Chapter 41
Chapter
Forty-One
The first thing I notice when I enter the glittering labyrinth is how beautiful it is.
It’s dim in here, deep wells of shadows pooling in the spaces between the towering walls. The blue-tinged slabs of ice and the dark path that winds between them fit together perfectly, like one of M.C. Escher’s tessellations. But up close, the ice isn’t a single, solid surface. The light shining from far above reflects off it, creating a mesmerizing display of fractured colors and patterns. Pale blues and greens compete with deep purples and pinks, all etched in lines, swirls, and geometric shapes so intricate, the artist in me itches to get my hands on a paintbrush. If Rosa hadn’t insisted we leave our phones behind when we entered the escape room— so you have an authentic experience!— I would try to capture the image in a photograph, so I could recreate it later. But honestly, I don’t think my cell phone’s crappy camera could do it justice.
The second thing I notice is that the further in I go, the more the walls close in.
Initially, I think it’s my imagination. My good friend claustrophobia, rearing her oh-so-persistent head. I try to ignore it, taking another step, then one more. But with the third step comes an ominous creaking sound, the noise that a layer of ice atop a frozen lake makes before it gives way. And when I take an involuntary step backward, I bump into the uneven surface of the wall behind me.
I know it wasn’t that close before.
Like a virgin in a horror movie who’s realized the call is coming from inside the house, I turn my head, a feeling of doom penetrating every inch of my body. Sure enough, the corridor between the icy walls is even narrower than it was when I stepped into it. I don’t even have enough room to extend my arms fully on either side. What happens if the walls just keep closing in? What’s to stop them from crushing us?
The red haze starts to descend, but I can’t tell if it’s a signal that I’m about to have a premonition or the side effect of my blood pounding in every vein, artery, and capillary. I struggle to drag air into my lungs, but it’s a losing battle. Dimly, I’m aware of Donovan saying my name, asking if I’m okay, but I don’t have it in me to answer. The hell with bluffing: I can’t even try to pretend that I’m all right.
I hate looking weak. And now here I am, having a total system shut-down in front of Donovan, of all people. The guy who already thinks I’m a liability. God, please don’t let me have a vision here. Please, don’t let anything make this worse.
My breath rasps, getting shallower with each passing moment. My head swims.
Oh, no. What if I faint?
I sway, and Donovan’s hands descend on my shoulders, steadying me. He turns me to look at him, tilting his head down so he can see my face. “Rune,” he says, enunciating each word, “are you claustrophobic?”
I want to make a smartass comment, like no, it’s been my lifelong dream to reenact the Star Wars trash compactor scene. If only I had Leia’s bikini, everything would be perfect—minus the frostbite. But I can’t manage to form a word. All I can do is nod.
“Shit.” He peers down at me, then over my head, at the maze beyond. Whatever he sees makes him stiffen. “Shut your eyes. Don’t look at the walls. Don’t look at anything, okay? I’ll get us out of here.”
Now I really can’t breathe, but for a whole other reason. Five minutes ago, he leapt off a snowbank to get away from me. Now, he’s made himself into a human shield to protect me. A sexy, sexy human shield. I ought to step back, to tell him I can take care of myself, but with him holding onto me like this, I feel…safe. Like nothing can get to me.
Donovan presses my face against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head. His other hand twines in mine, squeezing tight. And the moment it does, the ice creaks again.
Terror whips through me, and my teeth start to chatter. But Donovan stills. “Hold on,” he says. “I wonder if…”
His hand still gripping mine, he presses our palms to the closest block of ice. I can’t see anything but the waffle-knit of his shirt, but I can feel the jagged texture of the frigid wall under my fingers, not to mention the pins-and-needles sensation of cold that shoots through me. The creaking sound comes again, louder than before, followed by a sinister drip-drip-drip.
I jump, trying to recoil, but Donovan won’t let me. “Look, Rune,” he says.
I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I want to see other than a way out of here. But he sounds so convinced, I lift my head. And then I gape.
Rivulets of water run down the surface of the wall, pooling on the ground at our feet. The longer Donovan presses our hands against the wall, the faster the little streams flow.
