Skye is the Limit by Phenomenal Pen (detective books to read TXT) 📗

Chapter 17: Smothered with Evil

The tunnel was claustrophobic and wound both laterally and vertically. There were humps they had to climb over and tight restrictions they had to squeeze through.

“Why can’t we see even with our night vision?” Man-At-Arms asked, his voice carrying along the dark passage.

“There are varying depths of darkness,” Mage answered. “This one is related to a mental block. We can no more pierce it than we can accurately predict lottery numbers before they are drawn.” 

After crawling on their elbows and knees in the dark for about the quarter of an hour, the earth under Nethril began to crumble and, before she knew it, she was

– grasping at nothing but air –

plummeting headlong.

Thank heavens she made a soft enough landing on a surface that smelled like a dumpster and felt like a hodgepodge of so many things at once: something squishy, pointy, scratchy… The best image she could come up with was a mattress that had literally sprouted twigs.

She thought it was possible for some tree roots to reach that depth even though no ray of sunlight seemed to ever visit the place. Tree roots didn’t explain the putrid stench though. She felt someone grab and help her stand up. Apparently, the chamber they were in was tall enough to stand in.

“What’s up?” Nethril asked, dusting herself.

The same person who had helped her shushed her rather brusquely. She thought it was the Count.

Nethril fell quiet and pricked her pointy ears to listen. Soon, she could identify a sound. It was growling. She thought at first it was Bear Tooth but the direction was wrong. The sound was coming from ahead of them, from a pair of green perfect circles floating in the inky “mental block” shadows.

“What on earth is it?” Man-At-Arms whispered, eliciting more shushes.  

All at once, Nethril could see Man-At-Arms standing next to her and not the Count after all. She realized the darkness was a living thing. It grew and receded depending on her thoughts. Still, there was a limit to the reach of their night vision and all their combined willpower couldn’t fathom the threat that stood just several feet ahead. Something told Nethril that was probably for the best.

“It’s a hellhound,” Mage explained calmly. His eyes were luminous red inside his hood.

“A hellhound!” Nethril hissed. “You mean like Cerberus?”

Man-At-Arms grimly nodded next to her. In the enhanced lowlight of her night vision, his image looked washed-out. 

“Don’t look down,” he warned her. “It’s not dirt we’re stepping on.”

“Eww…” Nethril moaned.

“Based on Hordo’s information,” Mage said, “this particular sentinel is Daemon-bred, which means it shares the same flaws with the hellhounds of classical literature.”

“Can’t Bear Tooth just speak to it?” the Count asked.

“What do you think I am?!” Bear Tooth growled softly. “I don’t speak canine!”

“As expected,” Mage said, “it is confused by Bear Tooth’s presence and our Dreamwalker smells. It is time to lay our trap.”

“You lay our trap only now?” the Count asked.

“Do not worry yourself so, Count. This particular trap will only take precisely 2.5 minutes to set.”

“Couldn’t you have made the preparations before we dropped in here?” the Count nagged. The growling was getting louder, the green orbs inching closer.

They felt Mage sit cross-legged on the suspect ground, settling down to meditate.

“Indeed I could have,” Mage answered. “But I thought I would take this opportunity to share with you another lesson on dream-manipulation.”

“Terrific,” the Count said sarcastically. He was the closest to the imminent terror.

“What is No. 3 of the Dream Rules?” Mage asked, directing his question to no one in particular.

“How would I know?!” the Count hissed, breaking into a sweat now that the growls seemed to be coming from the throat of a dog the size of a mastiff.

“Wait! Wait! I know! I remember!” Nethril blurted out. “It’s… It’s…”

The words were right on the tip of her tongue. She winced in frustration.

“Always! Stay! Calm!” Bear Tooth said in snorty woofs, his voice conveying the exact opposite of the words.

“That is correct,” Mage spoke from where he was sitting on the floor. He appeared to have started his meditation but because of his omnipresent AI, he was able to maintain a normal conversation with the others. “This rule is very timely because the hellhound is literally drawn to the smell of fear.”

The Dreamwalkers understood what Mage was trying to teach them but it didn’t make the challenge any easier. The Count, in particular, tried holding his breath but the green eyes kept coming. Very soon, the entity was going to step into the light and reveal its hideous form.

“I know a hellhound has three heads!” Nethril hissed. “If I know this and if the idea’s in my brain, how can I get it out?”

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