Free City of Screams by James Rollins

the bathhouse. “Those skeletons . . . are they still in there?” He stepped forward, ready to peek inside through the metal gate.
    The guide blocked him with her ample chest. “Sorry, young man. No one is allowed inside.”
    He struggled not to stare at her breasts but failed miserably.
    Before he could move, his mother spoke. “How’re you doing, Tommy?”
    Had she seen him checking out the guide? He blushed. “I’m fine.”
    â€œAre you thirsty? Do you want some water?” She held out her plastic water bottle.
    â€œNo, Mom.”
    â€œLet me put some more sunscreen on your face.” His mother reached into her purse. Normally, he would have suffered the indignity, but the guide smiled at him, a stunning smile, and he suddenly didn’t want to be babied.
    â€œI’m fine, Mom!” he spat out, more harshly than he’d intended.
    His mother flinched. The guide walked away.
    â€œSorry,” he said to his mother. “I didn’t mean it.”
    â€œIt’s fine,” she said. “I’ll be over there with your father. Take your time here.”
    Feeling terrible, he watched her walk away.
    He crossed over to the bathhouse, angry at himself. He leaned on the metal gate to see inside—the gate creaked open under his weight. He almost fell through. He stepped back quickly, but before he did so, something in the corner of the room caught his eye.
    A soft fluttering, white, like a crumpled piece of paper.
    Curiosity piqued inside him. He searched around. No one was looking. Besides, what was the penalty for trespassing? What was the worst that could happen? The cute guide might drag him back out?
    He wouldn’t mind that at all.
    He poked his head inside, staring at the source of the fluttering.
    A small white dove limped across the mosaic floor, its left wing dragging across the tiles, scrawling some mysterious message in the dust with the tip of its feathers.
    Poor thing . .  .
    He had to get it out of there. It would die from dehydration or get eaten by something. The guide probably knew a bird rescue place they could bring it to. His mother had volunteered at a place like that back home in California, before his cancer ate up everyone’s life.
    He slipped through the gap in the gate. Inside, the room was smaller than his father’s toolshed, with four plain stone walls and a floor covered by a faded mosaic made of maddeningly tiny tiles. The mosaic showed eight dusty red hearts arranged in a circle like a flower, a row of dark blue-and-white tiles that looked like waves, and a border of terra-cotta, and white triangles that reminded him of teeth. He tried to imagine long-ago craftsmen putting it together like a jigsaw puzzle, but the thought made him tired.
    He stepped across the shadowy threshold, grateful to be out of the unforgiving sun. How many people had died in here? A chill raced up his spine as he imagined the scene. He pictured people kneeling—he was certain they would be kneeling. A man in a dirty linen tunic stood above them with his sword raised high. He’d started with the youngest one, and by the time he was done, he barely had the strength to lift his arms, but he did. Finally, he, too, fell to his knees and waited for a quick death from his friend’s blade. And then, it was over. Their blood ran over the tiny tiles, stained the grout, and pooled on the floor.
    Tommy shook his head to clear the vision and looked around.
    No skeletons.
    They were probably taken to a museum or maybe buried someplace.
    The bird raised its head, halting its journey across the tiles to stare up at Tommy, first with one eye, then the other, sizing him up. Its eyes were a brilliant shade of green, like malachite. He’d never seen a bird with green eyes before.
    He knelt down and whispered, his words barely a breath. “Come here, little one. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    It stared with each eye