The smell of aged metal clogs my nose, like long-dried blood. I swallow down the acid that creeps up my throat, switch on the light, and army-crawl forward.
The vent stretches out into hazy darkness ahead of me, all smooth metal with no markings to tell me anything about where I am. The tremors from my legs quickly migrate to my arms and shoulders, nibbling away at my muscles while I propel myself along.
Just keep moving. I can do this. I’m stronger than Jacob’s stupid poison.
My back starts to ache too. The narrow space presses in on me, and my breaths become increasingly shallow.
Is there even enough air down here now?
A wave of dizziness sweeps over me. I pause, bracing my head against one hand.
I can’t stop now. What am I going to do—just die here in this underground tunnel like a sniveling kid?
The guys wouldn’t even know what happened to me.
Somehow, that last thought is the most terrifying of all. They’d probably assume I’ve abandoned them purposefully.
Fuck that.
I shove myself onward, my teeth clenching so tight my jaw throbs, which at least distracts me from the expanding aches and queasiness everywhere else in my body. The tunnel veers to the right, and I contort myself to follow it, the corner jabbing my belly.
A new addition to my collection of bruises. Hurray!
A couple of body-lengths after the bend, the vent slopes sharply downward. I hesitate at the top of the incline, clutching the tiny flashlight.
But where is there to go other than forward?
Elbow by elbow, I haul myself forward and down. When my thighs slide over the edge of the slope, gravity yanks me forward with more force than I can brace against.
I skid the rest of the way down at a freefall, bumps in the metal scraping against my stomach while my shoulders and hips bang against the metal sides. I try to shove my arms forward to shield my head, but the surface drags at them in the opposite direction.
The next thing I know, the top of my skull is slamming into a wall.
The impact radiates through my mind. My ears ring, and more bile creeps up my throat.
I hold still until the splintering pain eases off enough that I don’t feel like my head’s going to fall right off my neck when I move it. No sound reaches my ears.
If my thump was heard by someone down below, there’s no sign of it.
Cautiously, I peer around me. I’ve come to a stop at the bottom of the incline, where the vent branches out in two directions like the head of a T.
Left or right? In the glow of the flashlight, both directions look almost the same. But I think I spot a slight ridge on the floor of the passage to the left, like there might be an opening there.
I heave myself around the corner and drag my body over to it.
Thereisan opening, a square a little smaller than the grate on the surface, with slats to let the air flow through. The space beneath it is pitch black.
I hold perfectly still and listen for several minutes. There’s nothing but silence down below. Not the faintest flicker of light either.
As far as I can tell, if anyone is still using this place, they’re nowhere nearby.
Tensed to jerk it away at the first sign of trouble, I aim the flashlight downward so I have some idea what I’d be dropping into. The glow catches on a tiled floor, a cupboard off to the side, and the edge of what I think is a desk.
Okay. Time to get out of this torture chamber.
I flick out my claws and dig at the edge of the grate. To my relief, a few sharp tugs are enough to dislodge it. I drag it out and push it down the passage across from me.
The real problem is compressing myself enough to fit through the hole. I hunch my shoulders together and wriggle, dropping an inch at a time until they pop through—and my hips catch me in mid-fall. Dangling upside down, my head whirls.