by Ilsa J. Bick
“What happened to the rock?” Bode’s voice spooled from the darkness. “Why’s it not glowing no more?”
“Good question.” This was as bad as when that chain-smoking miner dude switched off his lamp. Her heart kicked, and she could feel fresh sweat pop on her upper lip. Maybe she’d been wrong about the rock here. If Meme or Kramer had more control than she did … Extending a hand, she leaned left until she felt her fingertips brush stone. Light would be nice, she thought. But the cave stayed dark. Why is that? This worked before. Had this space been responding to something else going on below her awareness? Maybe … Elizabeth, deciding she needed light or a way to see out of my head? Just because her mind was quiet didn’t mean there wasn’t an awful lot going on in there. So those hands in the cell might have appeared because Elizabeth thought about touching something. But Elizabeth couldn’t have that kind of power on her own. If she did, she’d have gotten herself out of here long ago.
Wait a second. Her breath caught. Meme said I brought shadows, Eric and Casey and Rima and God knows who else. I know they’re in me; Eric and Elizabeth actually fought for control. So what if what happened in the cell is because something touched Elizabeth?
God, could it be that this space—the rock—responded only to the shadows? Then what about Meme? She’s my double, what I would look like if I were in my own body. And if McDermott truly had drawn energy from the Dark Passages to craft his fictions, mold his characters … make Emma … what was Meme? How close was the other girl to the shadows?
“They’s only two things scare me more than those things out there: drowning and the dark.” Bode tried a laugh that sounded strangled and too high. “Or maybe it’s only tight places. Squirmers, too, actually. You know how they punished us at Coram? If we nicked food because we were hungry, and the thing is, we was always hungry? Put us in a pit for an old privy. Damn thing filled up when it rained, and I couldn’t swim or even tread water. Never learned and—”
“Bode, stop talking.” He did, instantly, as if he’d been switched off. But she could hear him panting. “Freaking out is what they want.”
“How you know that?”
“I just do, okay? Trust me on this. Come on, stop it. You’re hyperventilating.” From the sound of his breathing, he was ahead of her and a little to her left. Shuffling toward him, she heard the gurgle and slop as her boots splashed through standing water. “Get a grip.”
“Oh, wonderful,” he said, still in that strangled, half-hysterical voice. “All we need now is a flood as the topper to an already perfect day.”
“Bode, will you shut the hell up?” She tensed, half-expecting to hear the roar of floodwaters heading their way. Sloshing over to Bode, she waved a hand back and forth until her fingers brushed a sleeve. “Take it easy. Do you still have your candle?”
She had to ask the question again before he said, “Hold on.” She felt him move, and then he was wrapping his free hand around her left wrist. “You got that match safe?” he asked. “I’m afraid to go reaching around for my box. Might drop the candle.”
“Yes.” Drawing out the brass box, she carefully thumbed the hinged lid and tweezed out a single match. “How do I light it?”
“Striker. It’s a ridged groove on the bottom of the case … yeah,” he said as the match spat to life. “ ’At’s better. Here.” He touched the flame to his candle. His forehead glistened with sweat in the candlelight. “Sorry. Just … had a bad case.”
“You’re not the only one.” She’d coughed up so much blood as they’d run through tunnels, her tongue tasted as if she’d been licking the bottom of her old red Radio Flyer wagon. Her chest was one big ache, front and back.
“So what do we do? We can’t stay here.”
“Yeah.” She suspected that if they tried, something would happen to force them on. She could see about ten feet with their candle’s meager light. The water rippling around their feet was maybe a couple inches. If it didn’t get any deeper, they ought to be okay, though the rocks would be slippery. “Bode, do you know why it’s so wet?”
“Lambeth’s marshland. Flooded all the time until they built the Embankment’s what I heard.” Moving forward a few feet, he held the candle at arm’s length and pointed up at crossbeams bolted to the ceiling and at vertical timbers, bloated with water, topped with cap blocks. “Look at that, will you? Never seen anything like that.”
