Page 54 of Demon Hunger
They followed me reluctantly.
Another older student—a lanky guy with red hair whose name I didn’t know—was hanging outside of the old librarian’s alcove. A shiver ran across my back. I had no desire to go back in there. The procedure hadn’t been fun for me at all, and that chair with the straps looked too much like a torture device for my taste.
Not surprisingly, we were the first ones there, which was a good thing because when others showed up, I could pretend I’d been the first one to undergo the procedure.
Sage stepped ahead—not that Benjamin or Jenna seemed willing to fight him for the privilege, the latter preferring to offer the former moral support.
“I’m ready,” he announced.
“Go in, then Preston is ready,” the fourth-year said.
“Who would’ve thought?” Jenna said. “Good old Preston Hunt, and this place.” She glanced around, her blue eyes sparkling as she marveled.
More students started to arrive, and soon a line had formed behind Benjamin and Jenna. Regina glared at me as the student in front of her—a second year, who was clearly some sort of shifter, judging by the animal musk I picked up from him—noticed me scanning the massive chamber that spread in front of us.
“Are you done? Did you have the procedure done?” he asked.
“Sure did. Easy peasy.” I quickly walked away, not wishing to catch any of Regina’s negative vibes.
Driven by curiosity, I hopped down the steps to the large area that sat in the middle of the many dark recesses that led to who knew where. The clear space served as a practicing ground for sword training, as I’d seen the first time.
I probably wasn’t supposed to stray from the group, but no one was paying attention to me, so I meandered around the edge, stopping at the alcove entrances to listen and try to peer inside.
At the first opening, I heard and saw nothing but pitch black, so I moved on. The second one, to my horror and surprise, was illuminated by candles that showed many recesses carved into the walls, all occupied by human bones. What the hell? Catacombs? If that was the case, I had no interest in finding out more.
I kept moving, my curiosity diminishing at every dark entrance that revealed nothing about what lay beyond. When I reached the tenth alcove, I was about to turn around and leave when the echoes of an eerie growl made me stop.
Heart pounding, I stared into the darkness of the alcove, and as my eyes adjusted, I perceived a wavering glow in the distance. I glanced over my shoulder, back the way I’d come, but I’d walked too far away from the group for anyone to notice what I was about to do.
I stepped into the pocket of darkness, my breaths loud in my ears. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, I walked toward the light. When I reached its source, I realized it was some sort of magical sconce, with glimmering sparks jumping like tiny fireworks. Cool.
There was another groan. This time closer. My head jerked toward the sound. My skin rippled. The timbre of the voice was familiar.
I walked deeper and crossed another passage that branched out from the main one. More magical sconces were located every twenty yards or so.
The murmur of voices became evident in one of the alcoves within the alcove. I paused to listen and make sure. Yes, this was it. With one hand trailing over the stone wall for guidance, I went deeper toward the glow of another magical sconce.
“… one more thing I can try, but I don’t believe the results will be different,” a female voice I didn’t at first recognize said.
“Do it.” This second voice sounded breathless, choppy, and I knew exactly who it belonged to.
Drevan Morningstar.
I inched closer toward the light until the passage widened to reveal a space about half the size of a basketball court. Two people stood with their backs to me. One of them was Director Grant, and the other was Professor Fennix. In front of them stood Drevan, tied up much in the same way he’d been the day I rescued him from Jophiel. He was strung up, his arms held up by chains, his bare feet splayed apart so that his body formed anX. He wore nothing but a pair of black slacks that hung low at his narrow waist.
His normally smooth torso was blotchy and scorched in places. His dark hair was in disarray, hanging limply over his forehead, while copious amounts of sweat slid from his temples.
What were they doing to him?
“Let me catch my breath,” he said, lowering his head as he hung like a discarded puppet.
Whatever they were doing to him, he was a willing accomplice.
“Drevan,” Director Grant said, “Is it worth all this pain?”
“It is. You know it is.”
Grant shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, looking despondent.
