Brood of Vipers by Maggie Claire (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

the calluses on her feet offering slightly better traction. The rocks tear and bite into her skin, but the pain just sharpens her mind.

Nothing seems dangerous. It is just a rocky expanse as far as Helena’s eyes can see. A dim light shines high in the space. The freedom that no one dares hope to find taunts the prisoners from this high peak. The walls shimmer gray and blood-red—a glittering metal of iron ore that burns Windwalker skin and a strange stone-like substance that Helena does not recognize. Her fingers ache to touch one at about eye level, its surface almost as wide as Helena’s palm. I’m convinced that if I were to press my hand into it, I would come out covered in sticky, hot blood.

“Why have you come?” A voice drones above Helena, bored and passive like this is all some farcical joke. A startled cry rings from Helena as she turns her head and meets the eyes of the speaker. The sudden image of the specter is almost enough to make her lose her grip on the stones. It is due only to strength that she does not go tumbling to the ground.

“Why have you come?” the creature repeats, its face elongating, its jaw becoming more defined until it is Ithel’s visage.

Speak truth. Helena recalls Ithel’s parting words before beginning this climb. Makes more sense now, she snorts, eyeing the visage floating beside her head curiously. “There are many reasons I am here,” Helena answers, hedging her honesty in vagueness until she better understands what she’s up against.

“Such as?” The milky white face blurs and sharpens in pulse-like bursts.

“I am forced to do this to get out of prison. Ithel’s life is tied to mine, so I must continue if I am to keep him alive,” Helena replies, shifting her weight on the rocks as she struggles to keep her grip. She reaches for a higher hand hold, hoping to move beyond the strange ghostly visage. Yet everywhere she touches, the rocks suddenly burn like molten lava, scalding her fingers until tiny blisters burst to life. She hisses, staring accusingly at the face that eerily shifts to resemble Alaric.

“You go no further until my questions are answered,” the image explains, its voice lacking all emotion. “Now, why have you come?”

“I want to return to Cassè. I was happy there,” Helena mumbles, gritting her teeth to keep her mind focused on anything other than the agonizing pain in her hands.

Seeming to be mollified by Helena’s answer, the strange image nods once, lifting a feeble-looking hand and motioning her to move higher.

Helena tries not to moan as the rock rips into her blistered hands. Some of the injured skin breaks open and oozes, making each handhold slick. Helena struggles to move deeper into the tunnel, but in only a matter of moments, the specter’s voice breaks the unnatural silence once more.

“What do you fear most?” the shape-changer asks, its mouth opening unnaturally wide as its eyes glow crimson.

Do not let your fear rule you. Helena coaches herself to steady her breathing. Do not focus on its looks. Ithel prepared you for this too. Do not trust your eyes. “Why should I answer your questions? You’ll only use what I say against me.” Helena stalls as she shifts her feet to a better position. Her left hand slips out of its handhold, and as much as Helena desperately longs to place it back into the crevice, she fears that doing so would only cause her more burn injuries.

When she makes no move to touch the rock, an inhuman, red-tinged hand reaches out from a crevice above Helena’s head and catches hold of her arm. Every place its fingers land on her skin burns with the heat of a hundred suns. The skin of her wrist is raw and blistered, parts of it white and flaking, as though one touch would cause it to fritter away like ashes on the wind. The agony of it steals away her screams.

“Do not try to outwit me, child,” the voice repeats with a laugh, as though it enjoys watching the suffering of its victims. “Tell me what you fear most.”

“I fear loss. Losing everything and living a lie, and I hate being afraid.” Helena chatters through her teeth as the shock of her wounds erodes away her strength. Ithel’s energy tries to force its way into her veins, but she pushes it away. Not yet, she replies, hoping she can keep him from sharing too much of himself so soon. I can bear this. Save your strength until I am desperate; I don’t want to unwittingly kill you later, Ithel.

“Some would call you wise for such fears. Others would say you are foolish, for those things are inevitable. People leave or die. Lies come as naturally as breathing for most of your kind too. You cannot manage to go through life always self-sufficient and honest. Fear is necessary too, even if it is unpleasant.”

“Are you a philosopher? Is that the great terror of the tunnel then? Will you torture me by speaking truths that I would not care to hear?” My stomach roils with a wave of nausea. Are you that stupid, Helena? To provoke this strange beast that has already ruined your arm? she chides herself, staring deep into the tunnel that rises above her head, wondering how far she must go before she finds freedom.

“Is that what you seek from me, child? You desire to be fearful? Then I can comply.” The voice turns soft as a willow leaf on her cheek as the eyes of the creature turn painfully familiar. Small frame, shock of white hair, wistful smile full of unspoken sadness and longing…the last image that Helena remembers of her daughter.

“How could you know such things?” Helena asks as the form turns eerily solid, as though she could reach out and actually run her hand through her daughter’s hair. Every detail is there, right down to the small dark spot