Any Port in a Storm (Ayala Storme Book 2) by Emmie Mears

Author:Emmie Mears [Emmie Mears]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Anam-Charaid
Published: 2015-06-02T07:00:00+00:00

When I get to the Summit Monday at noon, the Mitten at the front desk — I don't know her name — stops me. Her eyes are all a-sparkle with excitement.

"Everybody's talking about it," she says. "Did you really kill all them demons yourself?"

My shoes skid on the marble floor. Sunlight filters in through the skylight above, and the floor reflects enough to cast my startled face back at me. I always forget about that damn skylight. I'm usually here at night.

"Uh," I say.

"You really did!" The Mitten actually claps her small hands together. "And Gregor — he tried so hard to protect those —"

The girl cuts off sharply with a squeak as the click of heels sounds in the lobby.

I don't have to turn to know it's Alamea. The Mitten sits back in her chair with a thump and starts furiously typing at her computer.

It'd be more believable if her fingers weren't situated between the number row and the QWERTY row.

Without a word, Alamea nods at me and pivots on her heel. I follow with a knowing wink at the Mitten, though her little outburst unsettles me. I don't have time to think about it.

Alamea isn't walking in the direction of the elevators. How she walks in those four inch spikes on the polished marble without breaking a kneecap is beyond me. I follow her down a side corridor, and when a glint of memory resurfaces with a shift of the air and a smell I can't quite place, a sheen of perspiration begins on my upper lip. She leads me to a smaller bank of elevators and presses the button. There's only one. Down.

My feet feel like rubber as the realization sinks in. The sliding doors open, and I have to walk in. Inside the elevator is a keypad. Alamea makes eye contact with me, and when she's sure I'm watching, she clearly and slowly enters the code with one long finger. 743367. She presses the button for sublevel four, and we start moving.

I've been here before. Even though I was kept blindfolded, I feel a strange hum that is at once familiar and terrifying. I know what's down here: the grey-walled honeycomb of doom. Last time I was here, it was as a prisoner in one of the cells.

No honey, either.

Also, thank the gods, no bees.

Alamea still doesn't speak as the elevator doors open with a hiss.

Stepping out into the grey corridor, all my strength goes to putting one foot in front of the other.

The walls have that faint shimmer. Around me, they turn at strange, obtuse angles. Behind me, the elevators are gone, replaced by that same identical grey, flat and seamless.

The perspiration on my lip forms beads.

Alamea starts walking. I don't know where she's going down here. It's impossible to know if even she knows; the walls bear no markings, no direction, no indicators. There are no emergency exits, no variations, no handy ball of string to guide you.

For several minutes, we just walk. My apprehension grows with every step.

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