The Shade

[PepsiWhirda]

Van Helsing sucked in a breath. He hit the water and fought the urge to scream. The freezing cold, brackish stuff stung his eyes and inundated his robes. Overhead, what little light pierced the water in wavering shafts was cut off. The duct plunged into darkness.

The professor pumped his legs and dragged himself through the briny water. His hands groped for any contact with the sinking cage. He prayed—to God, to Omni, to anyone who would listen—that Whirda had made it to the other shaft. If not, the other children would certainly perish.

A second later, his hand brushed cold iron. He kicked again, securing his grip on one of the bars of the cage. A tiny hand grasped clumsily at his, growing cold and stiff.

It occurred to Van Helsing then that he had no idea how to get out of the shaft. This could be the shade's final trick: to appeal to the professor's sense of honor, dooming him to drown with no hope of escape.

He shook his head vigorously in the darkness. No. There had to be a way. Using the bars of the cage to guide him, he dragged himself down. The base of the cage rested on smooth stone. Van Helsing ran his hand across it. Too smooth to exist naturally, with a groove running down the center. A trap door.

The professor clawed at the groove, desperately trying to pry it open. His lungs ached from lack of air. Tiny bubbles escaped between his lips from the exertion. His vision wavered.

The groove did not give.

He flipped himself upright, pounding on the trap door with his feet. The tiny hand brushed across his face, dragged across his nose and forehead, then drifted away. He grabbed it, willing the child to live.

Strength fled his weary limbs by the second. His kicking grew weaker, then stopped altogether. In that moment, Van Helsing knew his fate. He had failed. Failed Ahn Thrix, in the great war. Failed Whirda and the elves, whose home would surely be destroyed. Failed Darkshire, and the children. So much to be done, so much potential, snuffed out in a cave in the darkness.

His grip on the cage bars relinquished. He began to drift upward. It was a peaceful thing, drowning, when you got right down to it. There was no pain.

Pain flashed through his head. His eyes went wide. He had bumped into something, protruding from the wall of the duct. A thin, metal rod. He sensed significance there, but was too weary to pursue it. He continued drifting upward, content to die. After a lifetime of fighting it was so... easy.

His foot hooked on the rod. He blinked his eyes blearily. No... not a rod. A lever!

With the last of his fleeting strength, the professor jerked his foot. With a metallic grind, the lever gave.

A moment later, Van Helsing was falling.

He hit the cavern floor with a gasp. The cage rested on its side in front of him. The children gulped in air and flopped around, choking and sobbing. The professor's first, merciful breath came with searing pain in his lungs. Then another, and a third. Spots flashed in front of his eyes in the spluttering light. He crawled weakly forward, toward the cage, desperate to see if the kids were all right.

Beyond the first cage, the second came into view, standing upright. The drenched kids clung at the bars, screaming his name.

He rolled onto his back and cast his eyes to the sky. "Thank you. Thank you."

In his periphery, a pair of scrawny legs came into view. Threadbare boots. He looked up into a pimply face wrought with concern.

"Dobson of Darkshire," Van Helsing breathed. "Well met."

Another form came into view beside Dobson, wearing sweeping red robes. Nyx's confused expression couldn't hide the flash of black in her eyes.