. He was alone in the big room, curled up on a soft leather couch. There was a blanket bunched up at his feet, as if it had been draped over him while he slept, then kicked down during the dream.

The map had been returned to the wooden desk. Next to it was a tray with an assortment of snacks and a pitcher of water. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering effects of the dream. The uneasiness persisted. He got up, poured a glass of water, and chugged it down in one long guzzle.

Munching on a wheat cracker, his eyes landed on a small cast iron replica of Rodin’s The Thinker. There was one just like it on the mantle of their fireplace back home. It was his mom’s favorite sculpture. Thomas picked it up. It felt just like the one at home. Solid. Sturdy. He passed it from his left hand to his right and back again and looked at the vent. How did I not notice this earlier? Was I so stressed I couldn’t see straight? Or is this new?

Whatever the case, he was now capable of bashing his way into the crawlspace. As he stepped toward the metal grate, something caught the corner of his eye. A tiny green light just above one of the tapestries. He froze. A hidden camera!

On impulse, he ducked below the range of the tiny lens. Still holding the Rodin, he slid the big wooden chair until he was close enough to stand and reach the camera. Pressing himself against the wall, he climbed onto the chair, gripped The Thinker and slammed it into the fragile unit. Twice. The green light disappeared as fragments of metal, glass, and plastic tumbled to the floor.

Thomas looked around to see if there might be any other cameras hidden in the room. At first glance, he didn’t see anything, but then a small black shape on the wall above the couch caught his attention. He slid along the wall, reached up, and slammed the sculpture into the tiny lens. Bam! Done. Thomas allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction.

The surveillance problem was handled, but he’d have to work fast if anyone was monitoring the video feed. He dragged the leather chair forward and wedged the top edge under the doorknob. It took significant effort, but he managed to slide the heavy couch across the floor. He tried to push the desk, but the thing wouldn’t budge. The couch and chair would have to work. It was time to create an escape route.

He ran to the floor-level vent, sculpture in hand, and crouched down to look more closely. There weren’t any screws securing the grate to the wall, so it was either form-fitted or fastened on the inside. He wedged the tips of his fingers between the metal slats and gave a tug. It didn’t budge.

He tried again. There was an almost imperceptible movement. He strengthened his grip and pulled harder. The grate held, and held. He put his back and shoulders into it and tugged again. The grate slipped, just a little. The metal edges dug into his fingers, nearly breaking the skin. Thomas ignored the pain, pressed his feet into the wall, and yanked with all his might.

The grate popped free with enough force that he tumbled backward in an awkward half summersault. He crawled forward and stuck his head into the opening.

A narrow passage stretched in both directions, plaster at first, and then stone. Thin rays of light filtered through vents farther down the shaft, but most of the airway was dark. He stuck his head in deeper, wishing he had a flashlight. It looked as though there was just enough room for him to crawl in there, but it was impossible to know if the vent narrowed around the corner.

Voices in the hallway put him on high alert. A woman was talking, her voice soft, her words indecipherable. The doorknob jiggled, and then there was thumping on the door. Thomas grabbed The Thinker and started smashing it into the drywall around the vent. The opening widened with each blow, and soon the sculpture struck stone.

Another voice joined the first, this one louder. Thomas heard his name as he slammed the sculpture into the wall. A final pile of rock and drywall crumbled to the ground. He wedged himself through the opening and twisted his body to fit in the air shaft. The space was just wide enough to pull himself forward.

“Thomas! Thomas! Let us in!” More voices joined the first two. There were bodies slamming into the door now, the shouts growing louder and more frantic.

Thomas army-crawled down the rock-lined passageway, hoping to get out of sight before anyone could figure out which direction he’d gone. A loud screech and thud were followed by more shouting and clearer voices. The barrier had been breached. He pulled himself around a tight corner and out of sight.

He’d been right about the surveillance being monitored, which meant the rest of the house could be wired as well. Breaking out of the room had been the easy part. Escaping completely would require a plan. The voices came closer. A light flashed on the crawlspace wall just behind him.

Thomas kept moving, pulling himself toward thin slits of light from the next grate. The opening was not only a possible path out, but also a window into the rest of the building. He peered into a dark room of indeterminate size. Not helpful, but if he wanted to get away cleanly, it would be key to know his choices.