“I have. Old mine.” She pointed at a length of corroded metal bolted to the left wall. “Is that a ladder?”
“What’s left of one, looks like.” High-stepping over, he craned a look up. “Yeah, I see the hole. And look here, right alongside.” He peered more closely. “It’s a hole bored into the rock. Not for a bolt.” He made an aha noise. “I’ll bet it’s for one of those iron candle picks, so your hands’d be free. I wondered why the kitchen had them. You know,” he said as she sloshed over to join him, “I know worse than nothing when it comes to things like this, though I had chums liked to wallow through sewers looking for coins, dropped purses, combs. They used ladders to get in and out, so this makes sense if it’s one of the old drainage spillways. Don’t all of them open to the surface, though. Some go to the Thames, but others drain into underground rivers. On the south side alone, they’s”—he counted under his breath—“eight or nine, I think.”
“I don’t think I want to find more water.” She could picture them winding through endless passages, going deeper and deeper, the roar growing louder and louder.
“Well, we can’t stay here. Just got to hope we find a ladder to the surface, or maybe turn up close to the old criminal wings. Air’s cold, so might be a vent or open pocket. So long as the rock doesn’t come alive again, I’m good with that.” After a pause, Bode added, “Meme let us in here for a reason?”
He said it like a question. “I think so, but I’m not sure. Bedlam is Kramer’s.”
“And she’s his creature.” Bode grunted. “Never liked when he said that.”
Now that she’d seen what lived in those cells … she didn’t either.
2
THE CUT WASN’T uniform, but hooked and branched into various side passages as well as larger carved rock rooms that might have been used to store equipment. Whenever they came to a fork, they went right unless there was no choice and marked each turn using Weber’s scalpel to scratch arrows. Although the tunnels felt uniform, they must be gradually heading down. The areas of bare rock dwindled, and the number of standing pools, orange in candlelight, increased.
“We’re going to be swimming soon.” Her skirt, wet almost to her knees, was getting heavier. What she wouldn’t give for jeans. No: waders.
“Oh, balls. Don’t like this.” Bode pointed at a bloated-looking crossbeam. Digging in a thumbnail, he pried off a long, soggy splinter. “Wet rot. Lucky this hasn’t come down.”
Don’t jinx it. Her eyes skipped to the view ahead. Water gathered in a wide bowl of rock that stretched to either side of the tunnel. Was there a lip or something, a ledge to skirt that? Jumping her gaze to the right, she spotted a narrow, horizontal, rust-red rill. It took her a second to recognize what this was. “Look. Train track.”
“Damme, you’re right.” Crouching, Bode ran a hand over worn metal. “Tunnel’s a little wider here. Must’ve used that to move rock out in handcarts.” Pushing up, he gestured toward the far wall and the remains of a rusted ladder. “Best one we’ve seen.”
“Think we could climb up? Be nice to get out of this water.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Wading across, he edged right around that large pool. “Like a mirror, that is. You can even make out the gouges in the ceiling.”
“Still waters run deep,” she said.
“I heard that. It’s from some story, isn’t it? About a cat or something?” A small silence, and then he said, “Speaking of which … mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she said, only half-noting how strained he suddenly sounded. She began sloshing her way through to where he
stood. The water was deep all right. “What?”
“You know it would go easier if you’d pick up your skirt there.”
“I’m about five seconds from chucking the damn thing.” Kicking a swath of sodden cloth, she blew out in frustration. “What’s your question?”
“It’s about a cat.” He’d already turned to move on, but now he paused and looked back. “I can’t believe I’m asking, but … the name Jack mean anything?”
She stopped dead. He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d spit in her face. “I had a cat named Jack,” she said, slowly. “When I was a girl. He disappeared when I was twelve. After I’d …” Her hand brushed her jaw; without her thinking about it, her tongue pressed against the jagged edge of a bottom tooth. “I had an accident.”
“Laid open your chin.”
