adventure into the deep . elaine

In the movies, a well-placed scene where the heroine is trapped in a cage where the bars are menacing red lasers would be welcomed by Kellan. He would be on the edge of his seat, teeth on nails, beside himself with anticipation. What would the hero do? How was he ever going to free that damsel in distress?

Never did he think that he’d be in the hero’s shoes. The heroes in the movies he enjoyed didn’t wear Skechers and Top-Siders.

Kellan warily leaned in closer to the cage of lasers, peering at his trapped cousin from behind a pair of frameless glasses. The fact that these lasers could probably burn a hole through his skin sent a flutter through his chest—and not the good kind.

“I never would’ve suspected Mr. Giovanni to be . . . ,” he started, and then caught himself mid-sentence, his face wrinkling into a frown that somehow looked both troubled and amused. “Actually, yes, this is the exact sort of thing I’d expect from your father.” When he said this, he tilted his head and searched for cameras; it wouldn't do to be caught on film talking about his uncle behind his back.

He stepped away from the cage and ruffled the black bird’s nest atop his head, sheepish. He looked like a child caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar and face smeared with cookie crumbs. “What do I do? I mean, it’s not like there’s going to be any old button lying around that deactivates the cage. In fact, if I find any button at all, I’m sure the least smart thing to do would be to entertain it and press it.”

ELAINE DARZI-ACCURSO

“How can you not push the red button?”

Unsatisfied, Kellan leaned in near the cage of lasers. There was a steady hum in the air—he could feel warm, faint vibrations against his cheek. He took note to not get too close—his hair jutted out at strange angles (he often wasn’t aware of how his own hair was behaving; looking into mirrors was something he had to consciously decide), and he didn’t want to get singed.

“Well, we know it’s running on some sort of power,” he said, stepping back. “Probably a generator somewhere. Where it could be is the question.” His hands were delicate as he patted for his incorporeal phone—that is to say, he didn’t actually own a phone. He despised them. He’d rather write a letter.

“In the movies,” he mused to himself, “we could use a mirror of some sort to reflect the lasers.” It was a sobering thought—Elaine usually had one on her. He looked up with an eyebrow cocked upward, his lip curled in expectation.

“Or,” he said, jerking his head toward the open doors, “I could check in there.” The darkness past the wood beckoned to Kellan, begging to be explored. He could feel his heart responding to their calls—but he didn’t want to leave his cousin alone. “What d’you think?”

ELAINE DARZI-ACCURSO

Kellan’s bottomless curiosity was a physical characteristic unique to him. His father was a charming man with a talent for taking a room and shaking its hand, but he toed the line, unlike Kellan, who hurdled over it; and his mother? He hardly knew her.

“I’ll be back,” was all he said before he pushed open the door and disappeared into the murky black. It was equal parts a reassurance to Elaine as it was a hopeful promise to himself.

Immediately, the air was dank, and he could hear the slight scuffle of his socks against stone. Kellan squinted as though it would aid his sight, but the little light that poured in from behind him was swallowed by the darkness.

Elaine might giggle at the swear word—softened by Kellan’s saccharine accent—that wafted through the crack, following the sharp sound of sliding feet; behind the doors was a spiraling staircase, and Kellan had nearly tripped onto his tender rump.

“I’m okay!” Kellan, with a hand on the wall, began his descent dusting his rear and muttering something about grip.

As he walked, the atmosphere grew thicker; it pressed down on his back with cold hands, and Kellan felt like he was walking through an invisible bog. The steady rise of anticipation was dangerous, accompanied by a thudding heart like a sledgehammer and a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of his neck. Perhaps “walking into a monster’s stomach” was a better expression to describe how he felt.

His fingers reached a block—a cold, metal-feeling one that jutted out of the cobblestone wall. He felt it gingerly, his hands swarming over the thing like bees swarmed honey, and determined that it was a box coming out of the wall. Was it really that easy?

“I think I’ve found it!” he called. He felt the ridges and valleys, and, finding purchase on what he assumed was a handle, began to pull. He grunted with effort—Kellan had never been the strongest boy, but he’d never been bothered by it until now.

It gave a little after a minute of pulling, but didn’t open.

“Bollocks,” he said.

It took another minute of tugging, and when the door finally groaned into submission, Kellan found himself hesitant to probe. He couldn’t actually see that it was a generator, and if it was, what was he going to do? He didn’t bring anything with him to cut wires. He admitted, the thought of abolishing the whole mansion’s power supply was a doozy, but he didn’t know if he was ready to face those consequences.

Well. Elaine was up there, waiting for him.

He reached in, and gave a little gasp of surprise. It certainly felt riddled with wires that begged to be cut and maimed—it was a robot’s small intestines, wired, squirmy, and accompanied by a disturbing feeling of reaching into a something. He could feel little handles that were felt rusted into place. Which was just as well, as he didn’t feel like flipping clandestine switches.

“Now what?” he breathed, his hand ensnared and drowning in the tangle of wires that he couldn’t see.

He patted himself down for something, anything—it was paramount to exhaust all options before diving into the realm of stupidity. And he knew he didn’t have anything useful. He was only stalling.

“Okay,” he said, and then, wincing, he pulled.

At first, there was nothing but resistance. He pulled—tentatively at first, then more firmly. When he found that he was going nowhere, he didn’t hesitate to reach in with his other hand and pull with all his might.

He should have seen it coming, it retrospect.

The light was a flash grenade—blinding and brief, but with a nasty side-effect. His scream fell with him, and then he was tumbling down the staircase, his hands steaming, stripped raw, and burning with the force of a thousand suns.

ELAINE DARZI-ACCURSO

Kellan, under normal circumstances, was the ebullient being that prodded and poked. Elaine was one of the special circumstances.

“What I did was save your bloody arse!” he yelled, his tone soured by a hoarse throat and the litres of venom at his princess of a cousin that couldn’t be bothered to help a mate out.

He pushed his body against the rounded wall and up, stumbling to his feet without the privilege of sight or the use of his hands that were—as far as he could feel—singed into matching pairs of charcoal, and began to trudge up the stairs at a heavy pace. He was too beaten to think of something venomous to say when he saw Elaine—he would take care of that later.

When he stepped out from the doors, he inspected his hands: they were red, peppered by the sickening colour of black and raised skin. He winced behind his glasses, all the vigour of adventure (temporarily) excused from his visage.

“Thanks,” he said, sounding too bright to be sincere. “I appreciate the concern.”

ELAINE DARZI-ACCURSO

“No need. I’m perfectly fine.” He edged away from his cousin’s attempt at consideration (and, knowing Elaine, it really was the thought that counted). He was sulking—upset, cheesed, and his hands were steaming with the memory of the burn. He didn’t know how he was going to sleep with it, but he would have to.

He offered a sideways glance; a compromise in the fact that they were in a camaraderie against Mr. Giovanni’s wrath. The consequences for their failed stunt, he noted with a frown, were going to be dire, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, roll over, and die. He cringed—a process that involved not just his facial features. “Your dad is going to be pissed.”

Maybe not die. Maybe a temporary hibernation. He’d go to sleep and wake up two months later. By then, everything will have simmered down a bit. “Let’s go. I wanna sleep.”

The burning ache lingered in his hands, and he thought to rub them. But then he thought again, and left them to sway at his sides.

ELAINE DARZI-ACCURSO