Hexed

My heels skid along the pavement as Frederick drags me down Hollywood Boulevard. Drags me by the neck, like a little boy might drag a stuffed animal that’s become floppy from overuse. Blood fills my head and my face turns hot, a jackhammer of a pulse pounding in my forehead. I tear uselessly at the hands cutting off my air supply, my breath coming in frantic wheezes, my vision turning black at the edges.

 

When my feet slide across the cement slabs where stars actually left their hand-and footprints, I know we’re back at the forecourt of the Chinese Theatre. The familiar red pagoda with its copper roof, massive dragon stamped across the front, and two lion-dog statues standing sentinel at the entrance, comes into view, upside down.

 

Once we’re through the gilded doors of the theater, Frederick tosses me into the lobby. I stumble forward, gasping for air and touching the grooves along my neck where I still feel his fingers.

 

My throat burns like I’ve swallowed fire, but I can breathe. Once I establish that, I take a look around.

 

If people I care about weren’t about to die, I might be impressed by what I see on my first time inside the Chinese Theatre. There’s none of the tacky, popcorn-littered carpeting, loud arcade games, and bright track lighting typical of most movie theaters. While there is a concession stand that emits a concentrated popcorn scent, this lobby boasts elaborate Chinese murals, imposing red columns, and a massive, ornate chandelier hanging over the top of a red-and-gold dragon-themed carpet.

 

But Mom isn’t here, and neither is Bishop. Paige, I can only hope, ran far and fast when Frederick came after me.

 

I spot dim light seeping under a set of doors at the end of the hall.

 

“Go on.”

 

I look over my shoulder. Frederick nods in the direction of the light. “I hear there’s a good show playing.” His lips slide into a grin.

 

Dread pinches up my stomach, growing stronger with each step I take nearer to the light. I don’t want to know what’s behind the door, but at the same time, I desperately need to know. My mind whirls, my every organ working in overdrive. And suddenly I’m there, my shaking hands pressed against the wood. Holding my breath, I push the double doors open.

 

The theater is massive. Thousands of bright red seats fill the auditorium, facing a red velvet curtain. Still more Chinese murals stretch across the walls, and dotted along them are intricately carved stone pillars with small lanterns hanging between them. Another colossal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and from the ceiling’s center bursts even more painted dragons.

 

But still no Mom, still no Bishop.

 

I get the disturbing feeling that this is a fake-out. But then the curtains draw open, and there they are. At least kind of.

 

A video of Mom and Bishop is on the screen. They’re in a pitch-black room with only a spotlight shining on them, and they sit side by side, acres of thick rope tying them to wooden chairs, and rags stuffed in their mouths. Mom’s eyes flit around the darkness, sweat tracks shining on her forehead. Only Bishop’s expression, a perfect cross between bored and annoyed, stops me from having a full-on, get-the-paddles heart attack.

 

I don’t know whether to be horrified by the position they’re in, or relieved that they’re not dead, or upset that they’re not actually in this room so that I can do something to help. A million emotions play tug-of-war with my heart.

 

Mom looks at me. It’s such a focused look that I wonder if she actually sees me. If maybe there’s some two-way-video thing happening.

 

Mom screams into the rag in her mouth, squirming frantically in her chair. And I’m sure she’s screaming my name. When I look at Bishop, he’s looking at me too. Yep, they can definitely see me.

 

“At least they’re not dead.” Frederick’s breath touches my cheek, and I jump high even as I shiver. “You seemed to like them,” he continues, “so I did you a kindness.”

 

A kindness? I turn his words over, trying to figure out what he means. I look between him and the screen, where Mom rocks hard against her chair, trying to topple it over.

 

“If you ask me, being inside a movie is the best possible life. Others may disagree.”

 

And then it hits me: they’re not in another location, being filmed while they’re tortured. They’re actually inside the screen.

 

“Remember those books where you get to choose what happens next?” He strokes his chin, as if deep in thought. “Oh yes—Choose Your Own Adventure. See, this is just like that. We get to decide what happens next. How exciting is that?”

 

I want to scream, to sob, to fall into the fetal position and rock until it all goes away. But I can’t let Mom see that I’m terrified. She’s got enough to worry about right now.

 

“How about let them go?” I ask, my voice cracking with fear.

 

Frederick gives a full-bellied laugh and wags a finger at me. “Good one. See, I was thinking more along the lines of tigers. Tigers are fun, no?”

 

The low rumble of a growl fills the theater.