I envied the rooster, in a way. Even now, he was probably in that other land, seeking out his lost friends. Snow White was probably rebuilding her town. Sam was searching for his lost brothers.
And if he was keeping his word, Agnim—Alexander—was wiping out the remaining Corruption.
A fairy tale ending.
“Only for the fairy tales,” I whispered, stuffing the weapons into the bag.
My Corruption Killing playlist blared on my laptop, loud enough that I could feel it inside my bones. First Metallica—Seth’s choice. Then The Allman Brothers Band—Briar’s choice. Then Joan Jett—Chase’s choice. Then Dessa—my choice. Music to sweep away the crushing feeling of despair. Music to energize my soul.
The shield won’t fit. I’ll have to carry it. I’ll have to take a taxi. He’ll ask questions, but what does it matter? There’s no way back from this.
“No.” I shook my head. There was one way back, and only one way back.
I had to kill Briar.
Then I had to destroy Death.
Chapter 4
I drank a glass of water and waited for the taxi on the front porch. The neighborhood was eerily quiet, especially for a summer afternoon. The sun burned my forehead. I squinted, retying my running shoes, then untying them because they were too tight, then retying them again a little looser.
I took a deep, shaky breath, checking my phone again. I’d called Chase three times since calling for the taxi. No answer every time. I’d called my parents’ cell phones again, too. No answer.
The chainmail was tight around my torso, squeezing my chest uncomfortably. Under my long-sleeve violet shirt, it was obvious I was wearing something.
Although whether anyone guesses it’s medieval armor …
Chainmail over a shirt, so the metal wouldn’t rub up against my cuts. A long-sleeve shirt over that. A shield. A duffel bag full of weapons.
The taxi pulled into the driveway. The driver got out, but I waved him away, putting the big duffel bag into the backseat and setting my shield over it to hide the two sword hilts poking out. The driver pulled out of the driveway and started down the winding road that led out of my little neighborhood.
We passed Seth’s house. His mom was outside, working on the flowers underneath his bedroom window. I wanted to stop and talk to her and tell her how much Seth’s friendship had meant to me. I wanted to tell her that Seth had saved a girl’s life. He’d saved all of our lives, really. And then, in another world entirely, he’d managed to do it again. Seth was a hero.
“I know what you are doing,” the driver said in a thick accent. He looked up into the rear-view mirror. His black mustache wiggled underneath his nose.
“What do you mean?” I asked slowly.
“The shield and stuff.” He shrugged. “You are going to the Renaissance Faire north of Chicago.”
“Oh.” I glanced at the duffel bag. “Yup. You got me.”
“I thought it was only open on the weekends, though.”
The car lurched as he pulled onto the freeway. I put one hand on the plastic door handle. “I work there. We need to practice our skits.”
The man nodded. “That is good. It is good to practice so it seems real.”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“So why are you going downtown?” he asked.
I looked out the window, watching a minivan speed past us. There were a few teenagers in the backseat, dressed for soccer practice. Enjoying their normal lives. “I’m meeting friends, and then we’re taking one car over there.”
“A good idea,” he decided with pearly white grin. “No, you do not want to take a taxi all the way out there.”
I forced a smile. I’d gotten so good at lying.
The taxi took the exit that led into Milwaukee’s old industrial sector. On one side of the freeway were the middling commercial towers of downtown. On the other side were the old weathered industrial buildings. One still made shoes. Another had been converted into living spaces for artists, and hanging in the windows were neon lights illuminating barely-discernible paintings and photographs.
Other buildings were abandoned. There were four close together in an old industrial park, just past the glitzy Potawatomi casino that boasted a tall hotel right beside its main building. My parents sometimes went to the casino, just to play twenty dollars in their favorite slot machines. My dad always won; my mom always lost.
The industrial park was where the taxi was taking me, parking next to an old parking lot that had been fenced in. The fence was decorated with red NO TRESPASSING SIGNS. The parking lot’s concrete was old, and Mother Nature had begun reclaiming it by forcing up weeds into the lightning-shaped cracks.
“I can take you to the casino,” the driver said. “I will turn off the meter. You do not want to walk down here.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, handing him forty dollars. Enough for a generous tip. “Thank you.”
I grabbed my duffel bag and got out of the car, setting the bag and the shield on the sidewalk and waiting patiently for the taxi to turn around and take the first turn that led toward the casino. It disappeared behind an old truck depot with five old rusted trucks still parked in the lot. The sign above the front of the building looked new, with bright letters advertising a free quote on detailing.
Briar talked about that car shop. He liked to climb to the top floor of “his” building and watch them in the summer when people would bring in flashy-looking cars with silver spoilers and colorful paint jobs. He liked the sound of the engines. Each of the engines had a different, unique sound and if you listened real close, you could hear the difference.
I walked around the chain-link fence, to the other side of the parking lot. There was no opening.
Of course not. Briar would just jump over it. Why would he need to cut a hole? It would arouse suspicion. And the last thing an imaginary character needs in the real world is unwanted attention.
