NOVEL NEXT Chapter 38: Ally
Nicholas gripped the rope as tightly as his hands would allow, his friends above slowly letting him down. The rough fibres dug into his palms, but he didn’t dare falter. Face-to-face with the window, he paused, assessing it with the precision of someone who had studied it long before this night. He knew these castle windows, worn by age and grime, gave way easily if you pulled them just right—on the opposite side of the hilt where the weather had eaten at the frame.
He tugged at the edge, careful not to make noise, but just as he felt the wood give way, a boy's voice pierced the stillness. Someone from the adjacent window.
“Someone’s trying to climb down the castle with a rope!”
The shout rang out, bouncing off the stone walls, each echo louder than the last. Nicholas’s heart leapt into his throat, and a rush of urgency overtook him. No time for caution now. With one final pull, the window gave way, and he slipped inside, landing with a thud on the cold stone floor.
Sweat clung to his forehead, gleaming faintly in the moonlight streaming through the now-open window. For a brief moment, he allowed himself relief, the kind that comes after the worst of the storm—but it didn’t last.
He scanned the professor’s office, his mind racing. There was nowhere to hide. A single chair stood in the room, but Nicholas had no intention of sitting there to await discovery. He refused to surrender himself to fate so passively.
The main door was bolted from the outside, as he had expected from Charles. The other door, one rarely used because it led only to unused storage rooms, caught his attention. He had made sure to unlock it from the other side before he returned to the dormitories, his intrusive ideas paved a way for him. He ought to give himself more credit. He tried the handle—it didn’t budge. Rusted. Of course.
Nicholas set his jaw, placing both hands on the bolt. He pushed, hard, the effort sending a tremor through his arms. The metal groaned in protest but finally gave way, the door creaking open. He slipped through, careful to close it behind him.
As he stepped into the shadowed corridor beyond, the sound of church bells shattered the quiet. The peal rang out with an urgency that sent a chill down his spine. Church bells were for Sundays, not for nights like these. This was a signal, an alarm.
Nicholas froze, caught between confusion and dread. What had he done? What had he triggered? He hesitated for only a moment before making an impulsive decision—one he would later call both his boldest move of the night.
He decided to go back to the dormitory.
It was madness, he knew. Someone would be waiting for him, no doubt. The guards wouldn’t be idle, the caretakers would band together and would be watching. Still, he moved, his steps as quiet as a cat’s, his mind calculating every turn of the staircase.
The guard at the base of the stairs had already been roused, his groggy protests silenced by sharper voices barking orders.
“Search the floor for Nicholas Vials!”
Nicholas heard them, their boots heavy and determined. However, his lamp illuminating his way, there was nothing stopping him. He ducked behind a corner, hiding the dull light of the lamp in his coat. A meek light still glowed but it was unnoticeable. He waited for the guard to move past, then slipped out of sight, his movements quick but deliberate. He climbed higher, one step, then another, his pulse pounding in his ears.
He wanted to make the run for the dormitory. He could open it from the outside and let himself in, but in his haze he failed to womder if there was perhaps a lock to which he had no key. As he stood in the corridor, facing the door, his face numb from the cold. A faint sound of distant chattering was all he heard. Nicholas knew there was no time for any considerations, he immediately turned the corner, reentering the stairs, making quiet leaps to go upstairs.
On the seventh floor, he hit a locked door. There was no escape. Voices shouted below, their tone rising in triumph. They were closing in.
“He’s not here!” one guard called, his voice echoing.
“Check upstairs!”
Panic bubbled in Nicholas’s chest, but he tamped it down. His pocket knife was in his hand before he even thought to reach for it. With practiced precision, he worked the lock, each click of the mechanism a small victory. The door gave way, and he slipped inside just as the guards reached the floor.
“Clear!” someone shouted moments later.
Nicholas smirked to himself in the darkness, his pocket knife warm in his hand. Once again, it had proved itself his most reliable ally.
Nicholas exhaled quietly, pressing his back against the cold stone wall of the seventh-floor storage closet. The door he had slipped through moments ago—unnoticed by the guards—was a stroke of luck. His pocket knife had made short work of the ancient lock, and now, with the door sealed behind him, he was surrounded by darkness.
He strained to hear through the thick walls as the guards’ voices echoed down the halls. Their heavy boots thudded against the stone floors, growing louder and then fading. Sweat dripped down his temple, his breath shallow and controlled. They were close—too close—but luck, for now, seemed to be on his side.
His mind raced. The church bells ringing had thrown him off; the sound was unusual, ominous. Was it a coincidence, or had someone recognized him? It didn't matter now. The castle was awake now, and every step he took would be fraught with danger. He couldn't afford a single misstep.
...
"Open the lock!" Principal Wrightwood shouted at Ferguson, who was already picking at the locks. He was jittery from rage, sleep still heavy in his eyes.
"I'm workin' on it, sir!" Ferguson returned as the lock clicked open. He lifted his head and pulled the bolt free, allowing Principal Wrightwood to push into the dormitory, his movements mechanical.
Principal Wrightwood was not surprised to find a few students gathered in the common room, trying to figure out what had triggered the church bells. He cast a fleeting glance at them to see if any of them were Nicholas and was disappointed to find that he was not there. He shifted his direction, his agitation clear, and started climbing the stairs, waiting for Ferguson to lead him.
"His room is 'round 'ere!" shouted Ferguson in the narrow corridor.
"Get up here and show it to me! Open it!" Wrightwood shouted, his voice echoing back to him in no time. Ferguson did as he was told, his sunken eyes barely open, unable to see much. He stood before the door to Nicholas's room and gave the handle a slight tug, which left the door ajar.
Wrightwood stormed into the room, his eyes scanning the two beds. "That there is Clyde’s bed, and that—" Ferguson paused before heaving a heavy sigh. "See? I told ya! Nicholas is right here! He's a good boy."
Wrightwood neared Nicholas's bed, his gaze lingering over his shoulder. His face was to the wall, and he appeared to be deep asleep. For a moment, Wrightwood doubted his senses. He had been sure it was Nicholas who had escaped, but he was wrong. "It's him," he said.
Clyde felt a sense of relief. His muscles eased. He was scared to move, his heart pounding so loudly against his chest that he feared the noise would draw attention.
Principal Wrightwood sensed something was wrong. His hand moved closer to the boy, intending to give him a gentle push, but he hesitated and retreated. "It's him," he told himself again. Principal Wrightwood stepped back, casting a momentary glance at Clyde Cullen's bed to confirm that it was not empty. "And that's Clyde’s—alright," he said as he stepped away from the room and shut the door.
Clyde let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He didn’t know why he had covered for Nicholas. All he knew was that, for now, he wasn’t being blamed for Nicholas’s antics. He wished for it to remain that way.