Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [22]
I checked the door because I could not resist it. It was the same urge that made you rattle your trunk after you locked your keys inside.
I have been on the wrong side of a lot of locked doors. Not a one of them had just opened for me, but there was always a first time. Yeah, I should live so long. Scratch that; bad phrase.
A sound brought me back to the cell and its seeping, damp walls. A rat scurried against the far wall. Another peered around the edge of the steps, whiskers twitching. I guess you can’t have a dungeon without rats, but I would have been willing to give it a try.
Something else pattered around the edge of the steps; in the torchlight I thought it was a dog. It wasn’t. A rat the size of a German shepherd sat up on its sleek black haunches. It stared at me, huge paws tucked close to its furry chest. It cocked one large, black button eye at me. Lips drew back from yellowed teeth. The incisors were five inches long, blunt-edged daggers.
I yelled, “Jean-Claude!”
The air filled with high-pitched squeals, echoing, as if they were running up a tunnel. I stepped to the far edge of the stairs. And I saw it. A tunnel cut into the wall, almost man-high. Rats poured out of the tunnel in a thick, furry wave, squealing and biting. They flowed out and began to cover the floor.
“Jean-Claude!” I beat on the door, jerked at the bars, everything I had done before. It was useless. I wasn’t getting out. I kicked the door and screamed, “Dammit!” The sound echoed against the stone walls and almost drowned out the sound of thousands of scrambling claws.
“They will not come for you until we are finished.”
I froze, hands still on the door. I turned, slowly. The voice had come from inside the cell. The floor writhed and twisted with furry little bodies. High-pitched squeals, the thick brush of fur, the clatter of thousands of tiny claws filled the room. Thousands of them, thousands.
Four giant rats sat like mountains in the writhing furry tide. One of them stared at me with black button eyes. There was nothing ratlike in the stare. I had never seen wererats before, but I was betting that I was seeing them now.
One figure stood, legs half-bent. It was man-size, with a narrow, ratlike face. A huge naked tail curved around its bent legs like thick fleshy rope. It—no, he, definitely he—extended a clawed hand. “Come down and join us, human.” The voice sounded thick, almost furry, with an edge of whine to it. Each word precise and a little wrong. Rats’ lips are not made for talking.
I was not coming down the steps. No way. I could taste my heart in my throat. I knew a man who survived a werewolf attack, nearly died, and didn’t become a werewolf. I know another man who was barely scratched and became a weretiger. Odds were, if I was so much as scratched, in a month’s time I would be playing fur-face, complete with black button eyes and yellowish fangs. Dear God.
“Come down, human. Come down and play.”
I swallowed hard. It felt like I was trying to swallow my heart. “I don’t think so.”
It gave a hissing laugh. “We could come up and fetch you.” He strode through the lesser rats, and they parted for him frantically, leaping on top of each other to avoid his touch. He stood at the edge of the steps, looking up at me. His fur was almost a honey-brown color, streaked with blond. “If we force you off the steps, you won’t like it much.”
I swallowed hard. I believed him. I went for my knife and found the sheath empty. Of course, the vampires had taken it. Dammit.
“Come down, human, come down and play.”
“If you want me, you’re going to have to come get me.”
He curled his tail through his hands, stroking it. One clawed hand ran through the fur of his belly, and stroked lower. I stared very hard at his face, and he laughed at me.
“Fetch her.”
Two of the dog-size rats moved towards the stairs. A small rat squealed and rolled under their feet. It gave a high, piteous shriek, then nothing. It twitched until the other rats covered it. Tiny bones snapped. Nothing would go to