Jasper didn’t look reassured.
“Besides, the bedrooms are the only place the Chaos-ridden don’t go,” Alex added.
“On the other hand,” said Jasper, “that’ll be fine.”
He still glared at Call, though, as they went upstairs, and mouthed It’s all your fault at him before he was escorted off to something called the Green Wing by a silent Chaos-ridden.
Call and Tamara were taken down a corridor where the walls were red. Tamara was shown to a room across the hall while Alex personally brought Call into his chamber, leaning across him to flick on the light.
“Anastasia decorated it,” he said. “What do you think?”
At first the room seemed fine. It was normal, plain, with navy-and-white-striped sheets and pillows. There was a sofa and a desk. Only slowly did the horror of what he was looking at creep in. Family photos littered all the surfaces — Constantine Madden, laughing with his brother, Jericho. Waving over a railing with his parents. On a camping trip with the whole family.
Photos of Constantine by himself, getting awards at school, ceremonies where new stones were put into his wristband. Grinning in his Silver Year uniform. Candid photos of him with his friends were shoved into the frames of the mirrors, tacked above the bed.
Friends that were now mostly dead, murdered in the Third Mage war.
“All the books are Constantine’s favorite books,” said Alex in a gloating voice. “All the clothes in the wardrobe are the clothes he wore when he was your age. They’re hoping it’s going to trigger some flood of memories, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Go away,” said Call. Next to him, Havoc was whining uneasily. He could sense Call was upset but didn’t know why.
Alex leaned against the doorjamb. “But this is so funny.”
Call remembered when he’d admired Alex. He’d thought Alex was just Master Rufus’s assistant, a cool older apprentice who had been kind to Call. But all that kindness had been fake. Everything about Alex was fake, like the illusion magic he’d favored.
“I’m about to change for dinner,” said Call. “Get out or watch me strip — it’s your choice.”
Alex rolled his eyes and disappeared, slamming the door behind him.
Call went over to examine the photos shoved into the mirror frame. Most of them were of Constantine with his friends. He recognized a much younger Alastair Hunt, his arm around Constantine, grinning and pointing off at something in the distance. And there was Call’s mom, Sarah, looking so young with loose hair and a pretty smile. She stood next to Constantine with something strapped to her hip.
Miri. The knife she’d made. She was wearing Miri. Call felt the back of his throat start to ache as he remembered she’d used that knife to carve words into the wall of the ice cave where she died.
KILL THE CHILD.
Call wandered over to the wardrobe and yanked open the doors.
The clothes inside probably would have been more disturbing to someone who hadn’t grown up with Alastair Hunt and therefore shopped in a lot of thrift stores and vintage emporiums. Lots of black jeans with rips in the knee and long cargo shorts. Beside them, thermal waffle shirts, white tees, and a lot of flannel. There was also a beat-up jean jacket. The ’90s had returned and were living here in Call’s closet.
Despite what Alex had said, Call hoped Master Joseph had actually bought this stuff secondhand. That would have been creepy enough, but as he inspected the jean jacket, which had patches and writing on it, he came to the much creepier conclusion — all this stuff really had once belonged to Constantine Madden.
Call really hoped the underwear was new. He did not want to wear the Underoos of an Evil Overlord.
The door opened and Jasper came in.
“I c-c-can’t,” he sputtered. “I can’t stay in there!”
“What now?” Call demanded, sick of Jasper’s complaints. After all, none of them had wanted to be kidnapped. None of them wanted to sleep here. “It can’t be creepier than this!”
Jasper looked around the room, taking it in. Then he turned back to Call. “Come with me.” There was grimness in his voice that made Call trail after him, Havoc on his heels.
They went down the red hall and into a green one, past two doors to another, which Jasper pushed open.
It was a big room with a large window. The light streaming in caught on cobwebs around the room. Dust had settled on most surfaces. It looked like no one had been in there since Drew had died. It was creepy, Call had to admit — especially with all the horses.
Horses on shelves lining an entire wall, arranged in the plastic hundreds. Horses on posters. Horses on a beside table lamp. Horses running on the sheets.
“That’s a lot of …” Call managed, staring.
“You see?” Jasper said. “I can’t sleep in here!”
Even Havoc looked a bit daunted. He sniffed the air worriedly.
“I guess the whole pony obsession wasn’t just part of Drew’s cover,” Call said. He had to admit, this room might actually be worse than his.
“They watch me,” Jasper said, already haunted. “No matter where I go in the room, they’re watching me with their beady black eyes. It’s horrible.”
Tamara came into the room. Behind her, in the red hallway, a door was slightly ajar. “What are you looking at … whoa!” She blinked at the horses.
“What’s your room like?” Jasper wanted to know.
“Not important,” Tamara said, too quickly. “Totally boring.”
Call narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious.
“Maybe I can sleep in there?” Jasper seemed delighted by the thought, as though what was wrong with their situation was the accommodations. He headed to the slightly ajar door in the red hall.
“You can’t!” she said, trailing after him. “And there’s no reason to look —”
But by then he’d jerked the door the rest of the way open. For a moment, Call thought Jasper’s face had grown flushed, but it was just a reflection of the inside of the room. It was pink. Really, really, really pink.
Tamara let out a long sigh. “I know we have bigger problems, but my room is embarrassing!”
The walls were painted a soft pink. The dark pink canopy bed was hung with gauzy, iridescent material. The bedding was neon pink and covered in ruffles. On top of it sat a massive stuffed unicorn with a silver cloth horn. On the floor rested a fuzzy pink rug in the shape of a heart.
“Wow,” Call said.
“You should see the clothes in the closet,” Tamara said. “No, actually, no one should ever see the clothes in the closet.”
From down the stairs came a call. “Dinner!”
“Do you think this is some fiendish plot of Master Joseph’s to make sure we don’t get any sleep?” Call wanted to know as they trooped down the stairs. “Don’t cults try to brainwash you by keeping you tired?”
Tamara wrinkled her nose like she was going to disagree, but didn’t. Instead, she seemed to be weighing the possibility.
As they headed into the room with the long table, set for six and heaped with enough food to feed double that number, Call had to consider that Master Joseph might have a different fiendish scheme. In addition to keeping you sleep deprived, cults weren’t supposed to feed you enough, but it seemed like Master Joseph was intent on feeding them way too much.