Tom Pawlik - Beckon

“We know she won’t touch a corpse,” he said. “She has to have live prey. But when we give her a choice between two identical rats, one of them sedated and the other fully conscious, she’ll ignore the sedated one even though it’s an easier kill.”

Jack frowned. “She only picks the conscious one?”

“Every time. She won’t feed on a sedated animal even if that’s her only option.”

“So… her instincts are based on movement?”

Henderson shook his head. “That’s what we thought at first, but when we suspended a sedated rat from a string to keep it moving, she still wouldn’t go for it.”

Jack nodded. “She must be keying in on something else. Maybe respiration or heart rate…” Jack recalled something Running Bear had said. The N’watu believed that Sh’ar Kouhm—the Soul Eater—fed on emotions.

On fear.

“The Caieche said the Soul Eater feeds on fear and anger.” Jack scratched his head. “So what if she can sense fear in her prey? Fear has a physiological effect on the body. Elevated heart rate, respiration…” He shrugged. “Maybe she has a taste for adrenaline.”

Vale offered a thin smile. “Very good, Jack. I’m impressed with your powers of deduction. I want to know everything that happened in those caves. I want to know everything you know about these things.”

“What?” Jack scowled. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Vale shrugged. “Because the only thing keeping you alive at the moment is that I believe you have information that could be useful. So as long as you stay cooperative, you’ll stay alive.”

Jack felt his jaw tighten. He had no doubt these people would make good on that threat. He had no interest in helping them, but he also needed to learn more about what was going on in this town.

He sighed. “Fine… what do you want to know?”

Henderson gestured to the glass. “I’ve been studying these things for a while now, but there’s still so much I don’t know. What can you tell me about what you experienced in the caves?”

Jack just stared at the kiracs, wishing Rudy were still alive. He was the biology major with all the theories. Jack shuddered again at the memory of his friend succumbing to the spider’s poison.

“Well… we found out their venom is extremely toxic. And fast. It causes massive internal bleeding and… a very painful death.”

“We know,” Henderson said. “But only the males are venomous.”

Jack pointed to the terrarium. “The ones I saw in the cave were enormous. Five to ten times the size of these. Are they all juveniles?”

“No, they’re fully mature at twelve months,” Henderson said. “But some arthropods never stop growing.”

“My friend had a theory,” Jack said. “We saw enormous millipedes and beetles feeding on some kind of bioluminescent microorganism—bacteria or something. And he thought it might be producing oxygen. Through some kind of reaction.”

Henderson was nodding. “So an increase in the overall oxygen levels would support the increased mass… provided they had a sufficient food supply.”

Vale interrupted them. “Well, it sounds like you two have a lot to discuss.” He seemed satisfied with Jack’s cooperation. “I have some matters to attend to upstairs. Let me know if you come up with anything useful.”

Vale left the lab, followed by Malcolm Browne.

Carson checked to make sure Jack’s handcuffs were still secure. “Don’t try anything stupid, kid. I’m right outside.”

Carson left and locked the door behind him, leaving Jack and Henderson alone in the lab.

Jack sat down on a stool, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue and hunger. “Look, you seem to be the only one in this town who’s not psychotic. Can you please just tell me what’s going on?”

Henderson looked away. “It’s complicated.”

Jack shook his head and laughed a hopeless, empty laugh. He truly felt at the end of his rope. “Of course it’s complicated. There’s a pile of human bones down in those caves. There are legends of human sacrifices. And now you people are holding me captive, I assume because I’ve seen too much and you can’t let me go.”

“You’re here because you serve a purpose for Thomas Vale,” Henderson said. “All of us serve some kind of purpose for him.”

“So… are you saying you’re being held here against your will too?”

Henderson bit the inside of his cheek. “I suppose I could leave if I really wanted to.”

Jack wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t get it. Don’t you want to leave?”

“More than anything.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Henderson’s gaze fell and he shook his head. “The problem is, I’ll die if I leave. And I’d die a pretty painful death.”

George peered out his window yet again. It had been hours since Vale brought them back to their suite and posted Henry Mulch outside their door. George paced through the suite, checking every window numerous times for an avenue of escape. But none of them were very promising. All the windows, George had discovered, were of an odd configuration that opened enough to let in a breeze but not enough to let someone escape. Not without breaking the glass and bringing Mulch in to investigate.

And more than that, it was at least a fifteen-foot drop to the ground from any of their windows or balconies, and there was no way to sneak from one balcony to another. It was as if Vale had designed his guest quarters with an eye for security as well.

This prison cell was a bit more comfortable than the ones George and Miriam had seen in the dungeons far below the lodge. But it was a prison nonetheless.

George checked in on Miriam again. She had complained of a headache and gone to the bedroom to lie down a couple hours ago. She’d been somewhat sullen since their trip into the tunnels beneath the lodge, which surprised George. He had expected her to respond with more emotion to the situation she had witnessed in Vale’s dungeon. More indignation, more anger. Something. But she looked like she was preoccupied. Or perhaps slightly disoriented.

Vale had essentially sent them to their room without any supper. He’d had a small tray of food brought up for lunch, but it’d hardly been filling. It was well past the dinner hour and George was starving. He could only imagine how Miriam must have been feeling.

At length George grew tired of pacing and sat, brooding, in one of the chairs out in the sitting room of the suite. He had given up hope of escaping. Or leaving. Vale had muttered something about instilling a sense of priority in them—whatever that meant.

After seeing the prisons down in the tunnels, George knew Vale would be capable of anything. Neither he nor Miriam was safe at this point.

It was getting dark by the time Mulch came in. “Mr. Vale would like to see you now. Just you.”

George made his way down to the great room, where Thomas Vale, Malcolm Browne, and Sam Huxley were already waiting. A fire was blazing in the fireplace. And Huxley was holding a folder with a sheaf of papers inside.

Vale still wore his pained expression as if George had deeply offended him. George stood in front of him like an errant son waiting for punishment to be handed down by his father. Not so far off, George thought, as Vale was more than twice his age.

“I want you to know that I’m willing to overlook your indiscretion earlier today and am still prepared to move forward with our arrangement.” He gestured to the folder in Huxley’s hand. “I have the papers here ready for your signature, George.”

George blinked. “Signature? You really expect me to go through with this deal after seeing your dungeon down there?”

Vale shrugged and went to pour himself a drink. “Yes, I expect that once you understand what’s at stake, you’ll sign this contract. Gladly.”