Priest and his Anarchist

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

luna

year one

I t towers over me like a schoolyard bully, promising a tale of torment that will be told only after it has tasted you. As if I'd stepped into a colorless world of the dark and disturbed. With a raw Brutalist style of architecture and sable-painted concrete, the only hint of life comes from the woods surrounding us. Even the steps and patio leading up to the front door are black. I have no idea where we landed. As soon as the plane touched down, we were rushed out the back exit to a waiting city car. I could be anywhere in the world right now, and not a single person would know if I was alive.

I stop walking. Plump shrubs absorb an array of dark maroon tulips at the center of the rounded driveway. As impressive as they are, that’s not what stops me. It’s the scattering of flowers that have long stalks with sharp petals. They resemble sunflowers, only they’re—well—black.

I reach forward to touch the petal of one when the wind whistling through the trees catches me off guard. I snatch my hand back and clutch the necklace on my chest. Damnit. Where did they take River? Is she going to be here with me too, or were they being generous when they said I’d see her around often.

Branches struggle to cuddle the mansion in knotted vines as if nature has been reaching for it all its life. In the distance, waves crash against rocks, and birds chirp through the trees. I’m someplace near water. That could be anywhere.

Dark aesthetic aside, the front door bleeds hues of mahogany and vermilion. It’s what I imagine dying to look like.

I shiver at the thought, instantly regretting the dress I changed into on the flight over. Even with my puffy coat, every gust of wind is an intimidating reminder of how exposed I am. Snow-covered grass and Mom’s peppery perfume lingers through the strands of my hair. I don’t want to be here.

I step forward, my boot landing on the checkered pathway that leads to the door. Black and grey. Interesting choice. Not something you’d expect when looking at the cabalistic nature of the mansion. It looks like it came right out of a Tim Burton movie.

The wind picks up again, wrapping its cold arms around my body. I shiver, careful with my steps. The patio creaks when it catches my weight, and I reach out to steady myself on the railing, afraid to fall through. Smooth and shiny, it’s some sort of stone or marble. I’m no stranger to the luxuries of money, but everything about this house seems different. It's as if it’s trying hard to be the opposite. Buried among forests, hidden deep against mountains. It doesn’t want to be seen.

It doesn’t want love or appreciation.

I land on the last step. Do I knock?

With one last skim of hope, I turn, wishing to see the city car still parked in the same spot it dropped me. To see River, or any familiar face that will tell me it’s okay and that I will be safe. Even if they’re lying.

Something grabs my arm. A scream tears out of my mouth when it forces me back around. This time, it’s not the door of death that stares back at me. It’s a figure so tall that I bend my neck just to look up at him. Clothed in a simple black T, jeans, and thick, military-style boots, he is much taller than me. So much taller.

“Can I help you?”

I finally settle on his face and my stomach plummets. In a brush of black and white, the notorious skull work of the Elite Kings Club is painted over his face, hiding any chance of knowing who it is.

Do I know him?

Not likely.

I try to focus on his eyes since they’re the only thing I can see, but the sun has set over the mountain, meaning we are about ten minutes away from profound darkness. Maybe I know him and he doesn’t like me.

Not uncommon. Most people don’t.

I cross my arms in front of myself. “Are you going to say something?”

Before I can ask another question, he tugs me inside. The words of River continue to echo through my head.

“He’s going to kill her.”

Marbled veins fracture obsidian walls before meeting a floor that's the shade of bone. The house is a human. I’m sure of it.

Gray sofas fill the open space, and a large window flaunts darkness where the sun had not long set. LED lights scatter across the outdoor entertainment area like a runway, highlighting the infinity pool which seems to plunge off a cliff.

The door closes behind me before heavy footsteps stomp past, his shoulder brushing mine on his way into the living room. My throat dries. I’m way out of my element here. The only question is, should I be hiding it further?

Flickering auburn flames dance against the enormous fireplace as he ducks behind cabinetry adorned with alcohol bottles. In the shadowy lighting, trying to make out the profile of his face is difficult, but I can’t scratch the itch of wondering if I know this person. I have to. Bishop and Nate wouldn’t leave me with anyone that isn’t a King, skull face aside. I have to know him. I am unfamiliar with every EKC member, but I am with most of the ten founding families.

