Even if I get out of here, they could throw me back in here whenever they want—to die a miserable, slow death of dehydration and starvation.
So, I try the walls. They’re all packed dirt and crumbling stone. Digging my fingers into them, I test for a grip and try to pull myself up. My body protests instantly. My back hurts the most. I claw at the dirt, but it gives way beneath me, spilling down in useless clumps.
I can’t climb. Not like this. I’ll rip my stitches.
Grinding my teeth, I turn to the ground instead, running my hands through the dirt, feeling for anything I can use. A loose rock, a rope, maybe a second ladder.
My fingers brush something solid.
Hope flares in my chest as I dig deeper, prying at the object. It’s smooth, long. Maybe a plank of wood or a fallen tool. But when I pull it free, it’s too light.
I stare at the thing in my hands.
A bone.
Holy fucking shit!
I drop it, scrambling back, but my foot hits something else. Another. And another. I spin, hands plunging into the dirt, clawing at the surface, unearthing more. Bones. Skulls. Femurs. Ribs.
The realization slams into me like ice water down my spine. My heart hammers in my chest. A whimper escapes my throat.Human.They’re human.
I stagger back, pulse thundering, bile burning the back of my throat. My hands shake as I reach for another, lifting it into the dim light. The skull is average. The jaw hangs loose, empty sockets staring through me.
Then I make out the delicate curve of a hip bone, the slender phalanges still curled in the dirt. They’re all women.
I can’t breathe.
These are the ones who didn’t make it. The onesbeforeme.
I stare down at the graveyard beneath my feet—all around me—my hands coated in their dust, and something inside me howls.
I refuse to be one of them.
A hot bath. A warm meal. A real bed.
I force down my terror, dig my nails into my palms, and realize…I may have just found my answer.
My fingers wrap around a femur, long and sturdy. My breaths come fast, shallow, but I grit my teeth and seize another. A jagged piece of bone. Maybe a broken tibia. It’s sharp enough to pierce the packed dirt if I drive it in hard enough.
A weapon. A tool. An organic ladder.
Swallowing a hard knot, I kneel, pressing the femur against the wall, and with the sharp edge of the smaller bone, I hammer it in. It takes three solid hits before it wedges deep enough to hold. My arms tremble with exhaustion, but I reach for another and repeat the process, spacing them like uneven ladder rungs.
I apologize the whole time.
It takes time to sort through all the skeletons. The bones of the dead will be my salvation.
My body aches, sweat drips down my temple, soaking through my bandages, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. For all I know, Raphael could rescind the whole bargain, especially after what I swore I’d do to him.
I willnotrot down here.
After biting down on a few light sticks to give me some visibility, I jam another bone into the earth, the tip sinking in with a satisfying crack. My hands are slick with sweat, but I keep going, each strike harder than the last. My wrists are red and sore from the cuffs, my arms weak from the chains.
Halfway up, I lose my grip, slipping, but I manage to grab the closest bone stake above me, my bare feet dangling over 20 feet.A sharp pang slices through my side, and I wince, knowing my stitches tore. Shit. Blood seeps through the bandages, but I don’t stop.
My body shakes with the effort, but the next bone is already in my hand, and I hammer it in, one hit, two, three, until it holds.
I can feel the pit’s cold grasp tightening, but I refuse to let it have me. I push through the pain, the dizzying exhaustion, one step, one bone at a time. Adrenaline sings in my veins. A flashback threatens to disrupt me, taking me back to Easthaven and the night I climbed. But I climbeddownthat night.
