afraid—but because I know how Aspen must feel, how her mind must scream for release.
We land hard, and I pull Aspen to her feet.
She wipes her gloved hands over her eyes and tries to hide the fact that she’s been crying. I don’t know why. She just got swallowed by an oversized bear, for crap’s sake. I think she’s allowed a few tears.
I take her shoulders in my hands. “Are you okay? We’ve got a few more rooms to pass through, not too much longer. This place is an unending labyrinth, but I know the way. Can you make it?”
Aspen’s eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings. “What is this place?” Her face holds a child-like fascination. My stomach lurches; that fascination will soon change to something very different.
“The Hall of Mirrors,” I answer.
The room is a perfect square and filled with reflective objects. An intricate chest, a suspended chandelier, musical instruments, picture frames, scattered furniture, children’s toys, stairs leading to nothing—they’re all mirrors. An uncertain smile slides across Aspen’s face. “It’s so beautiful,” she says, turning to me. “How is it possible?”
Light radiates from an unknown source, illuminating our bodies and bouncing off the mirrors. It’s a pristine palace. A house of wonders.
But it’s also a place of nightmares.
Aspen picks up a sphere and tosses it between her hands. It’s amazing how quickly she goes from tearful to confident curiosity. But then she looks closer at the globe. Her eyes narrow, and her features harden.
“What am I seeing?” Alarm colors Aspen’s voice.
“It isn’t real.” I rush to her side but stop when the images begin bouncing from the mirrors. My mom stands with her back to me, laughing. My father watches, blood dripping down his cheeks. I move toward the center of the room, stepping over glass tiles that play an endless reel of Max being torn open. My mind repeats what I just told Aspen, but it’s hard to believe what I’m saying because it’s all right here.
This room is always hard. No matter how many times I pass through it, my head throbs. My muscles tighten.
I can’t breathe.
Aspen drops down onto the floor and covers her head. She’s in the fetal position muttering about her father. Her back rises and falls too quickly. I’ve got to get to her before her heart gives out.
But it’s hard when Charlie’s face stares back at me, her eyes gouged out.
“You have to believe it isn’t real,” I say to Aspen, and maybe to myself, too. “You have to believe it isn’t real, or we’ll never get out.”
I drop onto the floor and watch Max being dismembered beneath my hands. Then I lunge at Aspen. I yank her into my arms and whisper in her ear, “Think about Sahara. Think about Lincoln. Remember why we’re here. This isn’t real. It’s in your head. Believe what I’m telling you. You have to, Aspen.”
Several seconds pass before her head lifts. She looks around the room, and though her face is contracted in pain, she says, “It isn’t real.”
The moment she speaks those words, I believe them, too.
The room changes colors. It’s red. There are human bodies everywhere, shielding their eyes and screaming for the images to stop. Aspen never knew they were there. But I did.
Beneath us, the floor cracks into a million pieces.
Aspen freezes and I see him—a collector—standing in the Hall of Mirrors, arms folded across his chest.
The floor shatters, and we fall.
37 
We All Fall Down
I’ve memorized this fall. I know the way the gravel will dig into my muscle when I land. But it doesn’t lessen the blow when I hit the ground.
Aspen smacks onto her side and rolls to the left. I land flat on my back. The breath is ripped from my lungs, and if I could, I’d lie still. But I can’t. Not after who I saw. “You’re all right,” I tell Aspen, helping her up. I’m not sure if she is or not, but I need her to be, so I keep tugging on her arm. She stands and looks overhead. The shattered floor is now a stained-glass ceiling. Light slinks in through the jigsaw pieces, casting a riot of blues, greens, and purples across the area. The heavenly colors do nothing to soften the smell.
“Oh, my God,” she groans. “What is that? It smells like…”
“It’s decay.” My blood hammers behind my temples as I search for him. He’s here. He must be.
There’s a narrow bridge connecting the dark platform we’re on to a similar one on the other side. We have to cross over to get where we’re going. I contemplate not telling Aspen about the collector—about Patrick—but I must. This isn’t something she’d want to be in the dark about.
Aspen is running her hands over her long, dark ponytail when I say, “They know we’re here.”
Her head whips around. “How do you know?”
“There was one back there. In the Hall of Mirrors.”
Aspen glances around like she’s searching for him. “It could be only one,” she says, but the way her brow furrows tells me she doesn’t believe that. “How fast can we get to the soul storage area?”
In response, I grab her hand, and we dart toward the bridge. The pine boards creak and sway beneath our feet, and far below, black oil bubbles and pops. Moans fill the air, and I know what they are, but we have to keep moving.
The bridge sways wildly, wider and wider, and I order Aspen to run.
The demons. They’re coming.
They’re climbing up the posts that support the bridge, nails digging into the old wood. If Aspen sees them, she’ll scream. And once that happens, the demons will scream, too. There’s a rule in hell: no matter how much pain you’re in, no matter how many horrors you face, you can never scream. If you do, they’ll come for you. And you will be punished.
The creatures are close. Their stench makes me light-headed, but I have to keep pumping my legs.
“If it isn’t the infamous Dante Walker,” a voice shouts. It isn’t a scream, but it’s dangerously close.
A shiver races down my back as I turn around, hanging onto the rope handrail for balance. Patrick, the collector, stares back at me, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face. I trained Patrick a couple of years ago. He’s a good soul collector and has a decent left hook, if memory serves. He’s a scrapper, a small guy who’s quick and eager to please. Patrick would like nothing more than to hand-deliver me to Lucille.
I gauge how far Aspen and I are from the other side and know we could make it there before he does. In fact, once the demons crawl over the side, they may even take him down. They’re slow and stupid, but they have strength in numbers. But if he runs fast enough—and God knows he’s a fast fucker—he’ll make it across, too.
Not if I hold him up, though.
My eyes lock with Aspen’s. “Run.”
Then I turn and race toward Patrick. The bridge rocks, and I almost tip over the side twice, but I keep moving. Patrick accepts the challenge and storms in my direction. I don’t know what his goal is. Maybe to toss me to the demons so I’m trapped. Then find Lucille and lead him here.
We both run hard, realizing we have seconds before the demons ascend. As we get closer, I anticipate he’ll go for my chest. Maybe even my face. But instead he drops low and barrels into my legs.
I smack onto my back with a grunt. Patrick dives on top of me like a Doberman, all snapping teeth and lean muscle. He goes for my throat, and I let him. My thumbs dig into his eyes, and he bites down to keep from screaming. Taking advantage of his pain, I bring my knees up. I kick out, and his body flies backward. He’s upright in a flash, racing toward me with wide brown eyes.
He stops.
Crawling over the side of the bridge is a demon.
Its body is shaped like a human’s, but it’s all wrong. The angles are too sharp, and the spine is too curved. Black-and-yellow scales cover the creature’s torso, and talons grow where fingernails should be. The demon’s beady black eyes fix on me. Its mouth drops open. A low whistle emanates from its throat. The sound could be
