Chapter 5

Iwake up feeling oddly refreshed. Not one hundred percent, but better than I was the night before. My eyelids are heavy and crusty, and I blink rapidly to dispel some of the gunk that formed overnight. There’s a pain in my neck that doesn’t alleviate, no matter how many times I twist and turn my head from side to side.

In my lap, purring melodically, is my new furry friend.

I don’t quite understand how a cat found himself in a dangerous prison, but I don’t dare articulate the questions on the tip of my tongue. For all I know, he is a pet of a fellow prisoner. Hell, maybe he is the familiar to a witch or warlock (if that’s not an urban legend). I still remember the stories Kai told me about a black cat…

Absentmindedly, I stroke his gnarled fur. It’s matted in numerous places, the texture coarse beneath my fingers. I wonder what color he is. For some reason, I imagine him to be orange with white stripes. Don’t ask me why that particular image comes to the forefront of my mind. The only cat I have ever seen was Fluffy, a white kitten one of my kinder captors brought to the Compound.

I suddenly become aware of a gripping sensation in my lower stomach—my bladder.

I really, really need to pee.

Staggering to my feet—and ignoring Mr. Scruffles’s disgruntled huff—I place my hand against the wall.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to the cat, pushing myself into his head. It’s the strangest sensation to see through an animal’s eyes. For one, he’s lower to the ground than a normal human, and for two, he sees everything in shades of black and white. The monochromatic colors used to give me a headache, but over time, I got used to them. It’s either that or darkness.

Mr. Scruffles places his paw on my calf, kneading me, and I scratch behind his furry ears. In the next moment, he’s hurrying down the hall, pausing once to glance over his shoulder. Through his eyes, I can see my vacant gaze staring at a spot over his head, my jaw slackened in shock as I try to process the cat’s unusual behavior.

Is the…?

Is the cat trying to lead me somewhere?

There’s not a lot I know—and less I understand—about the supernatural world. I know it exists, for one, and I’m suspected to be a part of it. I know that this region of the United States is led by the elusive, dangerous council. I know that William is an enforcer for said council.

And I know that monsters exist.

Is it completely out of the realm of possibilities that a cat can have coherent thoughts? Not particularly. For all I know, he’s as intelligent as me.

Can I trust him?

I remain standing, understandably wary. And then I immediately feel ridiculous for being afraid of a cat. A freaking cat.

Mr. Scruffles releases a pathetic meow, and I sigh, relenting. Using the cat’s eyes, we maneuver the maze-like basement. The first half of the journey consists of nothing but grimy stone walls, leaking pipes, and flickering lights.

It is only when we turn at a fork in the hall—left—that the scenery changes. There are various holes in the wall, each one the size of a modest closet or small room. All that remains of the doors are broken, rotting wood and charred bits of undefinable material. What appears to be a table is now nothing more than a pile of assorted debris, ravaged by vandalism and time. We stop at one of the largest rooms, and my heart ratchets up a notch.

“Is this…?” I begin, venturing a tentative step forward at Mr. Scruffles’s pressing. “Is this where your owner lives?”

It doesn’t resemble a prison cell—though, I’m not an expert, by any means, on what one is supposed to look like. Chairs are scattered around the room facing a small, static-filled television. A simple cot is pressed against the far wall, and on the opposite side, a toilet and sink sit.

“I don’t know if I can be in here,” I whisper, fear gripping me in an iron claw and refusing to release. What if the owner comes back and sees me in his or her space?

The cat rolls his eyes upwards, a decidedly human gesture.

I should go. I really should go...

But my bladder protests otherwise.

Before I can reconsider, I push down my panties and relieve myself in the toilet. I notice, somewhat amusedly, that Mr. Scruffles turns around the second I pull down my underwear. After I’m done washing my hands in the rustic sink, I perch myself daintily on one of the wooden chairs.

“Thank you,” I tell my new friend as he climbs up onto the table and presses his face into my hand. His whiskers tickle my skin, and I can’t stop the instinctive smile that pulls at my lips.

Now that I’m no longer in agonizing discomfort, I can focus on other stuff. Namely, my gnawing hunger.

As if on cue, my stomach growls, the noise drum-shattering loud. My cheeks instantly go up in flames as I remove my hand from Mr. Scruffles and touch my stomach.

Gracefully, the cat jumps off the table and races towards the open door. Once more, he releases a loud meow to indicate I follow him.

What the heck am I doing?

Trusting a cat?

I heard stories about how prison can make you lose your mind. Is that what’s happening to me?

I don’t know what possesses me, but I obediently amble to my feet and follow the cat down the twisting passageways.

As I walk farther, I note that the tunnels extend into large rooms. Some appear to be recreational halls, while others still look to be dining rooms. Desks and tables are knocked over more often than not, and papers are practically plastered to the damp floor. Mold covers the walls, the stench nearly as pervasive as the smell of urine and blood.

Mr. Scruffles leads me to the largest room I have seen so far in the Labyrinth. Table after table are placed in perfect lines in the middle of the room. Against the far wall, a separate table seems to glimmer with bright light. As I watch through his eyes, transfixed, a collection of entrées appears.

Magic.

The food doesn’t look appetizing—stale-looking bread, a glob of brown and red meat, and decaying bananas—but it’s a feast to my growling, gnawing stomach.

