The Keep of Ages (The Vault of Dreamers #3)

My phone gets no signal, unsurprisingly. I shift to my feet and brush off my limbs, blinking as my eyes keep adjusting to the dim light. My backpack is gone. Behind me, the opening of the chute that dropped me here is a black hole. It has to be part of the drainage system for the moat, and climbing back up it would be impossible.

Fortunately, to my left, a narrow bridge spans the stream. I cross over to a short wooden dock where an old length of rope hangs from a cleat and trails silently in the flow. Beyond, a tunnel is hewn out of the rock. It’s dark, but it’s the only way to go, so I use my phone for a light, and I edge slowly forward. The air grows musty and close, and then I find a gaping, heavy door. With a creak of hinges, I push past and find the next tunnel extends in two directions. To my left, the dark is impenetrable, but to my right, far off, a faint, cool light touches the walls. I turn off my phone light. With increasing hope, I head toward the light, and as I round the next corner, I can see an archway at the end of the tunnel.

Quietly, cautiously, I creep to the archway, and when I stop in the shadows to look through, I’m rendered breathless.

A large, round cavern sprawls before me, and dreamers fill the space. They lie in sleep shells, in circular rows, and their lids are all glowing with soft blue light. My heart turns sick. Body after body rests in a motionless trance, but I can feel the pulse of them breathing. An attentive presence fills the room, like the hush as a conductor first raises a baton. Far above, faintly visible by the blue light, an uneven dome of rock arches over the room. Half a dozen round holes are cut into the slanting sides like for an overlooking gallery, and above them, a larger oculus at the top is a purply shade of black, like a starless patch of a clear night sky. The color is so deep, I half think my eyes are deceiving me.

This room wasn’t on the map Lavinia showed me. It feels older and deeper, like it belongs to another world. It’s both wonderful and terrible.

“How can this be?” I whisper.

What am I possibly supposed to do about it?

A lone butterfly drifts silently over the sleep shells, its wings as colorless as limpid glass. I watch it flit from one side of the cavern to the other before flying up into the oculus and vanishing into the deep purple.

I’m still peeking from my archway when a red light comes on over the sleep shell that’s nearest to me. All the sleep shells, I notice now, have poles with lights and IV tubes attached, but the other lights are all off. Standing on tiptoe to look into the nearest shell, I see a pale young man with a straight nose and dark hair. Beige patches line his temples, and clear gel covers his closed eyes. Aside from his breathing, he isn’t moving, and I can’t fathom why his light is on.

Then, far across the room, a middle-aged man steps through a distant arch and comes down a few steps. I quickly crouch down and press myself against the wall of the tunnel, angling my head just enough so that I can still see.

The approaching man is a thin white guy in green scrubs, with black eyebrows, receding dark hair, and a worn, yellow handkerchief around his neck. He moves with a measured stride and winds his way through the sleep shells until he arrives at the one with the red light, mere paces from where I’m hiding. With his back to me, he opens the lid, flicks his wrists, and checks the dreamer’s intake IV line.

“What’s troubling you, hmm?” the man mutters.

He gives the IV line a little tap. Then he flips some switch so the blue light inside the sleep shell goes off and on again, like a reboot. The red light above goes off. The worker gives a satisfied grunt and closes the lid. At that instant, the red light goes on again, and so does a red light above another sleep shell, two dreamers down. Then a third nearby light goes on.

The man taps his ear. “Kiri? Something’s going on down here,” he says. And then, “I don’t know. They’re restless.” As he looks up and partly turns, I catch a glimpse of his long nose and pale complexion. “No. The butterfly’s gone. I don’t think it’s that. Did you check upstairs? Are the cameras back on?”

Me. I have the distinct, uncanny impression that the dreamers have sensed a stranger in the vault. A new jolt of adrenaline courses in my veins. Two more red lights go on.

“Hold on,” the worker says.

Then he turns slowly in my direction.

Instantly, I shrink back out of sight. My heart pounds while I hold very still, listening. I’m dreading that he will come up the steps, look into the tunnel, and find me. For a long moment, I hear nothing, but then I catch the sound of him talking into his earpiece again, and his voice is dimmer, farther away. My relief is short-lived. I have to get evidence of the man before he disappears. I pull out my phone, tap the camera icon, and make sure the flash is off. Then I lean around the corner of the arch again to aim it toward the receding man, and I take a picture.

My phone makes a camera clicking noise, and in the cavernous silence, it’s as loud as a gunshot. The man spins around. A dozen more sleep shell lights go red.

Crap, I think.

“Who’s there?” the man calls.

I turn and bolt back down the dark passage. Blind and afraid, I skim my hand down the left wall, bouncing my fingertips along the rough surface so I won’t miss the doorway to the stream. Behind me, running footsteps come from the vault.

Finding the door, I scramble to go through it, but as soon as I smell the water ahead, I stop, remembering. The stream is a dead end. I can’t get back up the chute. I’ll be trapped.

The footsteps are coming nearer.

On instinct, I reverse back out of the door and turn into the darkness of the unknown passage. I keep my left hand trailing the wall and my right hand stretched out before me. As fast as I can, I lunge through pure darkness, sucking in stale air, until it hits me I could blindly run off an edge and fall to my death. I halt where I am and drop to the floor, huddling as small as possible, and I turn to look back over my shoulder.

The outline of the passage is dimly visible by the light from the far end, and the tall man is silhouetted as a black figure. He reaches the door to the stream, but he doesn’t go in. Instead, he faces me. He flashes a beam of light in my direction and takes one more step, but then he stops. I can hear him breathing heavily.

“I know you’re listening,” he says. His voice carries easily through the silent tunnel. “I just want to talk to you. What’s your name? I’m Jules. We won’t hurt you.”

Like I’d believe that. I try to still my own ragged breathing, but my heart wants to explode.

“You’re going to need help to get out,” Jules says. “Those tunnels are a maze back there. Don’t be stupid and get lost. Hear me? ?Habla espa?ol?”

I still don’t answer him. I pull my knife out of its sheath and grip it tight.

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