We head that way, but just as we’re about to reach it, a low-grade tremor rips through the room. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but as the bones in the chandelier start to clink together in the eeriest sound imaginable, I realize there’s nothing imaginary about it.
We’re standing in the middle of a musty, crumbling old tunnel just as the earth begins to shake for real this time.
30
You Make
the Earth Shake
Under My Feet…
and Everywhere Else, Too
Lia’s eyes go wide as the chandelier sways above us. “We need to get out of this room.”
“We need to get out of these tunnels!” I answer. “How sturdy do you think they are?”
“They won’t collapse,” she assures me, but she starts moving toward the tunnel that’s supposed to lead to the art studio pretty damn quickly.
Not that I blame her—Flint and I are moving fast, too.
It’s not a big earthquake, at least not the kind that Alaska is known for. But it’s not like the small tremors that I’ve felt since coming here, either. Based on what I’ve experienced back home, this one is an easy seven on the Richter scale.
Lia and Flint must realize that at the same time I do, because once we hit the new tunnel, our fast walk becomes a run.
“How far to the exit?” I demand. My phone is vibrating in my pocket, a series of texts coming in fast and furious. I ignore them as the ground continues to move.
“Maybe another couple hundred yards,” Flint tells me.
“Are we going to make it?”
“Absolutely. We—” He breaks off as a loud rumbling sound comes from the ground, followed closely by a violent shift that turns the quake from rolling to shaking.
My legs turn to rubber, and I start to stumble. Flint grabs me above the elbow to steady me, then uses his grip to propel me through the tunnel so fast that I’m not sure my feet are even touching the ground anymore. Unlike on the stairs a few days ago, this time I’m not complaining.
Lia’s in front of us, running even more quickly, though I don’t know how that’s possible, considering just how fast Flint has us moving.
Finally, the ground starts to slant upward, and relief sweeps through me. We’re almost there, almost out of this place, and so far the tunnels have held. Twenty more seconds and a door looms ahead of us. Unlike the one we originally came through, this one is covered in drawings of dragons and wolves and witches and what I’m pretty sure is a vampire on a snowboard.
It’s all done graffiti-style, using every color imaginable. And it is totally badass. Another day—when the earth isn’t literally moving under my feet—I’ll stop to admire the artwork. For now, I wait for Lia to punch in the code—59678 （I watch carefully this time）—and then the three of us burst through the door and into what is obviously a very large art supply closet.
The earthquake stops just as the door closes behind us. I exhale in relief as Flint drops my arm, then bend over and try to catch my breath. He might have been doing most of the work to get us here, but I was moving my legs as fast as I could.
Several seconds pass before I can breathe without feeling like my lungs are going to explode. When I can, I stand back up—and notice a few things all at the same time. One, this closet is really well stocked. Two, the door into the art classroom is wide open. And three, Jaxon is standing in the doorway, face wiped completely blank of expression.
My stomach drops at my first glimpse of his clenched fists and the wild fury burning in the depths of his eyes—not because I’m afraid but because it’s obvious that he was.
For long seconds, no one says or does anything, except for Lia, who glances between Jaxon and me with a look that seems just a little bit sly. Then she tells him, “Don’t worry, Jaxon darling; I’m fine.” She pats him on his unscarred cheek as she walks right by him into the art classroom and closes the door behind her.
He doesn’t even glance her way. His eyes, flat and black, are pinned to Flint. Who rolls his own eyes as he says, “They’re both fine. You’re welcome.”
For long seconds, Jaxon doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even make a sound. But it turns out I only thought Jaxon was pissed before. Because after Flint’s comment, he looks like he’s one very small step away from an aneurysm. Or mass murder.
“Get out of here,” he growls.
“I wasn’t planning on sticking around.” Flint doesn’t move, though. Instead, he stays in front of me, staring Jaxon down.