But things are different now than they were four months ago. No one’s got any reason to try to kill me, for one. And for another, even if they wanted to, no one would ever deliberately go after Jaxon Vega’s mate. Especially not after Jaxon nearly drained Cole for trying to drop a chandelier on me.
Plus, I’m a gargoyle now. If someone tries to hurt me, I can always just turn to stone. As exciting as that sounds. Of course, I have absolutely no idea how to do that. But that’s a problem for another day, already filed away.
Before I can reconsider, I’m out of my dorm room and down the hall to…I’m not sure where yet. Except my feet seem to know what my brain doesn’t, because it isn’t long before I’m standing at the opening to the narrow hallway that leads to the tunnel entrance.
Part of me thinks I’m ridiculous for going in here alone—or at all, for that matter. Just this afternoon, I avoided heading this way with Flint because of all the bad shit that happened the last time I was down here.
But I’m not dressed to go outside, and suddenly the only thing I really want to be doing is working on my art piece. The only way to get to the art room right now is to go through the tunnels, so…it looks like I’m about to get up close and personal with the site of my almost demise.
Figuring the best way to get through the tunnels is just to get through them—no side trips, no detours—I make my way down the ever-narrowing, ever-darkening hallway as fast as I possibly can. My heart is pounding in my chest, but I don’t let it slow me down.
I finally make it to the dungeon-like cells, with their creaking hinges and ancient chains. Since I’m alone and there’s no one around to rush me, I let myself stop and look them over for a minute. At night, alone, they’re even creepier than they are during the day. And they’re plenty creepy then.
There are five cells in a row, each one equipped with an iron-barred door. Each door has an ancient padlock threaded through its latch bar, but each of the padlocks is closed （with no keys in sight） so there’s no chance of anyone getting locked in the cells by accident…or, for that matter, not by accident.
The cells themselves are made of giant stones, each one about the width of a dragon’s foot （or at least the width of Flint’s foot, since he’s the only dragon I’ve ever seen）， and I wonder if there’s a reason for that or if my imagination is just running wild. Either way, the stones are black and craggy and more than a little ominous-looking.
Then again, everything about the cells is ominous-looking—especially the three sets of shackles driven deep into the wall. Judging by the age of this place and the condition of the padlocks themselves, I would expect the shackles to be in pretty rough shape, too.
But they’re not. Instead, they’re a blindingly bright silver, free of any rust or sign of age. Which, not going to lie, makes me wonder how old they are. And why on earth Katmere Academy—which is run by my uncle, for God’s sake—might have need of shackles thick enough to hold a rampaging dinosaur. Or, you know, a dragon, werewolf, or vampire…
Because thinking about it takes me along a disturbing path, one I’m not ready to go down tonight, I tell myself there must be a reasonable explanation—one that doesn’t involve locking students up in a freezing dungeon for who knows how long.
Figuring I’m going to lose my nerve if I stay here any longer debating this, I take a deep breath and step into the fifth cell, which is the only one with the extra door that leads to the tunnels.
As I do, I brush a hand over the padlock on the door, just to make sure it’s securely locked and no werewolf can come along and trap me in the tunnels.
Except, the moment my fingers brush against the lock, it clicks open…and falls out of the door latch straight into my hands.
Not quite the confidence builder I was looking for, especially considering I know it was locked. I know it.
Totally creeped out now, I slip the lock into the pocket of my hoodie—there’s no way I’m putting it on the door until I’m safely back from the art cottage and heading to bed. Then I bend over and plug in the code Flint taught me for the tunnel door all those months ago.
I enter the last digit and the door swings open, just like it has every other time I’ve gone down here. But every other time I’ve been with someone else, and somehow that’s made it less creepy.
Unless I concentrate on the fact that two of the four people I’ve been in the tunnels with literally tried to kill me here. Then it seems like pretty good odds that I’m by myself.