I tossed the shield over first and then tossed the duffel bag. I went next, thoughtlessly dropping off the fence instead of easing myself down. A sharp pain erupted from the ball of my left foot. I nearly doubled over, grabbing the fence and wrapping my fingers around the warm steel links.
Stupid, stupid. You can’t make mistakes. You need to be near-perfect.
The four buildings were spread out just past the parking lot. One was tall and narrow, with little square windows and an old sign on the top advertising worldwide shipping. Two were stout, and stretched back a good distance. Next to the front door of each building was a loading dock with rotted wooden planks and rusted steel shutters.
The last building on the left was different. It had a squat, square shape, with two huge shuttered openings along the front. Looming behind it were three fat smoke stacks, one of them sputtering little black clouds of smoke. To the left of the building was a rusted conveyor belt that ran up to the second floor. Big windows made up of little square panes lined the second floor. On the far end was a door that led into a small office building made of up of red bricks that ran right up against the concrete factory walls.
Water-stained concrete and broken windows whose shards hung in rusted metal frames. Not the most inviting place. But a perfect hideout.
I went around back, to the empty steel yard.
Briar’s too clever by half to just use the front door. There has to be something simpler …
The steel yard had once been where all the finished steel was stacked before being shipped off. In the center of the yard were two massive rusted steel doors built into the ground. They led somewhere underneath the shipping yard, but two massive steel chains were wrapped around the handles. No way in or out. There had to be another way.
“The loading dock,” I whispered.
There was a raised concrete level running along the far end that connected to the building. All of the openings in the back of the building were closed by steel shutters, but the far one was lifted up just enough to crawl through. I hurried over, splaying out on the wa
rm concrete and peering inside. It was dark, too dark to make out more than the shadows of old machine tools and pipes and big electrical switches standing next to truck-sized pots. I couldn’t be sure of what I was seeing … the entire place was foreign to me. I didn’t even know what they molded the steel into, for crying out loud.
You should have done a little research.
“I should have done a lot of things differently,” I whispered, crawling underneath the shutter with the shield held firmly over my head just in case. I waited a moment, peering around the shield and letting my eyes adjust.
Nothing but ghosts of the industrial age.
“I’m not talking to myself anymore,” I whispered. “Not talking to myself.”
I pulled the duffel bag through the opening and stood up, keeping my weight off my left foot. Dim light fought its way through the dirt-encrusted windows above, providing just enough illumination for me to see a clear set of rabbit footprints on the dusty floor, weaving its way around a massive empty pot hanging from thick steel chains.
He wouldn’t leave those prints unless he wanted me to follow. But is it a trap?
I moved slowly, trying to keep my ears open for any strange sounds. Br’er Rabbit would be quiet, but he wouldn’t be silent. He could move fast, but I would hear the pad of his soft feet on the concrete floor. And there were no other pawprints in the dust.
That doesn’t matter. Remember when he was being chased by those lions and he doubled back, tricking them? He knows what he’s doing.
And he’s fast.
I slipped between two massive empty containers that were twice as tall as me, searching the shadows. I thought back to my time training in the forest behind my house with Briar. Briar had dozens of games to get me moving, jumping, dodging and just about anything else that he thought would prepare me for the Corrupted. In one game, he showed me how to track an animal, and how to identify the little “tells” in the prints. In another game, he walked the branches above me with a gymnast’s perfection dropping acorns on me. I wasn’t allowed to look up. I had to listen to the branches. I had to anticipate.
I swore a lot.
Like, a lot.
But it had worked. Here I was, and I knew exactly what I was doing. The paw prints were close together, clearly defined—Br’er Rabbit was somewhere ahead, and he hadn’t bothered hurrying. He’d taken his time. He was confident. The massive factory was dead silent. No sound. Nothing out of place—nothing I could see in the shadows, anyway. Still, I tried to diversify my steps, moving left to right, taking my time, breathing deep and then holding it while I listened for noises.
All of my training culminated in a single tense moment. First, I felt something thin press against my leg. I didn’t look down—there was no time. My ears picked up the sound of metal sliding on metal, coming from the left. Without a chance to second-guess, I pushed off with my right foot and jumped backwards, landing on my butt.
A conveyor belt dropped out of the shadows, landing right where I’d been.
I got up, wiping dust off my pants. I was angry now … that hadn’t been intended to kill me—just hurt me.
The prints led to an open door near the front of the building. It was away from the machinery, next to a little emergency washing station whose yellow showerhead was attached to the wall. The doorway opened into a staircase leading down. I took one more look around the empty factory. Everything in me told me not to go downstairs. My fingers wouldn’t stop wiggling. They wanted a weapon; something pointy and sharp.
There was a smell coming from the bottom of the stairs. Something metallic and hot.
Don’t go down. Briar would tell me not to go down there. Find another way.
I trusted my gut. I turned back toward the rear of the building.
My phone rang.
I pulled it from the duffel bag, blinking a few times at the bright screen. “Chase!” I hissed, my thumb clumsily finding the “Answer” button. I slapped the phone to my ear. “Chase! Where are you!”
A chuckle.