There aren’t enough decorations to distract me from my running thoughts. No photos or artwork. A simple, ornate railing traces the house's structure from upstairs, shadowing down on us below in a loft setting. Gothic elegance is enhanced by cathedral-style windows above the doorway and the chandelier’s raining onyx crystals. A subtle reminder that I may be in a situation that I am unsure about, but I am still in King territory. Only they can make opulence feel like a death sentence.

Stepping into the depths of hell, I pause as the air thickens in the room. A frigid feeling washes over my face like frostburn.

There is another one here. Hidden in the room's darkest corner, he swallows all light surrounding him. Relaxed in a wingback sofa with his legs spread wide, the tip of his boot shifts when he moves a little. My heart slows. The fact that I don’t know the one who met me outside doesn’t matter anymore.

I know for sure who this one is.

As if moving in slow motion, his hands peak through the shadows when he leans forward, resting his arms on his thighs. A hoodie veils his face, but my legs turn to jelly when he lifts his head. I reach for the sofa to stop my fall because, unlike the first boy, this one isn’t hiding who he is behind the skull paint. He bares his identity like a threat, one that I know he can live up to.

Priest Hayes is the embodiment of terror. He has never interacted much with me over the years, but in what moments he did, he made sure I knew he hated me. Some more obvious than others, like earlier today or yesterday—shit. I’ve already lost track of time—when he tried to kill me.

He is unreadable, unlike most. A perfectly stiff corpse that never experienced life with a soul.

Honestly, he wants to kill everyone. And I mean everyone.

“Well.” The corner of his mouth curls slightly. “Don’t you look like pure madness.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Why am I with him, and who—I spin around to catch the man who met me outside. He rounds the sofa, making his way to the one nearest to the window.

“Which one are you?”

He lowers his glass to his thigh. “The nice one. You’re lucky that you don’t exist during a time when my ancestors did.”

Priest snickers, pushing up from the shadows and rising to his full height. It makes sense now, what River said about him killing me. Crap.

He has never liked me and always kept his distance. So for Bishop to drop me here on his doorstep?—

“Sit.” Priest gestures to the sofa opposite him with his free hand but doesn’t look at me until his glass is refilled and he’s back in his spot. “You’re going to want to sit, Luna.”

The rubber soles of my Docs squeak as I follow his instruction, lowering down to mahogany leather.

My hand finds my necklace as if it’s a lifeline. “I don’t know why I’m here.” In a pool of colorless fluff, the rug at my feet blurs together. Untied black boots come into view, and I make my way up his body. Past denim jeans and the relaxed way they sit on his hips, over the rugged bulk of his muscles and how they fill the hoodie he’s wearing, and finally ending at his face, where eyes the color of ink glare down at me. I’d once heard his mom say he has green eyes, but I’ve only ever seen them like this.

Dark.

He hands me a teacup, tilting it forward to show brassy liquid swirling inside. “Drink.”

“I don’t like alcohol.” The elegant design of the teacup distracts me for a moment.

He doesn’t retreat. “I’d be worried if you did. Since you’re what, ten?”

“Almost thirteen,” I grumble, accepting his offer. Electricity crackles between us when his fingers graze mine. I glance up to see if he noticed. Nothing. A masterpiece sculpted by the hands of lords, only left hollow. Empty. Detached.

I balance the cup in my lap as he returns to his chair. Lifting it to my nose, the bitter notes of spice marinade with vanilla and aged wood. Whiskey. At least it’s in a teacup. “Well. This is not pleasant.”

“Drink, Madness….”

Second time he’s called me that. “Madness?”

He hides his expression behind his glass, but rests further into the high wings of his chair until the hood of his hoodie pools at the base of his neck. It does nothing to dull the allure of his charm.

He isn’t going to answer. Figures.

I should ask him if this drink is laced with poison. Perhaps this was the plan all along. To kill me in a way that wouldn’t make it look like it was them. Anyway, how do they take care of the people they no longer think serve them anymore?

After taking the first sip, the subtle aftertaste of lavender and honey seared down my throat. It isn’t terrible. I lift the cup for another taste before placing it back on my lap. With the heat from the alcohol melting all the ice that’s formed in my veins, I relax a little. Okay. I understand why people drink.

