I come to a stop in the darkness just beyond where the yellow light illuminates the water. No one stands guard. Of course, that doesn’t mean it isn’t guarded. I think back to the laser system and the beetles at the deserted temple—I should be prepared for anything. More, probably. And why was there so much security at the deserted temple? The lodge is the heart of things, I feel it. Why would they go to such great lengths to keep us out over there?
Once I am as convinced as I can be, from where I stand, that there are no actual humans lying in wait to seize me, I tug my heavy pants up and slip into my beat-up shoes. The field guide is equally tattered, but hanging on; I tuck it in at my back. Time to get out of this water and never get in again. I will find my way up to that terrace and take the rope ladder exit to escape—or I will take Lonan’s idly bobbing canoe, ten feet ahead of me and bathed in yellow light.
The roof of this cave is so low, all I see from this angle is water, along with a wide set of stony stairs emerging out of it. I swim farther out into the light, carefully, in case there are guards I haven’t yet seen. I doubt it, though—I am more vulnerable in the water, and surely they would’ve heard me by now.
Just outside the cave, my perspective expands. I am greeted by a formidable grand entrance that rises from the top of the steep, stony stairs. A massive chandelier made of antlers hangs from a thick iron chain, its light glittering in the entrance’s floor-to-ceiling windows. I risk ten seconds to look at my surroundings: foliage, everywhere. Phoenix and Cass skirted the opposite edge of the lodge’s perimeter in search of an entry point—it’s possible someone shot them down from this very clearing. And if not from here, somewhere close. Perhaps from the roof of the cave, which is also thick with green.
The stone staircase is nearly vertical, its steps barely wide enough to fit my foot when turned sideways. At least it isn’t a high climb—it’s five feet out of the water at most. I keep to the far side, hopeful that it’ll be easier to slip in unnoticed before someone spots me through the entryway glass. Water drips from my pants, and from my hair, as I scramble up. Good riddance, dark water.
As soon as my palm meets the entry platform at the top of the stairs, sickness roils up in me.
It is no longer stone against my skin.
It is snake.
SIXTY-THREE
VIPERS. THE ENTIRE platform is a slithering mass of vipers.
Pink. Orange. Green. Teal.
All the vibrant colors in nature that remind me of sunsets and wildflower fields, of life and of freedom: it’s as if the snakes have sucked the world dry of its beauty and kept it all for themselves.
If they suck me dry, too, will they turn a nice shade of Eden?
They slither and coil, over each other and under. Every flash of their eyes sends a shock of dread coursing through me. It takes massive self-control to stay balanced, sideways, on the stairs. Only fear keeps me from going back in the water—if there are this many snakes up here, who knows what’s in there.
My sanity is held loosely together by the singular fact that the vipers seem oblivious to me. Oblivious might be too strong: uninterested in my blood is more accurate. When my hand first landed on one—pink as saltwater taffy and eyes like yellow moons—they were like moths to a flame. When I pulled it away, they spread out again as if I had never been there at all. I’m still close, too close. But though they slither along the edge of the platform, not one ventures down the stairs.
It reminds me of the beetles, the invisible wall that contained them just outside the temple ruins.
Could this be . . . a security feature? If I step from the stairs to the platform, where I first rested my hand, will they swarm around me again?
My mouth is dry, my mouth is cotton. I wouldn’t be able to speak—or scream—if I tried. If this is an illusion, it is an incredibly realistic one. No visible projectors peek out from the building’s crevices, or the foliage. Besides that, I felt every scale slide against my palm as if it were the true thing, and the hissing—the hissing will be in my head for days.
The beetles were quite capable of interacting with us physically; I’ll never forget how they went for the blood on Hope’s leg. I’m not bleeding anywhere, which is a relief in more ways than one. But what if these snakes feed on sweat—or fear?
I won’t know until I know.
I will either make it inside this grand, beautiful entrance, or I will become snake food. Or some other in-between alternative that is more devastating than I can imagine, especially if the snakes are trained to torture and not kill.
I swallow my terror: it is sharp, double-edged, and settles at the pit of my stomach. They’re harmless, I tell myself. They are koi in a pond.
My muscles are stiff after standing, petrified, for so long. I grip the stone ledge, bending my fingers in an unnatural way that makes my knuckles go white. I avoid touching the vipers until I absolutely must.
The way they slither toward me really does remind me of fish in a feeding frenzy. They climb over themselves to get to me—all this based on my scent alone. As soon as I cross the invisible barrier between us, it is my worst nightmare.
I have to make space in order to walk through them, plant my toes where there are no openings. Where I step, they part, but then take it as an invitation to climb me like vines on a trellis. Soon, the black fabric of my pants is completely obscured: my left leg is a lagoon, my right is a rainforest.
They are not gentle. And they don’t stop climbing just because my legs end.
I gather my rapidly unspooling sanity. If they wanted to bite me, I’d be dead. If they wanted to suffocate me, I’d be unconscious. I repeat these things over and over until they stop sounding like the ramblings of delusion. I take one slow, heavy step after another.
Almost halfway.
A teal viper with yellow eyes springs, suddenly, from the far side of the platform and coils around my neck. Its scales pull at the hair that’s fallen out of where I tied it back. It’s not tight—yet. But even this minimal pressure pinches my windpipe like a garden hose.
This is the breaking point. Enough.
Another snake springs at me—lemon yellow—and wraps itself around my waist. I focus on the choker first, prying as hard as I can and digging my fingernails in until I am certain the dirt underneath has been replaced with this snake’s cold blood. It writhes in my grip, fangs snapping too close to my ear, until it falls limp.
It is both the best and the worst move.
As soon as the snake dies, the other vipers hiss so loudly they’re practically screaming—like my one act of defense has alerted their collective consciousness to turn against me. They rush at me even harder than before, vicious and unstable and seething. Those that already cling to my body squeeze tighter and tighter. My blood rushes, an ever-present reminder that I’m still alive . . . even if only for a little while longer.
But I can breathe again. And I am certain now that this is a security feature.