Aramovsky heard his name. He cranes his head, peering into the room, wondering what’s going on.
I look at the floor. The light from the hallway reflects off the smeared grime. I smile. He isn’t going to like this, but I won’t give him a choice.
“Aramovsky, get in here,” I call out. “Time for you to finally get dirty.”
SEVENTEEN
We walk uphill. We carry torches.
Aramovsky didn’t get dirty. He didn’t fall, not even once. Figures. With the help of Bishop and Visca, he ripped down the flagpoles. I hate to admit it, but Aramovsky did a good job.
Spingate and Gaston used the knife to cut the flags into long strips, then rubbed them in the greasy dirt and wrapped them tightly around the ends of the flagpoles. Gaston used the scepter to set them on fire. Flames lick up from the fabric in soft, pulsing waves that are hypnotic if you look at them too long.
Bello was smart enough to keep one flag whole. She tied the corners together to make a kind of bag that holds the extra grease-soaked strips. Okereke volunteered to carry the bag. Of all the circles from Bishop’s group, I like Okereke the most, probably because he seems to be the hardest worker.
We move through the long room, three abreast. Torchlight makes shadows that twitch and jump. The darkness seems to be a living thing waiting to pounce on us and swallow us alive.
The room ends at a narrow, stone-walled hallway. Bishop and El-Saffani lead us in, Bishop carrying a torch. I’m in the second row, several steps behind them. O’Malley is on my left, knife in hand, and Latu on my right, also carrying a torch. The rest of the group follows after, a long procession of flickering flames lighting up frightened faces.
If I ever get to sleep, if I have nightmares, I know they will happen in a place that looks like this.
Bishop isn’t that far ahead. He and El-Saffani stop, wait for me, and I soon see why: an open archway on the left and another on the right. Past those, two more of the same on either side. The flickering torches seem to make the archways waver like the twitching mouths of giant, bloodthirsty monsters.
“I think we should look in these rooms, Em,” Bishop says quietly. “It’s not a good idea to leave unchecked areas behind us.”
O’Malley shakes his head. “If we look in every room we find, all our torch-strips could burn out and we’d be left in the dark. Better to keep going straight as fast as we can.”
Aramovsky was in the row behind me. He comes closer, eager to be part of the group that’s making decisions.
“O’Malley is right,” he says. “We’re tired and hungry and thirsty.” He half turns, so the people behind us can hear him clearly. “We don’t want to waste time playing games, Em. We want food.”
I hear grumbles of agreement, see scowls on more than a few faces. They are losing patience. They elected me leader—did they think I could use the spear to make food and water appear out of nowhere?
“Be patient,” I say to them all. “We’re going to get out of here, but I need you to be patient.”
I’m going to get us out of here? I’m surprised at how convincing I sound.
Bishop and O’Malley both made good points. The darkness and shadows make this area feel dangerous, though, and my instinct tells me that when it comes to danger, I should trust Bishop.
“We’ll check the rooms,” I say. “There might be water. But we need to do it quick, so we can keep moving forward.”
Bishop nods. “El-Saffani and I will make it fast. Everyone stay here.”
Before I can answer, Latu speaks.
“You take the ones on the left, we’ll take the ones on the right,” she says to Bishop. “Faster that way.”
Bishop stares at her. The shadows dancing across his face make him look much older. Almost…grown up. He starts to speak, stops—he’s not in charge anymore. He glances at me, waiting for me to decide.
“We’ll take the rooms on the right,” I say.
Bishop purses his lips, then nods. “All right.”
He waves someone forward. It’s a circle-star boy with skin almost as dark as Aramovsky’s. Farrar, I think his name is. If it weren’t for Bishop, Farrar would be the biggest person in our group. Everything about him is wide, from his shoulders to his chest to his head—even his nose, which is short and flat.
“Keep everyone here,” Bishop tells him. “We’re going to look at these rooms.”
Farrar nods once. He stands straight and tall, round shoulders back, big chest out. He might as well be a wall that blocks off the hallway. He accepts his orders, but doesn’t even glance at me. My anger wells up again. Maybe it will take a little time to figure out how this works with Bishop, but when it comes to the circle-stars, he gives the orders and they listen. Except for Latu—she seems to be on my side.
But there shouldn’t be sides. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Bishop grips my shoulder with his free hand. “Be careful, Em. If you need help, just yell. Farrar or I will come.”