“But it’s an emergency,” I repeated. “A real one. If we can’t get them on the phone, we have to go to Daems.”
“Then I will call again.”
I suppressed a groan of frustration as Margot calmly picked up the phone. Oscar and I exchanged irritated looks as she dialed, listened, hung up, dialed another number, and on and on. Finally, she set down the receiver with a loud sigh.
“It’s an emergency,” I said again, firmly. “Look, if they want us to come back to the hotel, we’ll just ask the taxi driver to bring us back. No harm done.”
“We’d be back way before ten, too,” Oscar added, pointing to the clock behind her. “It’s not even eight yet.”
Margot eyed him, then me. Then, to my relief, she relented and picked up the phone.
“Very well. I will call for a taxi.”
I exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
We stepped away from the desk, and Oscar lowered his voice. “Do you have your camera?”
I blinked visions of Emily sneaking up behind Dad with a knife from my mind. “What? Oh . . . no. Should I bring it?”
“Don’t you think your post about the psycho former host crashing the prison episode would look good with a few photos?”
I made a face. “You know, sometimes you can just say yes without getting all sarcastic.”
When I returned to the lobby, the Elapse safely in my pocket, I saw a taxi parked along the curb. I hurried outside and waited next to Oscar while Margot spoke to the driver in rapid French. Judging by his expression, he wasn’t too thrilled about whatever she was saying.
Finally, Margot handed him a note. He took it, giving Oscar and me a contemptuous look. “Treize baisers,” he mumbled, settling into the driver’s seat with a scowl. “Mon dieu.”
He slammed the door. Margot smiled at us wearily.
“Cyril is your driver. He has promised not to let you out of his sight until you are with the adults. But he is not happy about going to la Prison Éternelle,” she added. “Everyone knows about the haunting. He is . . .” She glanced at the driver’s window and lowered her voice. “Chicken.”
I snickered, but Oscar was still staring at the driver. “Did he say treize baisers?”
Margot nodded, pulling the passenger door open. “Yes. It’s what some locals call the road to Daems. You know what it means?” she added with a wink. But Oscar didn’t smile back.
“Yeah, I think so.”
I waited until we were pulling out of the parking lot, then sighed loudly. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What does it mean?” I said impatiently. “Tres . . . whatever you said.”
“Oh.” Glancing at the driver, Oscar lowered his voice. “Treize baisers. I’m pretty sure it means thirteen kisses.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said loudly, and Cyril shot me a dirty look in the rearview mirror.
We didn’t talk much on the drive after that. Before long, the city was just a cluster of tiny bright lights behind us. The sky was that purplish-blue shade it gets right before turning completely black; a few stars twinkled around the sparse clouds that still hung low from yesterday’s thunderstorm.
“Do you think Emily’s there already?” Oscar asked at last.
I pictured her room, all slashed and ripped apart, and tried to sound calm. “Maybe. But even if she is, she and Roland are outnumbered. And—”
Suddenly, Cyril slammed on the brakes. Oscar and I lurched forward against our seat belts. “What’s wrong?” I gasped, massaging my rib cage. Cyril muttered nervously and smacked the side of his GPS console, which had gone dark. The screen flickered back to life, a blue dot marking us on the map with instructions in French down the side.
Continuez tout droit sur la 13e Av
Tournez à droite sur la Rue de la Paix
Still eyeing the console, Cyril stepped on the gas again. When we started to turn right, Oscar grabbed my arm.
“Look,” he hissed, pointing out his window. I leaned over and caught a glimpse of the two battered street signs at the intersection, which were sprayed over with graffiti:
A chill raced up my spine, but I tried to keep my voice light. “Thirteen X. Well, I guess that explains the nickname.”
Cyril tensed up as we edged down the road, shoulders hunching, fingers clutching the wheel. Privately, I thought he was overreacting a little. Then Daems Penitentiary came into view, and my palms went clammy.
The massive compound loomed in front of us, made up of at least five buildings that I could see. The brick was so grimy and stained, it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally. Instead of windows, slits barely wide enough to stick your arm through marked the floors. A tower rose twice as high as the prison, overlooking the courtyard. And the entire thing was surrounded by an imposing wire fence—probably three times my height, with giant barbed coils along the top.
“Pretty,” said Oscar.
“Looks like my old Barbie Dreamhouse,” I agreed. We smiled briefly at each other, and I was relieved to see he looked as nervous as I felt.
Because the truth was, Daems was the most horrific-looking place I’d ever seen.
When Cyril let out a piercing shriek and slammed on the brakes again, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The cab jerked to a halt, and Oscar and I stared at the GPS console. The map was gone, and two symbols flashed repeatedly on the otherwise black screen:
X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3 X <3
Letting out a stream of curses in who knew how many languages, Cyril threw the car into reverse.
“Wait, stop!” I yelled.
He shouted a reply in stilted English, his voice shaking. “I will not drive closer!”
“You don’t have to,” Oscar said urgently, leaning past the front seat and pointing. “Look.”
I squinted and realized with a wave of relief that the crew’s van was parked not far ahead. Even better, the doors were open—maybe they were still unloading equipment.
Cyril hesitated, hands gripping the wheel. The hearts