Our touch is melting the freaking ice.
“That…that shouldn’t be possible,” I mumble.
He gives a rough laugh. “I mean, neither should falling through a goddamn trapdoor and landing in a snowbank without breaking half our bones. It’s an escape room, right? Man-made. There’s no reason to expect this to act like real ice. Who knows what it’s actually made of, or what it’s programmed to respond to.”
Or what magic is behind it, I think but don’t say. I’m too relieved to have discovered a way out of this maze to question the reason behind it.
The drip-drip-drip intensifies, the wall liquifying and sliding aside enough to reveal the dim gap between the next two blocks. Still holding hands, we squeeze through. Behind us, the wall solidifies again, blocking the way back.
“This is crazy,” Donovan mutters. His voice echoes, reverberating in the small space. “How the hell are we supposed to know which way to go? We could end up wandering in fucking circles for hours. What the hell was Ethan thinking?”
“He was thinking that he wanted us to work together. Which we’re kind of doing.” I look pointedly down at our intertwined hands.
Donovan snorts, his gaze following mine. “Oh yeah. The next time you and I are paired up on an Arctic expedition, we’ll have the perfect game plan.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but his mouth snaps shut when the walls shift toward us, forcing us to the left. “This way?” he says, glancing at me. “Or the other?”
“Hold on.” I pull my hand out of his and grab the hem of my shirt, tearing at the material. Or trying to, anyway. They always make it look so easy in action movies, when people need makeshift bandages…or in romance novels, when lust-crazed lovers tear each other’s clothes to bits. But no matter how hard I try, even hooking my fingers through one of the holes that the sparks burnt in my shirt and tugging as hard as I can, nothing happens. Of course, maybe that has something to do with the fact that I’m freezing, and my hands are all but numb.
Donovan’s eyebrows rise in shock. “What the hell are you doing?”
Now that we’ve figured out how to melt our way out of here, my dread has retreated, replaced by adrenalized euphoria. The walls have stabilized for the moment—they seem to be triggered by movement—and I can’t help but seize the opportunity to tease him. “What does it look like? I’m stripping, of course. It’s my dream to have sex in Santa’s workshop, and this seems like the anteroom, don’t you think? A little gloomy, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
His jaw drops. “You—you want to?—”
“Oh, come on,” I say, still fruitlessly tugging. “You’ve never been propositioned in an ice maze before?”
Donovan scrubs a hand through his hair, his expression appalled. “You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re kidding.”
“I have a Saint Nick fetish,” I say, moving on to another hole. “So sue me.”
“What are you really doing, Rune?” His voice is a growl. “Because I swear, I can’t tell if you’re serious or not, and if you?—”
I take pity on him. “I want to leave something behind, okay? So we’ll know if we’re retracing our steps. I figured scraps of material from my shirt would do, since it’s already ruined. But apparently every romance novel ever is a big fat liar. I’ll be sure to let the Sinsters know.”
He blinks, as if I’ve suddenly begun speaking a foreign language. “Romance novels?”
“You know.” I turn my attention to a jagged hole near the hem. “Where people are so desperate to have each other, they just can’t wait, so they rip each other’s clothes off. I’m sure that’s why they call them ‘bodice rippers.’ Well, maybe bodices were a lot easier to tear, because my shirt sure as hell isn’t cooperating.”
The marked silence that falls lasts long enough that I glance up. Donovan’s standing stock-still, his gaze raking over me, heating as it goes. And then he moves, batting my hands out of the way. “At this rate, we’ll be here all night,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Allow me.”
“I—” I squeak out. The sound is swallowed by the shift of the ice again, triggered by his approach. Or maybe I just can’t hear my own voice over the pounding of my heart.
“It’s a good idea.” He clears his throat. “Press your palms to the wall, would you, so we don’t get crushed before we have a chance to carry it out?”
My mouth is dry again, but this time not from fear. Speechless, I obey, and he drops to his knees in front of me, in the sliver of space between my body and the block of ice. He fists the material of my shirt in both hands so tightly the muscles in his forearms flex, the apex of that curlicue of ink sliding into view. And then, God help me, he yanks.