Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Foregoing the food, I move into the hallway and study everything with new eyes. What could be used to pick a lock? Not marble, not canvas, not the bits of statuary. I keep going down to the piano level, then pause at the piano itself. Peeking under the hood, I stare at the strings. They’re wire, but not strong enough to turn a lock. Damn.
I keep going, checking in rooms here and there. When I spot a decorative urn, I pause. The handles are golden, maybe brass. They swivel, making it easy to lift the pottery, and give a slight clink sound when I let them go. I know nothing about antiques, but the blue flower motif on the jar coupled with the level of extravagance throughout this hellish place tells me it’s likely priceless.
With zero fanfare, I lift the vase and drop it onto the cold marble floor. It shatters, the sound like the boom of a shotgun in the silent estate. I flinch and wait for Melody or maybe Gorsky to show up and scold me for being clumsy, but no one comes.
I hastily kneel and grab the two handles, shards of porcelain falling away as I tuck them into my bag. I don’t bother cleaning up the mess. Somehow, this place is perennially spotless. I used to think Melody snuck in at all hours and made my bed or freshened my laundry, but now I don’t know. It’s too much work for one person, or even ten, to take care of this endless mansion. It gives me the shivers to think there are other servants, invisible workers who move silently, seeing everything yet never being seen. It’s not possible, is it? I know better than to ask that question. In this upside-down castle, every nightmare thought could easily become a reality.
The sun is up now. I can’t see it, but my internal clock is ticking away. I have to get out soon, or else I won’t be far enough away by the time it gets dark. That’s if I can get the door open.
With new urgency, I hurry down the stairs to the door, keeping an eye out for anyone on my way there. I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t surprise me. Gorsky has snuck up on me more than once, and Melody seems to appear out of thin air half the time.
Crouching in front of the tiled door, I feel around until my fingers catch on the keyhole. My heart sinks when I realize the hole is even smaller than I remembered. The brass handles might be too thick to be of any use.
I curse under my breath and dig out one of the handles. Pressing it against the keyhole, I barely get it more than a few centimeters inside. Not enough. It’s too rounded to catch on any sort of mechanism, and too thick to reach it in the first place.
“Fuck.” I doggedly push the lockpick harder, trying to force the keyhole wider from the sheer heft of the brass. That doesn’t happen. What does happen is that the door moves.
I let go of the now-stuck handle and push against the panel. It swings open. I know it was locked just yesterday. Why is it open now? Could this truly be a stroke of luck? I glance around again, my skin prickling with worry that someone is watching me. Is this a trick? Is Gorsky lying in wait for me? I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, even if he is, I have to get to the elevator.
Feeling around in my bag, I find the knife handle and palm it, gripping it tightly as I push the door the rest of the way open. Nothing moves inside, no hint of anyone lurking. Even so, I move slowly, looking closely at every shadow, every darkened corner. I listen for footsteps or anything that could indicate I’m not alone. The weapons room is wide open, so I grab two more knives and stuff them into my bag. The other weapons are too unwieldly for me, and I’d probably just end up injuring myself. I test a vicious-looking morning star in my palm, just to see. When I can barely lift it, I let it go and move on.
By the time I make it through the rooms, I find the elevator grate just as before. But the carriage isn’t on this level. The shaft is open, a gaping maw of black that might fall ten feet or forever. I don’t want to find out.
When I press the elevator call button, I half expect alarms to go off or for the elevator to stay silent. Instead, the cables shake, the carriage descending at its usual pace until it appears before me. No one’s inside, though I wonder if someone is up top. It couldn’t be Melody, not in the day, and Valen isn’t here. He’s occupied in Atlanta, tearing apart as many human lives as he can. That thought alone strengthens my resolve. I open the grate, step inside, and move the lever for the top floor.