Sanctum (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book 1) (6 page)

I got to my feet, smiling.

And realized I wasn’t alone.

People appeared around me every few seconds, materializing out of nowhere, lying in the grass and then rising, grins lighting their faces. Each of them looked around, some slightly puzzled, none afraid. They turned their faces to the sun and walked away across the flowered meadow, backs straight, strides relaxed and smooth. Old, young, of every color. All happy. I understood their expressions. I felt the same way. I’d never really had a home, but this sure felt like one. I raised my arms to the sky in silent gratitude, soaking in the warmth of the sun above.

Then I saw her face on my arm.

She’d come with me, haunting and hunted. The sorrow in her eyes hit me like a solid punch to the gut, deflating my bubble of contentment instantly. My arms fell to my sides, and that’s when I heard it: the unmistakable shriek from my nightmares. The Suicide Gates
swinging open. I spun around, trying to locate the source of the sound, amazed I hadn’t noticed it before.

There, in the distance, a city sprawled, ringed by a high wall. A dome of darkness arced over it, veiling the skyline in constant midnight. As soon as I saw the Gates, as soon as I heard them, I recognized the place. And I knew Nadia was in there. All I’d dreamed, all I’d seen was real.

The people around me didn’t seem to hear the metallic screams of those Gates. None of them turned their heads. None of them were aware of the city that loomed on the hill behind them. But once I saw it, I couldn’t look away.

I hiked through the grass toward the dome, flowers tickling my ankles, my joy just another distant memory. When I reached the boundary between light and darkness, indecision kicked my feet out from under me, and I sank to the ground.

What if…

What if she’d made it safely into that apartment? What if I could find her? What if I could get her out? What if I could bring her into the sunlight? What if I could do in death what I hadn’t done in life?

What if I could save her?

But saving her would mean I’d have to go in there. The place I’d been trying to escape for years. Did I really want to put myself through that? What if I couldn’t help her at all?

I have no idea how long I sat there staring into the darkness, listening to the Gates swinging open and slamming shut.
I have no idea how long it took me to decide. It was harder than I would have expected. All the times I’d dreamed of the city, I’d never had any idea of what lay outside its walls. It was heaven out here in the Countryside, and I didn’t want to leave. Everything I’d ever needed was here. I was sure of it.

But how could I walk away from Nadia? How could I enjoy my afterlife if I never found out what happened to her? After everything she’d done for me—all those nights of studying with me, sticking up for me to her friends, even writing a letter to my probation officer…after she’d showed me I was worth something, after she’d told me she had faith in me…how could I turn my back on her when I
knew
what she was going through? Would I fail her
again
?

No. I couldn’t. I had to go after her. I could only hope I wasn’t too late.

My plan: Get into the city. Get Nadia. Keep us safe. Find a way out. Simple.

I got up, took a breath, and stepped through the veil of darkness before I could change my mind. It rested heavy against my skin, clammy and chilling, weighing me down. I fell forward, hit by a barrage of despair. I lay, forehead against the ground, palms against the stones, any remaining hope and happiness leaching away.

I was back.

The road leading to the city was paved with rough slabs of stone and teemed with hunched, moaning people. A wet,
scrunching noise made me jump. A young man with dark skin and hair appeared in a heap just to my left. Slack jawed and blinking, he raised his head to the Gates and let out a cry in a foreign language, then staggered to his feet and joined the crowd.

Dazed, limp souls materialized in pathetic piles behind me and on both sides, a grisly parody of what was happening just on the other side of the veil. These poor folks rose automatically and stumbled toward the mouth of the city. The Suicide Gates sucked them all in. No one tried to escape or resist. They looked neither left nor right. Like most of the people in my nightmares, including Nadia, they seemed concerned only with themselves and whatever they were going through. I waited for that feeling, that urge to walk toward the Gates. But it wasn’t there. I could go in, but I didn’t have to. I still had a choice.

