The Labyrinth

1: The Fall

      1

The Fall

Should you be a good little boy or a good little girl, a formidable father, a mindful mother — I suggest you place this book gently down and walk away. For this is the story of children who wanted danger — who wanted fear, who wanted peril, who wanted fright. This is the story of children who knew that the only way to stop evil was to be evil, and sought to use every wicked way possible to vanquish the villains.

***

"Get down here! Get down here at once!" Amelia Drew shrieked from the bottom of the stairs. Her screech made the walls of the house shake and shudder, and immediately, Peter and Victor Drew were rushing down the house and into the kitchen at an unbelievable pace. Like soldiers coming to battle, they stood tall and firm, chests out, arms at their sides, stationed before their father and stepmother. Upon the table were heaps of soft bacon, fried eggs and hash browns, drizzled in ketchup and brown sauce, ready for the vast stomach of Mr Drew.  The boys' hearts pounded so loudly that you could almost hear the blood gushing around their body: what order must they take next?

" You shall join your father today at his office in London." Amelia said in the sickeningly sweet voice that she used only in front of Mr Drew. The boys glanced at their father, who was shoveling another heavy forkful of bacon into his cheeks. His eyes did not flicker from the morning newspaper, but he listened carefully to Amelia's orders. "And you are to dress smart and look absolutely wonderful." She crooned.

"But it's the first day of the holidays," Peter complained, "I've got plans!"

Ignoring his teenage grumble, Amelia wiped the grease stains off Mr Drew's tie as he ate, "There shall be no disobedience, no misbehaving and certainly no mischief. Do you understand, boys?"

"But I have..." Peter was irritated — his ears pricked in deep red, his fingers twitched and trembled by his sides. His heart thundered mightily inside his rib cage — for he had never, and would never, like Amelia.

"Do you understand?" Amelia snarled, boasting a set of mustard yellow teeth and parched pink lips. Not even layers of make up and a fortune of cosmetics could make her look any less unpleasant. Long black curls of hair coiled down her neck and onto her floral apron — a birthday gift from Mr Drew — and her extremely large nose pointed out from her face like a snowman's carrot. She, being a particularly tall woman, had a thin, skeletal bone structure that made even a mouse look powerful. The size of her fingers exceeded the size of her brain, and she cared for her nails so much that, not only were they splashed in a different colour each day, but they were also exceptionally sharp, like daggers.

As the boys nodded, Amelia's scowl twisted into a smile. Peter, turning, ushered his younger brother out of the room and back upstairs, for they would certainly not be eating breakfast at the same table as this monster.

"I hate her, Victor! I hate her!" Peter exclaimed angrily, rummaging through his wardrobe in search for his best shirt. Peter was the elder of the two brothers by three years, taking leadership over Victor following the untimely death of their mother, and the betrayal of their father, who had married awful Amelia just a year later. Many, seeing his sandy blonde hair, sapphire blue eyes and charming smile, often thought Peter was simply a harmless and delightful young man. The seventeen-year old boy was anything but innocent; he was devious, cunning and especially clever.

'She's not thatbad, Peter." Victor murmured quietly under his breath. He did not quite agree with his elder brother's loathing of everyone and everything, but he absolutely adored Peter. Peter was the only person who looked after him, who listened, who cared. They were best friends, close companions, partners in crime — the inseparable duo. Unlike Peter, Victor really was innocent. He was a short boy with curly red hair — the same as his mother's - and huge brown eyes like melted chocolate, shadowed by thick dark glasses. Not being nearly as clever or as brave as Peter, the fourteen-year old boy always did exactly what he was told and hardly put up a fight. Peter was usually right. Usually.