“Thank you,” I whisper, bending down to press a kiss on Mr. Scruffles’s tiny head. I swear the cat leans into me like a flower straining towards the sun.

Scrunching my nose at the not-so-pleasant scent of the food, I scoop first the meat and then the bread onto my plate. I opt not to eat the banana. I survived this long—the last thing I need is to be killed by food poisoning.

Mr. Scruffles jumps onto one of the far tables, and I move to sit beside him. At some point, I must’ve pulled myself out of his head, for darkness once more monopolizes my vision. Using only my hands for guidance, I spear some of the meat onto my plastic fork.

The taste is…tolerable. It isn’t the worst food I have ever eaten, but it’s definitely not the best. The spicy tang of the meat is countered by the dryness of the bread. To drink, they only provide water in small paper cups.

“It’s not bad,” I tell Mr. Scruffles seriously. He makes a somewhat incredulous scoff. Maybe I have a future career in reading cats—I swear I understand him better than most humans. “Seriously, it’s not awful.” I giggle, pulling apart chunks of bread and feeding one to me and then one to Mr. Scruffles. “Once, at the Compound, I had to go a whole week only eating celery and water. That was awful. I think I prefer this junk to that.”

The cat nudges my hand, demanding pets, and I comply easily.

“I’ve never had a pet before,” I continue, my voice sounding far away and distant even to me. “Tay—that’s what everyone called her, at least—had a cat she would bring in. Fluffy. He was a pretty white cat. Actually, it might’ve been a she. Anyway, Tay would bring the cat in to visit me. I liked Tay. She never participated in the…torture sessions. Of course, she didn’t do anything to stop them, either.” I trail off, my hand stilling on the cat’s head. I could be mistaken—I usually am—but it almost feels as if the cat bristles at my words. His back hunches, and an ear-piercing hiss escapes. I bop his head playfully. “Shush.”

I resume my strokes, and Mr. Scruffles settles down enough to lay on the table indolently. His furry tail swishes back and forth, whacking against my hand with each thrust.

I have just finished my meal when I become aware of footsteps behind me. If I was anyone else, anyone with perfect vision, the sound might not have been noticeable. As it is now, the footsteps sound thunderous in the quietness of the room. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, saluting the world.

Mr. Scruffles goes tense beside me, his coarse fur prickling.

“New girl!” a strident voice says from behind me. A second later, large hands squeeze my shoulders.

A ball of terror forms in my gut, churning the contents of my stomach. I attempt to calm my uneven breathing.

While the voice isn’t necessarily unfriendly…

You can’t trust anyone.

Ducking my head, I ignore the newcomer and stab at my meat.

Go away.

Don’t hurt me.

Please don’t hurt me.

I don’t think I can survive it.

“I heard that you just arrived,” he continues easily.

I wonder, briefly, what he looks like. While his voice is low and charming, his appearance could be the exact opposite. You can learn so much about a person through their eyes. Philosophers aren’t kidding when they say that eyes are the windows to your soul. In one glance, you can see a person’s hopes and fears, their anger and desire.

Like Kai. He was the only person who didn’t stare at me like I was a tasty morsel he wanted to devour. He stared at me like I was a person, as necessary to his life as the air he breathed. Kai can only be comparable to the ocean. A deep and dark abyss you are forced to sink into in order to understand. You may drown, but death would be worth it.

“Are you dumb, bitch?” the newcomer asks snidely. His words are a slap to the face, and I blanch. “Answer me!” He grabs hold of my hair, yanking my head back. The momentum pulls me off the bench and onto the floor, slick with something wet. Hopefully, it’s not blood.

Fear explodes through me, kicking my body into action. I jerk my leg out and strike him in the knee. There are a few places Kai taught me to hit when in a pinch—the nuts, the knees, and the throat.

But without diving into his head, I’m relying solely on instinct. Fortunately, my foot aims true, a resounding crack and pained growl following the kick.

With a gurgling laugh, the man grabs my hair once more, tilting my head to the side. “You filthy?—”

A ferocious roar has the man releasing me with a sharp, pained gasp. I remain submerged in my pit of darkness, shaking, as screams reverberate in the once-silent room. It almost sounds as if…

As if…

As if a monster is attacking the man.

I scramble onto my knees, hands tightening on the table edge, and push into the nearest mind available.

All I can see is blood. Lots and lots of blood. The man’s face—he’s uglier than I imagined—is horribly disfigured, grotesque, with bloody slashes down both his cheeks and neck.

I push myself out of the monster’s eyes quickly, seconds from hyperventilating.

Am I next?

All I have ever known is pain. Inevitable pain. There’s not a second that goes by when I don’t experience some form of it.

It’s only fitting I would die experiencing the worst pain imaginable.

I feel hot breath on my cheek from the monster, and I squeeze my eyes shut, tears cascading down both my cheeks.

I’m not ready to die.

When no pain arrives, I push my consciousness once more into the nearest mind.

Mr. Scruffles—the mind I find myself in—glances at the disgusting, disfigured body lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor. The man’s face is nearly unrecognizable, nothing but blood, guts, and skin. My stomach heaves and tightens, and I cover my mouth, gagging. The cat turns away to focus on me, slithering between my legs and resuming its contented purr.

My hand freezes inches from the cat’s fur.

Had he just…?

What the heck just happened?