Page 40 of Enthralled

The Hollow Man stands at the end of the hall.

All the captured Noswraiths scream and writhe in their bonds. Do they too feel that overwhelming dread? That cloud of despair, that helplessness, that terror? They shriek, struggle, desperate to get free, but the Hollow Man has no use for them. His shadow-flickering eyes stare straight through the snarling threads, fixed on me.

A wave ofsmallness,of absolutenothingnesswashes over me. I want to curl up and die then and there. Anything to avoid that gaze, anything to avoid being seen and known for exactly what I am. Because that’s what it feels like—as though the truth of my soul has been dug up from beneath all layers of pretense and spread out in plain view.

Worthless.

Small.

Useless.

He takes a step. His great arm swipes awaygubdagogslike they’re spider floss, all their humming magic meaningless against his greatness. The Noswraiths, liberated from their chains, skitter away, hissing and shrieking, eager to escape this greater being. But I cannot move. Not even to write the first word on my page. I stand frozen in the center of the hall, watching my doom bear down upon me. Multiplied voices dance inside my head.

You’re nothing. You always were.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I feel it and know it to be true. I deserve what’s about to happen to me. I deserve whatever pain he brings. The world around me melts away into writhing darkness. The hall, the door, the bedchamber sink and vanish, and suddenly I’m down in a claustrophobic coal cellar, damp and cold and trapped, trapped, trapped. There’s no escaping this place. I don’t deserve to escape this place. Shame, guilt, fear wrap around my senses like strangling vines, binding me. I huddle on the ground, my back to the wall, and know in the depths of my vile little heart there’s no escaping the justice to come.

My gaze fixes on the cellar stairs, illuminated in a harsh red glow pouring through the doorway. A shadow appears, silhouetted and sharp. Then footsteps. Heavy, inevitable.

I’m coming for you.

I’ll always come for you.

You cannot hide from me.

He is much too huge to fit into this small space. Reality is forced to bend around him, to make space for his malice, which extends beyond all physical boundaries. All reason, all thought, all will seem to rush out from my body and mind. I crouch, making myself smaller, hands over my head. If only I can become the nothing I am, small enough, inconsequential enough. It’s my fault after all. My fault when those long fingers wrap around me, squeeze my body, crush my ribcage.

Shadows dance from the Hollow Man’s eyes. He will swallow me. He already has—my soul, my spirit. This last act, this last atrocity is hardly the worst. He drags me inevitably toward that gaping hole in his chest. He will stuff me inside, fill his emptiness up with everything I am, his unique form of devouring. And I am helpless, useless to stop him. I’m not sure I even want to.

I know his name. In that moment, when all other thought has fled, that one spark of knowledge takes light and burns with absolute clarity. I know his name, but what good does it do me? What use is such knowledge when I cannot even wield a pen?

A pen.

A pen.

I look down at the fountain pen in my hand, glinting bright and gold. I haven’t lost it. The awful dark of that cavernous chest yawns before me. A blast of foul stench fills my nostrils. I am ready to succumb, almost too weak to fight, and yet . . .

With a last gasp of defiance, I draw my hand back and fling Oscar’s pen straight into the hollow. It turns once, twice, shining with its own light. Then it vanishes between those open, broken ribs and into that black center.

The Hollow Man stops. His body shudders. His massive head tilts, looking down at his chest cavity. Though his face is too hideous to register expression, a sense ofshockemanates from him. His grip on me loosens, and I slip through his fingers, landing hard on the stone floor. Then he paws at the hole, fingers scrabbling, as though trying to reach inside to snatch the pen back. Black blood oozes, spurts.

The Hollow Man throws back his head and roars.

By then I’m on my feet. The spell broken, my frozen veins are on fire once more, driving me to action. I turn and run. The images of the cellar walls are faded, misty, and I plow through them, back into the solid reality of the palace passage strung withgubdagogs. Some vague part of my awareness remembers that I need to give Lir and Dig time to escape, so when I reach the end of the passage, I don’t take the turn that would lead to the front entrance and out into the city.

I turn toward the library.

I’m not sure what drives me. There’s no conscious thought, only one instantaneous decision after another. I simply run, heedless of all other wraiths. Perhaps Lir’s necklace hasn’t lost all its power yet, or perhaps the other nightmares simply part ways to make room for the Hollow Man. They scatter before me, tattered shadows and high-pitched keening. I never slow my pace.

Heart throbbing, I turn a corner, expecting to arrive at the vaulted hall before the curved stairway leading up to the library doors. My feet skid on polished stone, arms wheeling as I come to a halt. This isn’t right! Damn it, there are no stairs rising before me. The palace melts away, and I’m standing before the open cellar door. The stairs lead, not up, but down into darkness.

I know what waits below.

Pivoting on heel, I retreat through . . . not the palace. Gods spare me, I’m in the Nightmare Realm again. It looks dangerously like my old home. I cross the living room, past Mama’s old rocker, ignoring the way the walls shiver and the shadows churn. I’ve got to get out, back into Vespre and the waking world. I can’t linger here. The stairwell yawns before me, and I race toward it, thinking to climb back to awareness. But the stairwell doesn’t lead up like it should. It points down, back to the cellar. I choke on a scream, bracing my hands on either side of the doorframe, just stopping myself from tumbling. Red light and mist roil below.

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