The Liberator (A Dante Walker Novel) (Entangled Teen)

  “Aspen, do you trust me?” I ask.

  Aspen hesitates. When she speaks, her voice is choked. “I trust you.”

  I tickle the bear’s throat with my fingertips. I want to get this over with. The mammoth animal works his tongue so that we’re thrown side to side.

  “What are you doing?” Aspen hollers.

  I would tell her to keep it down, but it doesn’t matter. Not in here.

  The bear swallows.

  We slip down his throat like it’s a water park slide. Aspen grabs onto my leg, and we tumble head over heel. My heart pounds against my rib cage. Not because of what’s happening—I’ve done this too many times to be afraid—but because I know how Aspen must feel, how her mind must scream for release.

  We land hard, and I pull Aspen to her feet.

  She wipes her gloved hands over her eyes and tries to hide the fact that she’s been crying. I don’t know why. She just got swallowed by an oversized bear, for crap’s sake. I think she’s allowed a few tears.

  I take her shoulders in my hands. “Are you okay? We’ve got a few more rooms to pass through, not too much longer. This place is an unending labyrinth, but I know the way. Can you make it?”

  Aspen’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. “What is this place?” Her face holds a child-like fascination. My stomach lurches; that fascination will soon change to something very different.

  “The Hall of Mirrors,” I answer.

  The room is a perfect square and filled with reflective objects. An intricate chest, a suspended chandelier, musical instruments, picture frames, scattered furniture, children’s toys, stairs leading to nothing—they’re all mirrors. An uncertain smile slides across Aspen’s face. “It’s so beautiful,” she says, turning to me. “How is it possible?”

  Light radiates from an unknown source, illuminating our bodies and bouncing off the mirrors. It’s a pristine palace. A house of wonders.

  But it’s also a place of nightmares.

  Aspen picks up a sphere and tosses it between her hands. It’s amazing how quickly she goes from tearful to confident curiosity. But then she looks closer at the globe. Her eyes narrow, and her features harden.

  “What am I seeing?” Alarm colors Aspen’s voice.

  “It isn’t real.” I rush to her side but stop when the images begin bouncing from the mirrors. My mom stands with her back to me, laughing. My father watches, blood dripping down his cheeks. I move toward the center of the room, stepping over glass tiles that play an endless reel of Max being torn open. My mind repeats what I just told Aspen, but it’s hard to believe what I’m saying because it’s all right here.

  This room is always hard. No matter how many times I pass through it, my head throbs. My muscles tighten.

  I can’t breathe.

  Aspen drops down onto the floor and covers her head. She’s in the fetal position muttering about her father. Her back rises and falls too quickly. I’ve got to get to her before her heart gives out.

  But it’s hard when Charlie’s face stares back at me, her eyes gouged out.

  “You have to believe it isn’t real,” I say to Aspen, and maybe to myself, too. “You have to believe it isn’t real, or we’ll never get out.”

  I drop onto the floor and watch Max being dismembered beneath my hands. Then I lunge at Aspen. I yank her into my arms and whisper in her ear, “Think about Sahara. Think about Lincoln. Remember why we’re here. This isn’t real. It’s in your head. Believe what I’m telling you. You have to, Aspen.”

  Several seconds pass before her head lifts. She looks around the room, and though her face is contracted in pain, she says, “It isn’t real.”

  The moment she speaks those words, I believe them, too.

  The room changes colors. It’s red. There are human bodies everywhere, shielding their eyes and screaming for the images to stop. Aspen never knew they were there. But I did.

  Beneath us, the floor cracks into a million pieces.

  Aspen freezes and I see him—a collector—standing in the Hall of Mirrors, arms folded across his chest.

  The floor shatters, and we fall.

  37

  We All Fall Down

  I’ve memorized this fall. I know the way the gravel will dig into my muscle when I land. But it doesn’t lessen the blow when I hit the ground.

