I look from one end of the tunnel to the other.
“We left the hatch open and busted,” he says. “If your brother comes looking for you, it’s obvious where you went.”
He’s right, of course. There’s no reason to return before confirming an exit, and I’m not sure why I’m insisting on it. Maybe because Logan and I have finally broken through our stalemate, and I don’t want to do anything that might make him think I had an adventure without him. Which is silly when the “adventure” is only looking for an exit.
We get another ten paces before a second tunnel appears to our right. Then, what seemed like a curve in the main corridor turns out to be a split, leaving us three potential choices.
“Let’s back up to that first side tunnel,” Elijah suggests. “Approach it methodically.”
We head back. The side tunnel doesn’t go far before it also splits. We decide we’ll stick to the left. We’ve barely gone a dozen paces when footsteps echo.
Presuming it’s the others, I open my mouth to call out, but Elijah shakes his head and motions for me to be quiet. He points, and after a second, I realize he’s indicating the right-hand corridor, the one we didn’t take. I strain to listen, and yes, that’s where the footfalls come from. Which means it isn’t one of our fellow campers.
Someone else is in this tunnel.
I motion going back upstairs to get Logan. Elijah’s brow furrows, and he points from me to himself.
There’s two of us, he means. Two werewolves and one set of footfalls. If someone’s down here, we want to know who it is, and running back to the others would only scare the intruder off. Or alert them to our presence and let them follow us back to the others.
Am I just being cautious? Or am I being timid?
A year ago, there’d have been no question. That’s one advantage to being reckless and a wee bit overconfident: when I do hesitate, I know it’s justifiable caution. But this last year has been a tiny dagger slicing at my confidence, leaving the edges tattered, and when Elijah gives me that look of confusion, I am shamed. This isn’t like me.
And yet . . .
I touch the wall. The smell of sulfur tickles my nose, but it’s more than that. Something tickles over my nerves, too, and sets my teeth on edge. When I close my eyes, the sensation slides up my arm.
“Uh, Kate?” Elijah whispers.
“Hmm?”
I open my eyes to see him staring at my arm. When I look down, my forearm is pulsing, hairs poking through the skin. Shit. I rub my arm hard and shove my hand into my pocket.
“Something bothering you?” he whispers, lips at my ear. “I presume that’s why you’re Changing.”
He touches the wall as I did but only frowns and shakes his head.
“Is it a smell?” he whispers.
No, a feeling.
Kate Danvers doesn’t deal in “feelings.” Not when it comes to danger. I give myself a shake and pull a face.
“Just residual nerves,” I whisper, “from earlier.” I turn toward the source of the footfalls, which have gone silent now. “We’ll leave the others where they’re safe. Let’s see who’s come to call.”
Chapter Five
Logan
Holly and I follow Allan from the kitchen. We pass Mason, who is pretending to sleep on a ratty, overstuffed sofa. I say pretending because, as we approached the doorway, the scurry of footfalls told me he’d been up.
When I glance in the room, the board we jammed into the open window is askew. In other words, he’s been peeking out, checking on the hell beasts, but God forbid we realize he’s nervous.
Seeing him, I lift a finger to the others. Then I slip in and pad silently to the sofa, pick up a moth-eaten blanket and drape it over him. He jumps up, flailing as if I tossed a bucket of ice water on him.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. You looked a little tense there, pretending to sleep. I thought a blanket might help.”
He lifts a middle finger in response.
“Are the hell hounds still outside?” I ask, pointing.
I see the denial coming, but at the last second, he sucks it back and grunts, “Yeah. You guys come up with an escape plan?”
“Working on it,” I say. “If you could keep an eye on the hounds, we’d appreciate that.”
Again, that working of his jaw, as if fighting the urge to tell me he’s not planning to do anything except nap. Then an abrupt nod before he closes his eyes again.
“Dismissed,” I murmur under my breath.
When I get back to the hall, I find Allan standing in an open doorway down the corridor, Holly apparently inside. I pop my head in, expecting a bedroom. Jammed bookshelves line two walls. The third holds a wooden cabinet with precisely labeled jars on the open shelves. A table takes up the last wall, complete with beakers and a Bunsen burner, the workstation reminding me of a high-school science lab.
As tempting as those books and jars are, though, what catches my attention is Holly, standing beside a rope ladder. My gaze follows the ladder up to an open hatch in the ceiling.
“I was looking for an alternate way out, so I looked up and found the hatch with the ladder tucked up there,” Allan says.
“And an attic,” I say. “Definitely a possible exit.”
“Uh, maybe . . . but what I found up there is a little more . . . You’ll see.” He slaps a flashlight into my hand.
I lift my brows, but it’s clear he’s not explaining. So I climb the ladder, which reminds me of those awkward rope ladders in gym class. It takes a bit to get the hang of it even after Holly and Allan grab the bottom to keep it from swinging.
I crest the ladder into an open attic stretching the length of the cabin. The smell of bleach hits me first, and I follow it to a wooden crate filled with bleached bones. I lift a skull.
“Alas poor Yorick,” Holly says. “A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
She’s walking over. Allan follows, looking a little green. I set down the skull.
“Yes,” I say. “They’re human bones. Extras, I presume, for the warding. Not exactly what we hoped to find, but still, this attic could be useful.” I shine the light at the roof. “As a last resort, Kate and I could break through there.”
“Sure,” Allan says. “But those bones aren’t what I wanted to show you.”
He points, and I turn the flashlight on a seated figure. Holly yelps, and I give a start. I’m lunging between them and the figure before I realize it’s not a person. Not one who’s likely to attack us, anyway.
“A mummy?” Holly frowns and moves toward it. “They’re used in dark magic when you need desiccated flesh. They’re not easy to get, obviously. Seriously black market.”
“It isn’t a mummy,” Allan says. “Not the kind you’re thinking of, at least.”
She turns her frown on him.
“I don’t think you can buy seated mummies even on the black market,” Allan says.
It’s not just the position that’s wrong. The bandages binding this mummy are too white to be hundreds of years old. They’re strips of ordinary cloth. New cloth.
The figure sits with his hands on his thighs. I guess male by the narrow hips and broad shoulders. He looks like every carved statue of a pharaoh on a throne, his back ramrod straight, head lifted, hands flat against his thighs.