Neverseen (Keeper of the Lost Cities, #4)(62)

The hallway they’d entered was plain, cold metal. No windows, no doors, and thankfully no blaring alarms or guards. Mr. Forkle closed the door behind them and it vanished seamlessly.

“That was supposed to happen, right?” Keefe asked. “Because it feels like we just got locked in.”

His voice was barely a whisper, but the sound felt like a T. rex roaring. Sophie remembered Exile being filled with muffled moans. But she heard nothing except the rush of their hurried breathing.

“We must not linger in the somnatorium,” Granite warned. “These prisoners are the irredeemable cases, brought here for permanent sleep.”

“So . . . basically they’re dead,” Sophie said.

“If you want to see it that way,” Blur told her. “But they’re also very much alive, which is what keeps the guilt from shattering the Councillors’ minds. It’s also why we need to move quickly. We shouldn’t test the thoroughness of the sedatives.”

Sophie wasn’t sure the whole sedate-the-evil-people plan sounded all that solid—but what did she want the Council to do? Kill them?

“That light up ahead is the main corridor of Exile,” Mr. Forkle told them. “That’s where we must separate. I’d also advise you to keep your eyes on the floor from here on out.”

Sophie had used that trick last time, avoiding any glimpse through the porthole windows into the cells. But she was determined to face whatever waited for her.

“What’s so scary about—” Keefe started to ask. Then a face slammed against the glass.

The ogre’s lumpy skin was so swollen that it could barely open its eyes—and yet, the glare it fixed on them burned with rage as it licked its bloody teeth.

“Ooooooooooooookay, looking down now,” Keefe whispered, pressing his chin into his neck. “So . . . are we going to be messing with creepy dudes like that?”

“Worse,” Blur said, clapping Keefe on the back. “Welcome to the land of monsters.”

And Prentice, Sophie thought.

One weak star, tucked among the suffocating darkness. She wondered if any other innocents were trapped in these metal cages.

“Your group goes that way,” Mr. Forkle told Blur, pointing to the left as the hall forked.

“Come on,” Blur told Keefe and Squall. “Time to see who can cause the most chaos.”

“Well . . . when you put it that way!” Keefe rubbed his hands together.

“Please be careful,” Sophie begged.

“There you go caring about me again, Foster. Your fan club is going to get jealous.”

He zipped away with the others before anyone could respond.

Granite pointed down the opposite path. “The Room Where Chances Are Lost is that way. Avoid the adjuncts and the hall will dead-end there.”

Wraith and Biana turned to leave, but Della hesitated.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Fitz promised. “Just take care of yourself—and Biana.”

Della strangled him with a hug and pulled Sophie and Dex in. “Take care of each other.”

“We will,” they promised.

Della held them a second longer, then took Biana’s hand and they ran after Wraith, vanishing down the hall.

“I guess that means I’m up,” Sophie whispered.

She leaned against the wall to hold herself steady, then gasped as a shock of cold stabbed through her cloak.

“A Froster froze the walls,” Mr. Forkle explained. “After Fintan, the Council is not taking any chances with excess heat.”

“Is there a Pyrokinetic here?” Sophie asked.

“Two,” Granite said.

Sophie hoped her path to Prentice kept her far away.

“Here,” Fitz said as she tried to lean against the freezing wall again. “Lean on me—that’s what I’m here for.”

Sophie doubted the Black Swan had meant it quite so literally. But he was much warmer than the wall. Fitz wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and Sophie was grateful Keefe wasn’t there to feel her mood shift—though she was proud that her heart kept an even tempo, even when Fitz leaned closer and whispered, “You can do this.”

She pinned the words in her mind, saving them in case she needed them later.

Three . . .

Two . . .

One.

She spread out her consciousness, and hundreds of voices rampaged into her brain.

Just take it one mind at a time, she told herself as their thoughts scraped and clawed at her defenses like wild animals. She concentrated on the nearest memory.

A starved, rabid troll chased two teenagers through a lonely forest. The teens were fast, and for a second it looked like they might get away. Then the troll was on top of them, raising its clawed hands over their stomachs and— Sophie shoved the memory away.

She’d thought she understood what evil looked like—but clearly she’d only experienced the PG version. The uncensored director’s cut was a thousand times worse.

Every memory she searched was madness and mayhem, blood and gore, death and destruction. It didn’t matter what species they were—though the ogres’ minds were surprisingly the most bearable, their hidden thoughts like sticky spiderwebs.

“You okay, Sophie?” Fitz asked.

“They’re so awful,” she whispered. “I can’t . . .”