The rocks pressed into his palms and battered his knees. He slipped his shoes off his feet and onto his hands, then pulled his pants up until there was an extra layer of cloth on his knees. Not perfect, but better. He kept moving, as quickly and quietly as he could manage.

He came to a T-intersection. He turned right, toward the streaks of light filtering through another grate. Voices stopped him in his tracks just a few feet from the opening. Shadows passed across the grate. The conversation stopped. A beam of condensed light entered the passage, separating around the metal slats and reflecting from the stones. Thomas shimmied backward.

A metallic scraping sound nearly froze the blood in his veins. They were pulling the grate out! Did they see me? He didn’t know, but if they got in before he turned the corner, he’d be spotted for sure. The passage opened beside him. He bent himself around the rocks, struggling to go back the way he had come.

His shirt caught on a sharp edge. He yanked, desperate to get out of sight. The fabric caught. He pulled again, harder. His arm came free and the shoe slipped out of his hand. Thomas watched in agonizing slow motion as the shoe flew toward the opposite wall. They’d hear, and then it would only be a matter of time before he was trapped.

Scrape-thump. The grate came free just as his shoe slapped against the stone. The sounds were close enough together that nobody outside could possibly have known what just happened. Thomas snatched the shoe and pulled himself farther from the line of sight. The beam of the flashlight bounced right past the place where his shoe had rested only seconds earlier. Thomas leaned his head back and took a deep breath.

The light retreated, but the voices continued. Women, one old and one young, both speaking in another language. It wasn’t Spanish, the only non-English language he could understand at all. The tone and inflection were decidedly foreign. Chinese maybe? The only thing he clearly understood was “Thomas.” One of the women said his name in near-perfect English before continuing in the foreign dialect.

The light swept back in his direction and paused at the corner where he was hiding. He held his breath, wondering if he had left a telltale sign at the edge of the shaft. A lump formed in his throat as he looked down and noticed a tear in the fabric of his shirt. Had some of the material come off on the rocks? Is that why they were pausing?

The voices intensified in tone, rising almost to an argument pitch. A drop of sweat rolled down Thomas’s nose and dripped onto a smooth gray stone in front of him. The soft splash was hardly audible even to him, but Thomas felt certain his pursuers would hear. He stayed stock-still. Ages passed, one second at a time. The older woman spoke again. The beam swept elsewhere, and then disappeared. The voices faded, then disappeared as well.

Thomas listened carefully for the sound of the grate being replaced. It didn’t come. Had his pursuers inadvertently created a way for him to escape? He waited a few minutes, then heard the voices coming from around the next corner. He crawled toward the open vent, quickly and cautiously, all senses on high alert.

Another set of voices echoed into the ventilation system. He froze and listened. The sounds were coming from behind him. Light splashed against the stones. Picking up the pace, he pulled himself to the open grate.

Staying in the shadows, Thomas peered into a room that was large, white, and full of square machines that rattled and hummed. A pair of draped sheets dangled from strings. Mounds of towels and clothes were piled against an adjacent wall. A laundry room? He pulled himself a fraction of an inch closer. Yes, a laundry room, and a very large one at that. There were three washing machines, just as many dryers, and an oversized sink.

The door leading into the room was cracked open enough to see a warmly lit hallway. There was no way of telling if anyone was out there. He turned to a mountain of dirty sheets and towels piled high enough that a person could easily hide under them without being noticed. There was also a thin door adjacent to the main entrance, probably a closet, and a series of small cupboards lining the wall. Most were too small to climb into, but at least two had hiding-spot potential.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering if there was anything else that he might have missed. He opened them and saw something he could hardly believe.

A window! He’d been so focused on what was in the room that he almost overlooked the window above the last washing machine. And it wasn’t just any old window. It was cracked open and easily big enough to climb through. Thomas’s heart leaped. An open window wouldn’t trigger any alarms. He’d just found a viable way out of the building.

Thomas poked his head through the open grate but realized he’d never be able to get the rest of his body through without widening the opening. He’d left the Rodin back in the office, and that meant he’d have to improvise. He wrapped his fingers around the drywall and started to pull. The edges broke away easily in his hands.