  Aspen smacks onto her side and rolls to the left. I land flat on my back. The breath is ripped from my lungs, and if I could, I’d lie still. But I can’t. Not after who I saw. “You’re all right,” I tell Aspen, helping her up. I’m not sure if she is or not, but I need her to be, so I keep tugging on her arm. She stands and looks overhead. The shattered floor is now a stained-glass ceiling. Light slinks in through the jigsaw pieces, casting a riot of blues, greens, and purples across the area. The heavenly colors do nothing to soften the smell.

  “Oh, my God,” she groans. “What is that? It smells like…”

  “It’s decay.” My blood hammers behind my temples as I search for him. He’s here. He must be.

  There’s a narrow bridge connecting the dark platform we’re on to a similar one on the other side. We have to cross over to get where we’re going. I contemplate not telling Aspen about the collector—about Patrick—but I must. This isn’t something she’d want to be in the dark about.

  Aspen is running her hands over her long, dark ponytail when I say, “They know we’re here.”

  Her head whips around. “How do you know?”

  “There was one back there. In the Hall of Mirrors.”

  Aspen glances around like she’s searching for him. “It could be only one,” she says, but the way her brow furrows tells me she doesn’t believe that. “How fast can we get to the soul storage area?”

  In response, I grab her hand, and we dart toward the bridge. The pine boards creak and sway beneath our feet, and far below, black oil bubbles and pops. Moans fill the air, and I know what they are, but we have to keep moving.

  The bridge sways wildly, wider and wider, and I order Aspen to run.

  The demons. They’re coming.

  They’re climbing up the posts that support the bridge, nails digging into the old wood. If Aspen sees them, she’ll scream. And once that happens, the demons will scream, too. There’s a rule in hell: no matter how much pain you’re in, no matter how many horrors you face, you can never scream. If you do, they’ll come for you. And you will be punished.

  The creatures are close. Their stench makes me light-headed, but I have to keep pumping my legs.

  “If it isn’t the infamous Dante Walker,” a voice shouts. It isn’t a scream, but it’s dangerously close.

  A shiver races down my back as I turn around, hanging onto the rope handrail for balance. Patrick, the collector, stares back at me, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face. I trained Patrick a couple of years ago. He’s a good soul collector and has a decent left hook, if memory serves. He’s a scrapper, a small guy who’s quick and eager to please. Patrick would like nothing more than to hand-deliver me to Lucille.

  I gauge how far Aspen and I are from the other side and know we could make it there before he does. In fact, once the demons crawl over the side, they may even take him down. They’re slow and stupid, but they have strength in numbers. But if he runs fast enough—and God knows he’s a fast fucker—he’ll make it across, too.

  Not if I hold him up, though.

  My eyes lock with Aspen’s. “Run.”

  Then I turn and race toward Patrick. The bridge rocks, and I almost tip over the side twice, but I keep moving. Patrick accepts the challenge and storms in my direction. I don’t know what his goal is. Maybe to toss me to the demons so I’m trapped. Then find Lucille and lead him here.

  We both run hard, realizing we have seconds before the demons ascend. As we get closer, I anticipate he’ll go for my chest. Maybe even my face. But instead he drops low and barrels into my legs.

  I smack onto my back with a grunt. Patrick dives on top of me like a Doberman, all snap
ping teeth and lean muscle. He goes for my throat, and I let him. My thumbs dig into his eyes, and he bites down to keep from screaming. Taking advantage of his pain, I bring my knees up. I kick out, and his body flies backward. He’s upright in a flash, racing toward me with wide brown eyes.

  He stops.

  Crawling over the side of the bridge is a demon.

  Its body is shaped like a human’s, but it’s all wrong. The angles are too sharp, and the spine is too curved. Black-and-yellow scales cover the creature’s torso, and talons grow where fingernails should be. The demon’s beady black eyes fix on me. Its mouth drops open. A low whistle emanates from its throat. The sound could be from a young girl strolling through a park with a boy’s face in her mind. It’s a sweet, innocent noise, but coming from this creature it’s chilling.

  This thing, this creature, used to be a person.

