However, it also layered me with a thousand more questions.

From his bursts of awakeness, I’d gathered he’d been a prisoner here, along with the other poor souls he’d mentioned. He’d killed the people keeping them in hell. He’d saved his family.

But if he’d managed to overthrow those who oppressed him, then why was he still here? Why was he alone? Why had his supposed precious family left him?

Those questions kept me company as I patroled the huge house and hunted for my personal locator beacon and phone for the hundredth time. The first day I’d tried looking for it, I’d opened every drawer, cupboard, and basket. I’d tried to put myself in Kas’s shoes and imagine where I would hide two pieces of technology I didn’t understand after smashing them into pieces.

Would he have kept them or thrown them away?

And even if he had thrown them away, they would still be around here somewhere. It wasn’t as if there were trash services to take waste away. No recycling truck appeared each Friday.

The first few times of searching and being unsuccessful had driven me to look outside. I’d hunted for freshly dug holes, kicking through the overgrown daisies and grasses, squinting against the sunshine to see if anything glittered to be found.

And nothing.

Nothing in the kitchen, the bedrooms, the library, the many, many other rooms.

I had fantasies of finding my PLB, fixing whatever Kas had broken, and hearing the whop-whop of helicopter blades as help arrived. I had dreams of Kas being flown away from this nightmare and reinserted back into society, with me by his side to remind him to behave.

But that was the thing. They were just dreams. Just fantasies. Things that would probably never come true.

On the ninth day, I wandered as well as hunted. I ambled the gardens, gathered a cos lettuce, a broccoli, and a handful of green beans for a salad later on, then cut down the servant hallway to the foyer after leaving them in the kitchen.

A puff of air kissed my cheek as I passed another flight of stairs leading to the left.

Of course!

I’d forgotten about this hallway. I’d traveled this way when I’d first trespassed but had been using the main entrances ever since.

Where does it go?

My phone and PLB could be up there.

Without hesitating, I took the steps two at a time and opened the ratty door at the top.

And then, I froze.

A chill ran down my spine.

Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I’d finally found Kas’s bedroom.

I’d found it strange that in all my sleuthing the past week, I hadn’t found an area where Kas slept. No signs of well-worn mattresses or a spot on the carpet somewhere. It was as if he didn’t live in this house at all.

But now, I knew.

He lives here.

In a dormitory of ten single beds all lined up along the walls, end to end, the wrought iron frames all touching as if they were one giant caterpillar circling around the space.

No other furniture.

No rugs or color.

Just gray sheets, gray blankets, and a world of graffiti above each bed on bare gray walls. Scribbles from fingernails, pens, and crayons were the only works of art. Counting off days, depicting flowers, recounting their nightmares with sketches of monsters.

I drifted forward. My hands bunched by my sides as I followed the line of beds. Each bed was impeccably made with tucked corners and fluffed pillows. On top of each pillow rested a book.

All old-fashioned tome in red leather with gold writing. All identical with the words The Fables by Stuart Page. Morals for all occasions stamped into the binding.

Only one bed didn’t hold a book. An empty mattress that seemed even lonelier than the rest. With my heart in my throat, I moved from the empty bed and gathered up one of the books, tipping it open.

I braced myself, not knowing what I’d find.

A dragon blowing fire from the pages?

A minotaur galloping to slay me?

Instead, I found a name.

Drawn in careful calligraphy and duty: Wesley.

Beneath the name was a single sentence: Chosen from the Fable of Madness. Chapter Eight: Wes & the Sparrow.

Holding my breath, I skimmed the contents, then flipped well-fingered pages to chapter eight. The title was in filigree and full of fancy swirls of birds, feathers, and a little boy hanging onto a sparrow’s tail as it fluttered toward the sky.

A printed line stated: The moral of Fable of Madness is not to covet those things you cannot have. Envy will only make you mad.

A handwritten scrawl beneath said: I cannot have Nyx, but I’ll hold on to her feathers until the day I die.

A feminine note had been penned beneath that: I belong to Wes and I’ll fly us both out of here somehow.

Tears I hadn’t even noticed blurred the rest of the fable about a boy falling in love with a sparrow, feeding it, wanting to keep it, then sinking into madness when it flew away.

Closing the book, I went to the next bed.

The same book of Fables waited, but this copy belonged to Maliki. Chosen from Fable of Fortune. Chapter Twelve: Hard-working Maliki.

I skipped to chapter twelve where a juvenile giraffe diligently swept the savannah with a broken broom all while a herd of lazy rhino looked on. He was paid in dust and scorn until his hard work took him to an oasis where his fortune changed in the form of rain and delicious grass.

What was this book?

What does it mean?

Placing Maliki’s copy back on his pillow, I turned to the next bed. Rushing to know what each one hid.

Flipping open the third, I glanced at the title page, frowning as a heavily scratched sentence shouted at me through the years it’d been penned: I won’t choose a slave name from a stupid fable. I choose Neo. I’m Neo from The Matrix. I have powers. I just don’t know it yet. I will end you. You’ll see.

Another sentence had been written beneath that. The penmanship beautiful, but the words icy and brutal: As you wish, Neo. You can believe you have powers. You will prove to be your own fable. A Fable of Disappointment. Signed, Storymaker.

I dropped the book.

Storymaker.

Kas had mentioned him enough times in his nightmares for me to know he was the devil. Worse than the devil. He was the man who’d sourced, trapped, and conditioned an untold number of sexual servants.

I wanted to kill a man I’d never met.

Kas.

My heart tugged me to go check on him.

I hadn’t been to visit all morning. He’d been furious when he’d last woken. Dangerously violent and messed up. Demanding to know how much longer his family would be forced to serve. Snarling that I’d broken my promise not to hurt them. He’d clawed at his chest and thrown himself at my feet, pleading in that murderous tone of his to use him and not them.

I’d clutched my knife, just waiting for him to launch upward and attack me—for my leash around his ankle to fail.

It’d only been through quick thinking that I’d been able to defuse him. I’d backed away and thrown a chocolate bar in his direction, repeating a lie that’d become so smooth on my tongue. “You’ve already pleasured me today, Kas. You served me well, and your family is safe. You can rest now. In fact, I command you to rest.”

His narrowed eyes had softened. His shoulders had rolled. And the switch from savage slave to obedient prisoner unnerved me.

He’d cradled his chocolate bar as if it was a reward for what he’d done for me. He stroked it as if it was gold not sugar, a gold key that could free him from this hell.

I’d left.

I’d turned my back on him because I was inching closer and closer to my limit. It hurt. It hurt so damn much seeing him so confused and concussed.