Silverwing by Kenneth Oppel Page A

sun; it came from some hidden underground furnace. The drizzling rain and mist didn’t come from the sky, but from tiny sprinklers in the flat black ceiling. Goth could tell that even some of the plants were fake, their fronds stiff and odorless. Did the Humans really think he was so stupid?
    This place was nothing like his home, the real jungle, where they’d captured him a month ago. This place was a prison—he could circle it in a few hundred beats of his powerful wings. When they’d first put him inside, he’d smashed into the invisible walls, foolishly trusting his eyes when he should have relied on his echo vision. These walls were strong as stone; but by some magic Goth didn’t understand, his eyes could see right through them, to the place where the Humans came and went, peering in at him.
    Didn’t they realize who he was? A prince of the royal family, Vampyrum Spectrum, and a descendant of Cama Zotz, the batgod, and ruler of the Underworld. All men and women were sent there when their bodies died. They came face-to-face with Zotz himself, and he would decide their fate, ripping off the heads of those who had displeased him during their earthly lives.
    In Goth’s home, Humans worshipped Zotz. Women about to have babies would come to the royal cave and pray, asking that their children be strong and healthy and live long. They left offerings—food and flowers, and sparkling disks of metal.
    But the Humans here … He glared at the band they’d fastened around his forearm. The mark of a prisoner. It was an outrage. When he escaped he would return to the royal cave and call upon Cama Zotz to punish them.
    Especially the Man.
    He wore white robes, and was tall, with spindly arms and legs. He had wiry black hair and an unkempt beard. One of his eyes was always half closed, giving his face, at first glance, a sleepy look. But the eyes themselves were anything but sleepy, bright and hard. Sometimes the Man flashed searing lights in his face; sometimes he came into the artificial jungle and stuck a dart into his side that made him plunge into a deep sleep. Mostly he just sat on the other side of the invisible wall and stared.
    Restless, Goth tensed the powerful muscles of his massive chest and unfurled his wings to their full three-foot span. He had a large angular head crested with bristly fur. He had tall pointed ears, and a strange flat nose, which flared upward into a spike. His eyes were large, unblinking, and pitch black. A long snout, more like that of a beast than a bat, housed a set of glistening teeth. His entire body was taut, as if ready at any moment to slash down and attack.
    The Humans fed him mice, tiny, cowering things. He was tired of the taste: meek and watery, as if they’d all come from the same brood. He craved variety.
    Above all he craved bat, live, pungent bat flesh.
    He longed to hunt again.
    There was another prisoner here, a bat called Throbb. They’d been caught together, hunting in the same part of the jungle. Goth had never liked Throbb; he was not of royal blood—a weak, lying creature who fed on the rotting carcasses left behind by other animals. He probably hadn’t even struggled as the Humans took him.
    Goth had quickly marked out his own territory, relegating Throbb to a small corner. Occasionally he fought Throbb for his mice, not because he was hungry, but because it was something to do, and it amused him to see Throbb back away, whimpering. From time to time he’d even thought of eating Throbb—that’s how desperate he was for bat meat. But even though he detested the other bat, he needed him. To help him escape.
    And tonight he would be free.
    From his roost he watched as the Man approached the invisible wall and opened a secret door. Goth had been watching him do this, night after night. At first he’d thought maybe this was his way out. When he was sure he was alone, he’d found the whisker-thin outlines of this secret door, and many times had tried to open it