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

I spin back to Linus and try to lift him from the table, but he’s as heavy as a sack of concrete. Or maybe I’m just weak.

You have to help me, I say. You helped me carry Dubbs before.

A surge of adrenaline races through me and gives me a burst of strength. I grab Linus under the arms, hug his back against me, and haul him off the table, wincing when the heels of his shoes smash to the floor. Then I drag him backward out of the operating room. In the hallway, where the air is clearer, I hitch him up again, and he moans.

“Wake up!” I tell him. “Breathe!”

His head only lolls to the other side. A burn of heat moves through my arms, making me stronger, and I drag him farther along the hallway, toward the vault. He is such a load. It’s all I can do to keep us moving. As I reach the archway, though, a noxious smell makes me stop. I sag with Linus to the floor, and I gaze, aghast, into the vault.

Half of the sleep shells have gone dark, and nearly all of the rest have their red lights on. Out of the entire room, out of hundreds, only half a dozen are still normal with their blue lids. Along the floor, the cloudy purple vapor has expanded into drifts that eddy slowly around the bases of the sleep shells. The effect is surreal. From above, around the oculus, a thin shower of dust trickles down as if the ceiling is set to crumble.

Linus moans in my arms and collapses inward as he coughs.

I give him another shake and peer into his face. “Linus. You have to wake up,” I say. “We have to get out of here.”

“Rosie?” he says, his voice croaking. He tilts his head and blinks at me.

My relief is instantly chased by a new jolt of desperation. I get my shoulder into his armpit, grab him around the back, and haul him to his feet.

“Hold on to me,” I say.

He can barely stand, but having him up is better than dragging him.

“Where’s Berg?” he asks.

I don’t bother to look behind us.

“Dead,” I say. “Or soon to be. Come on.”

I’m about to guide Linus down the steps into the vault when a clank comes from across the room. I freeze, and then I push Linus against the archway to brace him there. He’s breathing heavily and his eyes struggle to focus, but he doesn’t question my erratic movements. I peer across the vault and discern, far on the other side, Whistler wheeling his cart among the dreamers.

In his gray coveralls, he’s whistling a tuneless melody. His headlamp casts a thin beam around the dark cavern. A gas mask covers his mouth and adds to his buglike appearance. He’s parking his cart next to a sleep shell, one of the unlit ones. He opens the lid, reaches in, and gently lifts out a limp child. He sets the child on his cart, covers the body with a gray sheet, and closes the sleep shell lid again. Then he shifts around the cart, gets a grip on the handle, lowers his head, and starts wheeling the cart toward the twelve o’clock archway.

A shiver runs through me. Is he even aware of what happened in the operating room? He vanishes through the twelve o’clock arch, and the faint rumble of his wheels fades away into the tunnel.

“Is it safe?” Linus asks quietly.

We have to go through the same arch Whistler just did. And come to think of it, I have no idea where Ian is, either.

“No,” I say.

I still have Linus leaned up against the wall, and though he’s bearing his weight on his legs, he’s unsteady and his arm is heavy across my shoulders. Two hundred steps is what it will take, I estimate, to cross the vault to the twelve o’clock arch, and we have no time to waste. Another trickle of dust falls from the ceiling. It feels like the whole place is shifting.

“Are you ready?” I ask Linus.

He nods and straightens. “Yes.”

I step down into the vault with him and guide him between the sleep shells. I warn myself not to look down at the dreamers’ faces, but in the hollow stillness, I can almost hear them breathing, the ones that are still alive. An eerie vibe emanates from them, as if they’re attuned to us. We pass a dozen dark sleep shells, and then, despite myself, I can’t help looking into the next lit sleep shell, one with a red warning light above it.

The dreamer is a child with a pale, empty face, and his hands are clutched together under his chin in mute supplication. I take one more step, and another, still supporting Linus, but I can’t look away from the little boy. Wisps of brown hair cling to his forehead, and his eyelids are motionless under their smears of gel. He’s still breathing, this dreamer, and he’s doing it with all his heart.

As I hesitate, torn, an uncanny, choral whisper rises from the dreamers around me: Stay with us.

The sibilance ripples away into nothing.

My feet freeze to the floor. My heart locks in my chest. I can keep Linus upright, but I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. I don’t want to look into the next sleep shell, a dark one, but I can feel it pulling my gaze like a duty. I know what lonesome suffering I’ll see before I see it. I know what the voices will say. And then they whisper again, all of them.

Stay.

As the whisper dissolves away toward the walls, a swish through the fog at my knees reveals the long, slick back of a swimming fish. Logic is gone, replaced by fear. The fish is surreal, perfect, and petrifying.

Why is this happening? I beg Arself.

They’re jealous. They don’t want to let us go.

I search the fog, knowing the fish is coming back for me.

“Rosie!” Linus says into my ear. He yanks me forward a step. “Come on!”

I feel him tugging me, but I’m awkward and stiff, like my puppet limbs have turned to wood. Dream wood.

“Arself!” he yells. “Are you controlling her? Let her go!”

I’m one of them, I think. I’ve always been one of them, stronger asleep than awake. The dark fish is circling back again, with a rustling crescendo, until I feel it brush the back of my legs. The dreamers smile. I know they do. I don’t have to look at them to understand.

Linus drags me into his arms and squeezes me so tightly I gasp in pain.

“Rosie!” he says urgently. “Stay with me! Do you hear me? Don’t give in to them!”

For a moment, I’m able to see him clearly again. I focus on his good eye, the one that gleams with blistering fury. It’s real. He’s real. I lift my hands to Linus’s chest and grip his shirt. This is me. This will be me, I tell myself. Awake. Alive. I tug him even closer and feel the crush of his arms.

“Promise me this is real,” I say.

“Of course it is!”

He frowns at me, and then his lips meet mine. It’s an answer. A shock. A silence descends around us and I’m alone with him in a private, wordless space. Everything else vanishes—the fish, the fog, and the agonizing pleas of the dreamers—leaving just me alone and alive with him.

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