She blinked. “Yes. Bode, what …”
“Well, I’ll be dratted,” Bode moaned, turning aside. He started forward, water rising in sheets. “Two of you. I am mad as hops, gone completely nutter …”
“Bode?” But then the gurgle of water, that hollow bloosh as he stumped away, penetrated. Actually, it would probably have clicked sooner if he hadn’t mentioned Jack and put her off her stride. Now, though, above the drum of her heart, she also heard that old chain-smoking miner dude: Remember, girl … lower levels …
“Bode!” She splashed after. “Bode, wait!”
“What?” Face still working, he looked back over his shoulder. “What in blazes you want now—”
His foot came down with a loud sploosh.
And then, so quickly that he never had time to cry out, Bode plunged through the surface and took the light with him.
ELIZABETH
Shadow-Boy
“BODE!” FOR A moment, Elizabeth forgot where and what she was and lunged, arms outstretched, hands open in a grab. All she slapped was that cold black mirror. While that queer greenish-yellow glow still suffused this space, her view beyond and through the mirror into the world she’d left behind had gone the way of Bode and his light. The darkness was so absolute, so pitchblack, she doubted that Emma could see her hand in front of her own eyes, much less that pool into which Bode had plummeted. “Emma, don’t just stand there! Do something, do something!”
“What exactly do you expect her to do?” The shadow-boy, Eric, moved to flank her. Gesturing at the mind’s eye, his hand lost coherence for a brief second, thinning to wisps before solidifying again. The shadow-boy was, mercifully, behind her. “She can’t see.”
“Quiet!” From beyond, in her real world, she heard a sudden thrashing, a huge, gasping inhale, a spasm of coughing, and then Bode’s frantic, choked cry: “He-help, Emma, help, I c-can’t …” At the same time, Emma was screaming, “Bode, can you swim? Can you grab on to something?” More crashing, the slop of water smashing rock, and what Elizabeth thought was a blubbery gurgle. Then … nothing, nothing. Still no light either. Only water on stone, and Emma, that stupid stupid girl, shouting Bode’s name into the dark.
“Damn you, Emma!” Elizabeth shouted. “Stop sniveling and go after him!”
“And just how is she supposed to do that? There’s no light. If she falls in, then they’re both dead.” A pause, and then the shadow-boy added, “Us too.”
“Then damn it all, I hope she does fall in, does drown!” Tears dashed down her cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she saw only his form, umbral and indistinct as black mist. She was afraid to turn a direct look. After that horrible business with Weber and how effortlessly Eric flowed out of this place to take control before she even realized what was happening, the other pieces she’d only glimpsed as silhouettes, the sense of a crowd, were even closer now, especially those three other shadows: the small girl that had to be a shadow-Lizzie and the other two closer to Elizabeth’s age. “At least then I could take control again, if only for a little while!”
Although this was not precisely the way it had happened before. She’d felt nothing physical, not Weber choking her or even panic as her throat closed. Yet her chest had grown suddenly heavy with a crushing doom. Casting a startled glance down at her hands, she’d seen them begin to bleed of color and substance and grow glassy. God, I’m going to die; my body’s dying. Even that thought felt transparent, as if she were nothing more than a fading scrawl done in weak, watery ink. As Emma slid into unconsciousness and the weird glow in this space darkened, the walls of this prison wavered. The floor shimmied under her feet, and for a second, she could feel herself moving back into her body the way blood gushes through arteries. In that brief moment, agony suddenly flared in her chest and throat; she was aware of Weber’s weight on her body, could feel his spit spray her face and the judder of her heels on canvas.
Coming back had been swift, like the sudden flare of a match: awakening to a room only just beginning to reconstruct itself and this shadow-boy beating the life out of Weber. The only reason she’d managed to eke out even a few seconds in control of her body again was because, however strongly this Eric felt about Emma, he hadn’t planned any of it. His move into the front of her mind had been reflex, and then she’d surprised him, that was all. She was certain he’d never let that happen again.
Now, the shadow-Eric said, “Actually, it’s probably good there’s no light.”
“What? How is that better?”
“Because she’ll have to take a breath and think. If she had a lamp or candle, she might’ve made a grab …” His voice trailed away.