Footsteps and voices in the hall sent him scrambling back into the shadows. The people passed without stopping, and soon the voices disappeared. Thomas took a deep breath and pulled himself into the room. Once inside, he dumped a pile of sheets in front of the hole, hoping to delay the discovery of his escape long enough to put some distance between himself and his captors.

Thomas tiptoed forward and looked out the window and felt his heart drop. It was at least twenty feet down to the cobblestone courtyard, with nothing but air between the window and the rocks below. Even more shocking—there were snow-capped mountains rising above the building on the other side. Huge mountains. Thomas’s mouth went dry. Where the heck am I?

He leaned forward to see if there was any way to climb down to the courtyard. Movement caught his eye. A woman wandered into the courtyard, her dark hair streaked with gray, a long visor covering her face. The woman with the dragon pendant? Thomas’s pulse raced. He jerked his head back into the laundry room.

The precariousness of his situation sunk in. If anyone came into the laundry room, he was caught. If he climbed out the window, he was caught. If he tried escaping down the hallway, he was almost certainly going to be caught.

Approaching footsteps told him he might be caught soon anyway. Acting on instinct, he jumped behind the largest mound of laundry and pulled a pile of sheets over his head. No sooner had he covered himself than the door swung open and slammed shut. There were two people, one male and one female, both speaking the same foreign dialect he’d heard earlier. The voices sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t risk moving enough to see who it was.

The conversation went back and forth for a seeming eternity, slowly rising in pitch and intensity. The man made a quiet but definitive statement, which was followed by the sound of an open hand slapping the wall. Switching to English, the woman spoke softly. “We shouldn’t have brought him here without explaining first. He isn’t ready for all of this.”

“I know,” the man answered as he opened the door. “I wish we could have given him more time, but we both know that wasn’t possible. Ready or not, we have to find a way to stop Arius before he recovers the crystals. Even if Thomas awakens his powers, our world is at risk. If he doesn’t . . .”

The door creaked shut, cutting off the end of the sentence. Thomas’s head spun. The voices had belonged to Huxley and Adelia, and there was no longer any question about whether they were responsible for his abduction. They were. The question now was why.

Footsteps and voices came and went. Thomas stayed hidden under the stack of sheets, torn between courses of action. The idea of staying in a place he’d been brought against his will was almost as repellant as leaving without answers. He needed to think of something, and fast.

An idea flashed into his mind. Staying hidden, he pulled the corners of two sheets together and tied them into a knot. He grabbed a third sheet and repeated the exercise, and then a fourth. He sat still and listened. The hallway was silent again. He jumped up from his hiding place and peered out the window. The courtyard was empty.

Finding the way clear, Thomas tied the end of the last sheet to the base of the nearest washing machine, pulled the window the rest of the way open, and tossed the makeshift ladder to the ground below. He moved the last pile of sheets away from the air vent, scattered broken bits of drywall on the floor around the grate, and climbed back into the air shaft.

• • •

It didn’t take long for the sound of shouting to fill the building. Whereas the noise had been sporadic while Thomas was known to still be inside, it now bubbled into a frenzy that remained constant for hours. He caught shouts of “out the window,” “floodlights,” “grab the Jeeps,” and “hurry!”

Although he found a sort of savage pleasure in having caused so much chaos, he mostly ignored the activity and focused on exploring the building. He needed to figure out where the important people gathered to talk. Without more information, there was no way to make a smart decision about what to do next.

Thomas wriggled past room after room, pausing at each to take in the details. There were more offices like the one where he’d been trapped, well-appointed bedrooms, at least two rooms that looked like labs, and more than a dozen areas too dark to see clearly or with vents obstructed by furniture. On two separate occasions, he put his hand into an open airshaft and nearly tumbled down to the lower levels of the building. After the second narrowly averted disaster, he made sure to keep a close eye on the path ahead.

He heard voices here and there, but they were distant and only sporadically audible. As hoped, the search had moved outside. He circled back to a hidden spot adjacent to the two largest offices and leaned against the stone wall. His knees were raw, his body fatigued, and of all the rooms he’d seen, the big offices seemed the most promising venues for eavesdropping. He tucked his shoes under his head and closed his eyes, waiting for the searchers to return.