Behind the Gates, the city clung to the slopes of its hill, a cement fungus. The tallest buildings clustered at its massive center, rising so high I couldn’t tell where they ended and the sky began. The only disruption to the pattern of the city, in which low buildings lay at the outskirts and grew in circular patterns toward the center, was on its farthest wall, where an enormous, shining white building rose. In a place that ate light, absorbed it like a sponge, this building glowed. I suddenly felt total sympathy for those insects that get drawn into bug zappers. I didn’t know what that building was, but it called to me.

I tore my eyes from the building. I only had a few more minutes before I walked through the Suicide Gates and let the city swallow me, so I allowed myself one final look at all I had left behind. The lush, rolling Countryside was still visible though the sooty veil of night. Beyond the far edge of the city, a wild forest stretched for miles. Behind me, shimmering rivers meandered through golden wheat fields. And the sun shone above it all.

Nadia needed that. She needed to be out there.

I turned back to the Gates, clenched my teeth, and marched forward. Others pressed in behind me, trapping me against layers of bodies, filling me with nausea as they pushed against my back, reminding me of things I’d worked really hard to forget. I wriggled myself along, carefully nudging past arms and shoulders, chests and heads, toward the outer edge of the crowd. Time for a close encounter with the Guards. I wailed and cried, uniting my voice with others’ despairing sobs.

“Please,” I cried, reaching out toward the Guard and drawing his attention with my waving arms, “please, help me.”

When the gloved hand reached for my hair, I ducked quickly. Fingers closed around my forearm. The Guard jerked me off my feet and onto the back of the man in front of me. The poor guy fell to the ground in a crumple of arms and legs. I used the Guard’s grip as leverage to pull myself toward his armored chest. As soon as I was close enough, I twisted my arm from his grasp and used both feet to push against his metal breastplate,
sending myself to the ground. I reached up quickly and yanked an elderly Asian woman down on top of me. I’d created a human pileup. Now there was a small mass of people at the Guard’s feet, and I was on my hands and knees at the bottom of the heap, right next to his boots.

Above me, the hapless victims of my plan whined and groaned. The Guard snarled angrily. He teetered against the writhing bodies shoving against him as they tried to right themselves. I lunged against the Guard’s shins, hoping
all
the Guards carried the same kind of hunting knife the deadly young Guard had, smiling when I found the sheath at this one’s ankle. As he took a few steps back, I unfastened the leather strap and pulled the knife free. I stuffed one hand up my shirt, holding the knife against my body, and inched forward on my knees. With my other arm, I held the Asian woman against my back like a shield, praying the Guard wouldn’t notice me creeping away with his knife.

My knees were torn and bruised by the time I made it over the threshold of the city. I collapsed to the ground, trying to catch my breath. Released from my grip, the old woman rolled to the dirt, got up, and shuffled away.

The razor-sharp blade bit my skin. I needed to be careful—the knife would do me no good if I stabbed myself with it.

One glance back at the Guard told me he hadn’t noticed my theft. He had returned to his task of herding people through
the Suicide Gates. I scanned the wide plaza in which I lay. No one was paying attention to me. I got to my feet.

New arrivals dotted the open square, taking a few moments to recover before wandering off. Freed or imprisoned—I didn’t know which. I watched the Gates slam shut one more time and then turned toward the interior of the city, taking in all the details I’d never really noticed before. Old-fashioned gaslights lined the cobblestone streets, giving off a sickish pale glow. None of the light extended more than a few feet beyond each lamp, leaving broad patches of darkness along the road. Unlike the streets, which were uniform in style, the buildings in front of me were an odd assortment. The one on my left was modern, like an office building, all right angles, reflective gray glass, and metal. To my right, a crumbling adobe house squatted stolidly at the edge of the square. East meets Southwest. The city planners in hell either had very bad taste or a strange sense of humor.

I trudged forward slowly, like the people around me, even though I wanted to sprint for cover. I bent over, one arm curled around my middle, hoping any Guard who saw me would assume I was nursing an injury rather than concealing a weapon. My pants were splotched with blood from my knees, so I certainly looked the part. I felt nothing but relief as I finally reached an alley off the main road.