“She is a little mad, isn’t she?” Vaden muses and it’s the first time I’ve noticed the smudge lines in his face paint. Now that he’s spoken, I’d recognize his voice anywhere. That’s likely why he didn’t say anything before because, unlike Priest, he had spoken to me several times over the years.

Priest’s lip twitches, as if battling his own thoughts. I imagine his head to be a dark, lonely place.

“Do you know much about the Elite Kings Club? And by know, I mean did any of your three parents educate you on our lineage, history, and what is expected of us all once we ascend?”

“A little. Daddy did more than the other two.”

Vaden chokes on his drink before it turns into a chuckle. “Which one’s Daddy?”

Priest drags his eyes from mine and glares at Vaden.

I sip my whiskey, tracing the ornate patterns carved into the ivory porcelain.

He rests back on me. “How much did your parents tell you?”

The question rolls in my head. I want to move. Get up. Only the more I do, the heavier my limbs become.

I focus on the window opposite, where a beacon flashes in the distance, lost in the darkness of the night. My arm flops to the side. Dread crawls over my body, causing me to shuffle up the sofa.

“They didn’t tell me much.” I look to Priest when the flashing light becomes more of a nuisance. Dad is a King, but he isn’t one of the three, so he doesn’t exist full-time in Riverside and New York. He moved out and into the respective job of whatever he was told to do after Bishop took the gavel. I tend not to ask extensive questions since he made it clear early on that there was no point in asking questions in this world because if you were supposed to know, you would.

Vaden moves from his position opposite Priest. I don’t have much to do with the kids, but I like Vaden. He’d always ask me if I wanted to go and hang with them. I usually said no. He never took it to heart. He understood me more than the others.

“You’re a Vitiosis.” The pieces of the puzzle slip into place. Or I try to force them, since information over the years has been limited.

“Do you know what that means?” Vaden asks, his finger working his upper lip.

I sigh, squeezing the teacup as if it’s a lifeline. Maybe it is. “No. I didn’t learn about each family, only, well…Malum.”

“Malum or Riverside?” Vaden edges closer, but the room moves around me at a lumbering pace.

My thumb traces the lines around the edge of the cup. “Riverside.”

“Of course.” Priest retreats into the shadows when he leans back in his chair. I’d prefer he stay right there—with me—so that I can watch his reactions and try to decipher lies from the truth.

I reach up to the base of my throat when it itches, but my hands don’t move. “What’s happening?” It’s an odd sensation. As if your body doesn’t belong to you.

“I’ll give you some information that your daddy so gladly starved you of.” The distance in Priest’s voice echoes between each ear. “The Malum and Riverside families are split. Riverside maintains and runs the school in Riverside or during our parents’ ages, The Hamptons, but the Malum line?”

“What does this have to do with me…” I try to move in my chair again, but it’s pointless. My pulse slows, like pumping sludge instead of blood, and everything blurs whenever I try to focus on a single area.

“Nothing. It has nothing to do with you.” He’s louder this time. It’s not until a shadow looms over me in a whiff of cologne and tobacco that I realize I may just be in danger.

A hand touches the nape of my neck, sending that same feeling of ice through my veins. My eyes close as my teeth catch my bottom lip.

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

“Maybe.” Vaden’s behind me, and like a survival response, the room stops spinning. Everything snaps back to reality, and whatever daze I was in evaporates, as if it had never been there.

“For now, you’re going to fall…” Priest’s lips curve against my neck, sending a shudder through my body. I grip the sofa again, but this time it feels different. Soft. The music gets louder as I try to shuffle from the grip behind me, but it’s useless.

I fall into him.

Into the rabbit hole.

Into the unknown.

How? What… All the times I’d teased Mom about the Midnight Mayhem “tricks” seem more believable. “Drink.” He damn well gave me poison.

I reach forward, this time fighting against the heaviness of my body. My fingers find loose strands of hair, my grip tightening as I pull him into my face. Those same lips graze mine. Using my tongue, I chase his as my legs hook around the first hard body they find. My back hits the sofa with a thud, knocking the wind from my lungs. The wild strands of my hair itch at my collarbone from being sprawled out everywhere, and I try once more to move my head to the side when the furniture triples. Mumbling, talking, but nothing else.

