Goth hung from a sinewy branch in the artificial jungle. It was hot here, but the heat didn’t come from the blazing tropical 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 bat god, and ruler of the Underworld.