I crouched at the mouth of the alley for several seconds, listening for the presence of things I might not be able to see
under the blanket of darkness. Hearing nothing, I sank into the murk and started to watch.

I HAD SPENT YEARS
living in and around Providence. I had been to Boston many times. Once, in middle school, I even got to go on a field trip to New York City. The dark city was nothing like those cities.

In cities, the smells assaulted me. Diesel, dust, spice, salt, aggressive and sharp, rubbing against my skin, embedding themselves in my nose. In the dark city, scents were faint and thin—nothing to hold on to, nothing that repelled me, nothing that drew me in.

In cities, even at night, light pierced through the spaces in beams and columns, glowing from neon tubes and giant television screens and flashing fluorescents. In the dark city,
something sucked the life out of the color. Something vital had bled from it, leaving it easily defeated by darkness.

In cities, sounds were deep. All pitches and rhythms, layered and clashing. I loved to feel them vibrating in my gut like a pulse. In the dark city, sounds were shallow. Nothing startled or sang. No cars or buses. No bicycles, either. No wheels, no motors. Everyone was on foot, plodding along the roads. I was struck by the silence. No conversations. Many of those who passed my hiding place muttered softly, in all languages. But they were talking to themselves. I wondered if that was what I had looked like, wandering along in my dreams, drowning in myself. The only sound that reverberated with any power was the screech and clang of the Gates as they swung wide, welcoming the suicides.

People trudged by, watching the road in front of them. Some of them carried bags of groceries. Even though everyone here was dead, it was clear they still lived in apartments and ate food…and there must be a market nearby, which was good.
I
wasn’t hungry, but I was betting I would need to feed Nadia as soon as I found her—she was in no shape to find herself something to eat. As soon as I found her.…The hugeness of this task overwhelmed me, and I pressed my back to the wall and tucked my head against my knees. “Breathe.”
It might be a Rhode Island-size city, but you can do this. She got into that apartment, and now you just need to find her. Stand up and get a fucking move on, Lela Santos. Now
.

I shot to my feet and examined the stolen knife. It was a wicked-looking thing. The blade was about six inches long, curved at the tip, and serrated along the bottom edge. The molded grip was made for a hand much larger than mine. I wrapped my fingers around it and turned it in my palm—made for me or not, I could do some damage if I had to. It didn’t seem like a good idea to go traipsing down the street with a knife hanging casually from one of my fists, though.

Backing farther into the alley, I stripped off my T-shirt and used the knife to cut about three inches off the bottom. I pulled and double-looped the resulting band and squeezed it back around my hips, below the waistline of my pants, and slid the knife between the strips of fabric. The makeshift sheath wouldn’t last long—the blade would eventually wear through the cloth—but I was pretty sure it would survive a trip to the market. I put my shirt back on and was happy my jacket was long enough to cover the handle of the knife at my hip.

I exited the alley and proceeded in the direction from which the grocery-toting folks had come. Sure enough, a block away, a shabby brick building bore a sign:
FOOD
.

The advertisements in this city left something to be desired.

I peeked through the windows. I had no money and wondered if I was going to have to add petty theft to my list of sins. But there was no cashier at the front of the store, which housed just a few aisles of produce and packaged foods. People were
gathering various items, placing them in bags, and walking out without paying. Maybe there was some sort of credit system?

Shuffling footsteps and the muted crinkling of paper bags were the only sounds I heard as I entered the store. Still puzzled by the lack of any monetary exchange, I decided to ask someone rather than zip straight into an afterlife of crime. A sallow-skinned woman stood in the produce aisle wearing a smock over her abundant folds of flesh. The skin under her arms wobbled as she loaded limp celery stalks, one by one, into a bag.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached her. “I’m…new in town. How do you pay for groceries?”

The woman stopped mid-wobble. “I’ve paid enough,” she said in a flat monotone, her eyes filling with tears.

“Thanks, sorry to bother you,” I said brightly, backtracking. I thought I’d seen a horror movie like this once and didn’t want to wait for the sadistic guy in the clown mask to arrive.