  The demon moves toward me, toenails clicking against the bridge. Behind it, Patrick scurries backward. He smiles. This is exactly what he wanted. I contemplate what action to take. If I flee, the demon probably won’t catch me, but I’ll lose sight of Patrick. And it’s better to have your enemy in view than hidden in the shadows. So I’ll fight it. I’ll toss it back into its bubbling grave and then toss Patrick in after him.

  But I’ve got to hurry, because more demons are coming.

  The creature is bigger than me, but not nearly as quick. And that’s what I’m counting on. I rush toward the monster but stop when a thump-thump-thump comes from behind.

  Aspen rushes past and charges toward the demon. The heel of her hand rams into its mutated nose, and the creature hisses and falls back. She doesn’t give it a moment to think. Aspen ducks when the monster swipes a clawed hand at her, then she drives a closed fist into its side. She hits it again on the opposite side.

  “Oh, man!” Patrick says from a few feet away. “Boss Man is going to love her.”

  My mind buzzes as I try to pull her away, but she brushes me off and keeps fighting. This time she rears back and thrusts her foot into its stomach. When the demon hunches over with a sickening gurgle, she kicks it in the face. The demon recovers quickly and attacks. It drags a single claw across her bicep, and somehow Aspen doesn’t scream.

  She just gets angry.

  Her fists fly faster than I can follow. She’s totally kicking its ass, and though I don’t want to leave her alone with the creature, I know this frees me up to take care of Patrick.

  I set my gaze on the collector. Then I brush past Aspen and tackle him to the planks. He grabs the rope handrail over his head and uses it as leverage to kick me away.

  I’m back on him in a blaze, sweat covering my brow. It’s sweltering in here, and the smell. I ignore both and fling myself on him. Taking a cue from Aspen, I throw my fist into his sides, then land a blow straight into his shining teeth.

  Once I’m standing, I pull him up with me. And then I underestimate him, forget how fast he is on his feet. He reaches out and grabs a handful of my hair. My scalp stings as he rips me forward and then past him. I fly toward the edge of the bridge and just manage to keep from falling by grabbing onto the handrail. The bridge sways like a drunken sailor, and it’s everything I can do to stop myself from tumbling over the side.

  I look back at Patrick. He grins from ear to ear. Then he lifts his leg up. I understand what he’s about to do a moment before he does it. He’s going to kick me off the edge. And that’s going to be it.

  But the collector stops cold, his knee still raised, when he hears the whistling sound over his shoulder.

  The demon rises up from behind him like the moon. It lowers its black shiny head until their cheeks are pressed together. They almost look like lovers. Patrick is shaking and turns a shade of white that seems impossible.

  The demon wraps his arms around Patrick and then kicks off from the side of the bridge.

  They are gone.

  Falling toward the thick oil.

  The collector may be there an hour, a day. Or he may stay for eternity. It just depends how hard he fights, and for how long. Maybe he’ll let go of his humanity entirely and become one of them. The same way I think Rector has begun to do.

  Once I hear the splash of his body hitting the oil, I join Aspen in her battle against the demon. Together, we are able to shove it back toward the dark liquid blanket. Aspen glances around, her breath coming fast.

  “Is he gone?” she asks.

  “For now,” I answer. “How’s your arm?”

  She grips the place where the creature cut her. “I’ll be fine. What now?”

  “Stick to the plan. Get to the soul storage room and get out of here. Handle obstacles as they come.” We race toward the end of the bridge as more demons claw their way over the side. Thankfully, they’ll never make it to us in time. We near the door, and I tell Aspen, “Remind me to thank Lincoln for teaching you how to fight. You’re an animal.”

  She grins. “That was a lie.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t teach me how to fight. I taught him.”

  I slow down and stare at her. “How did you—?”

  “Dante. The door. Do we need a key or…?”

  I shake my head. “Right. No, we just go through.” The door swings open beneath my hand, and we step into the next room. Aspen immediately falls back with fright, but I push her forward. We must close the door behind us, or the demons will keep coming.

  Aspen’s hands fly to her ears, and she looks at me, eyes dancing with fear at what she sees.