“Chase …”
“I’m afraid he’s indisposed,” came the rabbit’s voice. “You should probably hurry. There’s precious little time to save your boyfriend. Or your parents.”
I threw the phone down and ran to the staircase, clutching the railing and tossing my duffel bag down. The echo came back up a moment later. I used the sound to visualize the bottom: a narrow hall with a concrete floor and heavy walls. My feet took the stairs two at a time, my arm keeping the shield pointed down just in case Br’er Rabbit had another trap set.
But I knew, deep down, that he didn’t. No, he had other plans for me. He wanted me to see my loved ones.
He’ll kill them.
He’s Briar. Somewhere in there, he’s still Briar.
Chase … Mom and Dad …
I reached the bottom of the staircase, bending down and grabbing the duffel bag in one smooth motion. Far ahead was a light illuminating a bend in the hallway. There were metal doors on either side, each one labeled with a letter—A, B, C—each one rusted and shut.
At the bend, I turned, then turned again, following the light. I gasped. There, staring at me from an old Polaroid picture, was a young man with curly brown hair and a beautiful smile. A boy no older than me. Sitting on the floor was a deflated basketball, and on either side of the basketball were two fat white candles, each lit.
And scribbled on the wall in red paint:
Here Lies Brandon Carlyle
Hero for two weeks. Ran up against a wolf and lost his head.
Could never draw a straight sword …
Red paint had slid down the “u” of “could” and stained the top of the picture. I looked around—Br’er Rabbit knew I was here. He’d probably been watching for me. He had every advantage now. I was at his mercy and the only thing to do was play his game.
I walked farther down the hall. I was under the center of the building—one of the rusted doors to my left was open and inside, I could see the black shadow of some massive piece of discarded machinery. Next to the discarded machinery was a little bed. Briar’s bed. Stacks of newspapers sat beside the bed, and beside those were dozens of fat books. I opened the door a little more, examining the framed photo at the foot of the bed.
It was me. Me and Seth and Chase. It was from our state tournament right after we’d dispatched Agnim. In the picture, all three of us were standing at a crooked angle. Briar had clumsily taken the photo with my phone and then I’d sent it to Seth.
Seth must have printed it for Briar.
I was about to turn away when something else caught my eye: Seth’s Risk board, set up beside the stacks of old newspapers. I walked in, grabbed a handful of little black army pieces—Seth’s armies.
For good luck. I’m going to need it.
Just past the open door was another picture. This one was of a girl with dark skin and wide eyes and tight pigtails. She was wearing a beautiful blue low-cut blouse, arms cut off by the corner of the picture. All serious. Determined. It looked like a senior yearbook photo, a reminder of just how young the heroes can be.
On the floor were two more candles. Between them: a diary. And written on the wall above her picture was another eulogy:
Here lies Sesha Wilson.
Hero for three months. Lover of chocolate-covered raspberries.
Killed by a Corrupted child with a craving for blood, despite her helper’s tireless
warnings …
I walked on. There were more lining the walls. Hero after hero. I couldn’t look at any more and keep my resolve.
That’s why he did it. He’s trying to break you.
I focused on the closed door at the end of the hall. With each pair of candles I passed, the flames flickered. Shadows danced on the walls. I glanced over my shoulder, then cursed myself for losing control of my nerves. There were no scary monsters behind me—only ahead of me, beyond the door. I couldn’t make mistakes. I couldn’t end up like the heroes on the wall.
/> I stopped at the door, catching the name out of the corner of my eye and unable to stop myself:
Here lies Juliette Rosa Ramirez
Hero. Killer of sphinxes. Killer of animals. Killer of children.
Lost her husband. Lost her daughter. Lost her parents.
Lost control. Lost her life.
I stared at the picture. There she was, finally … my predecessor. She had tan skin and full lips and dark eyebrows that nearly came together above the bridge of her nose. She’d cut her hair short and left it to its own devices so that it grew out uneven and split. She wore gold earrings and had a scar on her nose from a nose ring she’d since taken out. I ran a finger along the sharp curves of her cheekbones. Was this picture taken after she’d lost everything? Or before?
I looked down. Sitting between the two candles was a little brown teddy bear.
My fingers squeezed the straps of the duffel bag. I set the bag down and grabbed the rusted door handle.
No going back.
I opened the door. A rush of hot air greeted me.
Chapter 5
The blast of hot air nearly knocked me off my feet. Visions of dragons flooded my mind. I opened my dry eyes, keeping the shield up as if flames might come rushing at me at any moment.
A room. A big, open room with a circular concrete platform about twice as big as the driveway in front of my parents’ garage. Br’er Rabbit was standing at the other end of the platform, his ears pulled back and his brown fur matted and greasy. A devious little smile crept up the corner of his mouth as he watched me step onto the rusted steel grate that acted as a bridge between the doorway and the platform.
I looked down. Twenty feet below the steel grate was fiery orange molten steel. It ran in a circle around the platform, bubbling loudly. The heat burned my cheeks and dried my eyes; I blinked away the pain, stepping onto the platform.
Briar stood next to a little control panel, one paw on the little T-shaped joystick. He cocked his head.
The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 4 Page 34