Jones's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Water hit Jones's ankles before his eyes adjusted to the dark. The storm above had found the drain, and the drain had become a throat. He pushed deeper, one hand on the slick wall, the other braced against the current. Somewhere ahead, metal groaned. A broken pipe jutted from the wall, gushing a hard white rope of water. It had torn loose a grate and flung it sideways, twisting the iron like wet paper. The flood slammed Jones into the wreck. His hand struck the grate, and the band on his finger slid free. He lunged after the dull purple gleam, caught it against his palm, and shoved it back on. He would not lose her here. Not for a court, not for a throne. The water was at his chest now. He waded forward and saw it — a small round hatch set into the side of the tunnel, rimmed with old patterned metal. He spun the lever. It fought him. He set his shoulder and turned again, and the seal cracked open. Jones dragged himself through and slammed the hatch shut behind him. Water hammered the door, then quieted to a hiss. He lay on dry stone in a black, still corridor he had not chosen and did not know. He was alive. He was somewhere else now, and something on the other side of this dark had already heard him arrive.