  38

  Fire Dancer

  Around the circular room are twelve fireplaces. They are ten feet tall and ten feet wide. Inside them, humans are bound by their ankles. Flames shoot up from stacks of wood at their feet and lick their skin. The moans are louder here than almost anywhere else. Every once in a while someone lets out a scream. When that happens, the fire burns blue. It engulfs their entire body and singes their hair. The demons don’t come when they scream. The fire takes care of that.

  The smell of burning flesh and smoke fills my senses, and even though I’ve smelled it a hundred times, I almost heave.

  With my chin, I motion toward an empty fireplace. It burns just as bright as the others, but there aren’t any bodies in this one. “That’s where we’re going.”

  “Inside there?” Aspen gasps. “With the fire?”

  “We just have to walk through it,” I say, as if this is somehow better.

  Aspen’s gaze turns to the burning bodies. “Can we do anything for these people?”

  I shake my head. “It’s too late for them.”

  She bites her lip and cringes. I wonder if it’s the sound they’re making, or the smell, or perhaps the sight of them that bothers her the most. She looks back at the empty fireplace. “Will it hurt?”

  I want to tell her no. I want to protect her from all of this. But I can’t. “It will,” I answer honestly. “But only as you pass through it. Once we’re on the other side, your wounds will heal.”

  She squats down, and her gloved hands touch the ground. It’s like she’s lost the will to stand. “How much farther?”

  “We’re almost there.” I grip her shoulder, and she stands back up. Then she grits her teeth.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  We clasp hands and approach the flames. They seem to bend toward us, eager for a taste. “Ready?” I ask.

  “Could I ever be ready for this? For any of this?”

  I almost laugh. Almost.

  “Quickly!” I order. We dart toward the hearth, and within seconds we’re engulfed. The scent of my own flesh burning fills my nose, making me gag. Aspen’s hair is on fire, flaming orange. Her mouth is open in a perfect circle of black, but no sound comes out. Pain radiates through every nerve in my body. It’s so intense, I think I’ll collapse.

  I forget about Aspen. I forget about Charlie. There’s only agony, slicing open my skin and filling it with blinding heat. The skull buckle on my belt melts and drips silver onto my shoes. My ri
ght ear peels off and falls to the ashes below, a hunk of charred meat. The sizzling sound I heard before is now cut in half. My vision blurs, and I know the fire is eating my eyes, sucking them from their sockets like the pimento in a stuffed olive. The misery is too much. The fire is too greedy, too hungry. I’ve done this before, but I can’t do it again. I can’t take another single step after this one.

  It’s over.

  We fall to the floor on the other side of the hearth. Aspen wraps her arms around herself and rolls on her back, but our skin has already repaired itself. Even my clothing and belt buckle look untouched. That’s the beauty of hell. Your body is never destroyed. That way, the pain can always continue.

  “You’re okay,” I say, brushing the ashes from her hair. It’s black again. Not red or orange or any other color that makes my stomach churn. “We’re so close.”

  Aspen coughs into her open hand, but nothing comes out. Her lungs are perfect. Untouched. She slowly comes to a stand. I offer her my arm, which she refuses. A pang of guilt rushes through me, but I push it down. I can’t think about how horrible it is that she’s here now. If I do, I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else.

  We’re in a room that’s a perfect square. The walls and floor are made of charcoal-gray concrete, and it doesn’t seem that threatening. There aren’t giant bears or snakes or demons or even fire. It’s just a room. But we all have our weaknesses. And this has always been the one I hate the most.

  The walls start moving.

  They push Aspen and me away from the edge of the room. She spins to look for the fireplace, but it’s gone.

  Soon, the ceiling is moving, too, sliding down toward the floor with a rumble.

  “What’s going on?” Aspen says, twirling like a ballerina to see the walls inching closer. I can tell right away this is different for her. She knows what’s happening, and her body is already writhing with terror.

  “We can pass through them,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. “You have to believe it, though. Just like with the Hall of Mirrors.”