“What?” Seething, she aimed a punch at his chest and then gasped as her fist sank in an ebony swirl to her wrist. How did he do that? Solid one second, then so much shadow the next? “What is it?”
“Matches.” He moved past her to the mind’s eye. “Emma,” he called. “Emma, listen to me. You’ve got matches.”
A distance behind, she heard the blanks shuffle ever closer, and she hurried to join him at the black mirror. “What are you doing?”
Despite the burr, Eric’s words were taut. “Making a suggestion.”
“How can you do that? She’s locked us up tight.”
“No, she’s locked up against you. But she knows I’m here. I’m not a threat.”
“You’ll never get through, not while she’s conscious and in control. Even if you could, how will she know it’s really you? She’ll never listen. I wouldn’t. I would never trust a shadow.”
“And that’s why she’s my Emma,” he said. “Because she will trust me. She knows I would never hurt her.”
The words cut. “Oh no? You didn’t just knock Weber out. You beat the man to pulp. What kind of a monster does that?”
“I was …” His face seemed to lose coherence a moment before it firmed. “I was upset. I lost control for a second, that’s all.”
“And killed a man. So think twice about just how much you should be trusted. Besides, you’re not strong enough to break through.” Actually, with the mark of the Dark Passages on him and the three shadows pressing ever closer—any moment, they would take on some coherence and personality, just watch—she thought she might be wrong about that.
“Do you want to save Bode? Because I do. He was our friend, and if he means anything to you, then you’ll stop getting in my way. I’m strong, I am, and so is she.” His obsidian gaze fixed on the mind’s eye. “Come on, Emma. Don’t be afraid. Listen to me. It’s Eric. You know I’m here. So listen: remember the matches. Remember the flask.”
“Flask?” she said. “Why is that …”
“If you want Bode to die, keep talking,” he said, and then paid her no mind as she fumed. “Emma, this is important. Listen: you’ve got …”
EMMA
The Strength Only Shadows Possess
1
MATCHES. THE WORD popped in her mind. Followed by another: flask.
“What?” she whispered. The faint echoes of Bode’s shouts had only just faded away. When she first heard him thrash, she’d come this close to bolting forward but stopped herself at the last possible second. Go into
the drink with Bode, they were both cooked. She was on her knees, inching forward, trying to remember what she’d seen before the light went out, feeling through icy water for the edge of the hole.
Then she thought, Canvas.
Light. Of course! Her stiff fingers fumbled the button securing her right hip pocket and gave the fabric a vicious yank. There was a tick as the button popped and struck stone. She slid in a hand. Her fingers curled around the match safe. She carefully drew out first it and then the flask. She didn’t even bother to try the button on the right. Ripping that pocket apart, she found the burlap-wrapped scalpel.
Sitting cross-legged, she unwound the burlap and clamped it in her teeth. Uncapping the flask, she stuffed the fabric into the open bottle, jamming it in as far as it would go, leaving enough of a tail for a wick. With a quick flick of her wrist, she upended the flask until the burlap got wet. The liquid inside had no smell, which worried her. Shouldn’t alcohol smell? Remember, might be different for you, like Meg Murry and IT. Food didn’t taste like anything for Meg either, but it was still food. She sure hoped that explained it.
Teasing a match from the safe, she snapped the hinge closed, then felt along the matchstick until she nested the head into the ridged striker. She gave it a sharp swipe. The match head flared with a spit and sputter. Quickly, she held it to her booze-soaked wick. A second later, the burlap caught in a sooty shower of tiny sparks.
“Bode?” Returning the match safe and scalpel to her pocket, she held her homemade torch over her head with one hand as she shuffled forward on her knees, feeling along the rock floor with the other. How much time gone, how much? Thirty seconds, she thought, maybe almost a minute. In the candlelight, the rippling water was a dull bronze. The remaining iron rungs were black slashes. Just got to find the opening. If there’d been ladders bolted to the rock, might there be a rung or something still below? Or a protruding piece of iron he could grab onto?