The Eighth Gate

13 | A Series of Unfortunate Events

What do we do? Mary inquired desperately. How do we get out of here? The demon had them trapped like mice in a cage—it was using its overwhelming fountain of energy to keep the door and window shut no matter what. Mary wasn’t strong enough to kick the door open, let along break the wind—

Mary’s eyes widened. That was it. That was how she was going to get herself and her friends out of here. The window. Using the fact that the demon hadn’t noticed her to her advantage, Mary turned to the wardrobe and yanked open its doors, sliding out one of the sturdy, heavy wooden shelves at its bottom. Then she whipped back to the window, crept as close to it as she could without getting noticed and used her good arm to take aim…

                                                           †††

“Mary?” Noah’s voice was laced with worry. “Mary, are you all right?”

Mary straightened up and wiped the back of her shaky hand across her mouth. She could feel everyone’s—Noah’s, Mason’s, Avery’s, Margaret’s, and Tamara’s— eyes on her from where she stood with her back to them, a little ways deeper into the woods. Before her was an endless pit of blackness, brought to life only by the faint rustle of leaves here and there, and the incessant sound of crickets chirping away.

Mary swallowed, grimacing as the acidic taste of bile slid its way down her throat from where it lingered in the walls of her mouth. The air now reeked of vomit, the putrid scent emanating from the puddle of mush pooled at her feet.

“Eugh,” she heard Mason say. “That’s pretty gross.”

“Shut up,” Noah replied heatedly, not seeming to grasp the fact that his words were lost to Mason’s ears so long as there wasn’t a mirror around. “You sound like a twelve year old girl.”

“Feeling better, Mary?” Tamara asked.

“Yeah,” she breathed as she made her way back to where everyone stood, waiting. “Sorry. Sometimes my panic attacks are so strong I throw up.” Mary had told them all to stay put while she ventured away the moment she felt the powerful wave of nausea wash over her. She had wanted a few moments to herself; a few seconds of solitude, so that she could close her eyes and take a deep breath without anyone talking in her ear, trying futilely to make her feel better.

Instead she threw up.

Whatever works, I guess, Mary thought as she fell in step with Mason, the two of them following Tamara’s lead while she led them back to Salazar and the empty street. Noah lagged behind, trying to console a frantic Margaret who was worried about the state of her husband.

At least I feel better now, Mary thought. It’s like I vomited my anxiety out, left it to rot amidst leaves and shrubbery and grass.

Yet the foreboding words of the demon, the pain that had lanced through her arm, the revelation that the demon had been watching her in her private moments—all of it threatened to make her throw up all over again.

“Here.”

Mary ceased her internal monologue, Mason’s voice tugging her away from her thoughts. She peered up at him questionably.

He frowned, clearing his throat. “Well don’t just look at me like that.” He extended his hand out to her. “Here. Take one.”

She glanced down at his palm, catching sight of a blue circular container with a popped open lid, revealing several disc-shaped mints peppered with blue.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Icebreakers? Mason, I thought we broke the ice between us the moment I woke up to find you staring at me back at the cemetery.”