“Priest…” I whisper but don’t finish my sentence before he kisses me again. The movements are slow, harsh, and cold, but I yearn for the touch of whoever it is. Soft lips nibble on the curve of my neck, and I tilt my head to the side to give him more access when my eyes land on the dark ones on the other side of the room. Priest sits perched against the bar, a bottle of his signature whiskey dangling between his fingers. He’s tense. Lifeless, bored eyes sharpen the hollow edges of his cheekbones.

Who am I kissing if not Priest?

My fingers find hair once more, and I force his face up to mine. The variegated spheres of a Vitiosis fix down at me, enclosed by his signature dark lashes. They were known for their ink-black hair, pale skin, and, despite not being twins, their shared mismatched colored eyes. Vaden’s one blue and one dark, reflecting the duality of his soul. A battle he’ll never share.

The back of his fingers brush the edge of my breast, and I shudder, my vision blurring. “I’ve not…I’m…”

Vaden’s smile widens as he peers back at Priest over his shoulder. “Think she’s a virgin.”

Priest’s eyes land on mine. “For now.”

Vaden lifts himself from the sofa, taking my hand in his.

I roll the top of my jacket over my shoulder. “You don’t want to be my first?”

Vaden snickers, dragging his hand over his cheek. “Think there’s more to this one than you give credit for, Big Dawg.”

When Priest doesn’t reply, I glance up at him. I don’t know why I care how he answers, but I do.

He blinks, his face an impassive reminder of the monster before me. “There’s more ways to fuck you than getting you wet, Madness, and we’ve just begun.”

“Why am I here, Priest?” I ask, despite knowing deep down, he isn’t about to answer.

His head tilts as if considering his words. “Every family in the EKC has a job to do, but the main families, the three families, have the most important of them all.” I don’t bother telling him I already know this part, so he continues without my snide input. “Mine is to carry the fold. War’s is to run the school—” He pauses, as if stopping himself from spilling a secret. “But Vaden here?” He gestures to him with his thumb. “Well. Vaden is a Vitiosis, and they come from a long line of brutality, abuse, and…” The music is a slow Slipknot song. “Trauma.”

The heaviness of my head makes it difficult for me to stay awake. I try to place the cup on the coffee table, but my grip fails and it falls to the floor in slow motion, landing with a spray of crimson and spice.

Laughter echoes through the room in waves.

A shadow obscures my view of Priest and I try to further force my eyes open, desperate to find out why I’m feeling the way I do. Is it the drink? It has to be.

Rough hands rest on my thighs, and they part open.

“What—what’s happening?”

My body dissolves into the sofa in a pillow of rainbows, contentment blooming in my belly when the warmth I’d craved before hits me. Lips skim the side of my neck and hands move up my inner thigh.

My breathing becomes more difficult as the air around me turns heavy.

I can’t breathe.

Why can’t I breathe….

The room flips upside down in a haze of color, and before being carried up the stairs, Priest rounds the corner, a glass to his lips and his body leaning against the pillar. It’s the last image I see before everything goes black.

My fingers skim the gouges in the wood of my desk. I’d lost track after twenty-six days. I’d missed my birthday without even realizing.

How many birthdays will I spend by myself? I’ve never enjoyed birthdays but skipping one entirely may have changed that. I’ve not seen anyone since Vaden carried my drunk ass up the stairs that night. Food arrives when I’m either asleep or washing up, and between that, bathroom necessities are restocked with fresh linens. My first night here wasn’t great. I didn’t sleep, afraid that if I closed my eyes, I wouldn’t wake.

Afraid that I would wake.

I ease out from beneath the covers, brushing my hair to the side with my fingers. A single window beside my bed overlooks an empty meadow down below. The simplicity of the view is calming. It’s a landscape for chaotic thoughts that need to be unpacked.

I tap on the bathroom mirror, illuminating the Hollywood lights that line the oval design. My hip rests against the marble countertop as I stare back at myself in the mirror.

Why am I here? What does Mom know? Does she think I am doing basic training?

She knows everything about the EKC. They aren’t basic. Which rounds me back to her knowing.

My hand rests on the emblem around my neck. I need to reign it in. Dwelling about decisions that are too late to change will only send me spiraling.

Pushing the weight of sadness away, I clean my teeth and run the brush through my hair. A clicking sound stops me mid-stroke. I pause, wondering if I’ve finally lost it and I’m hearing things.

Most likely.

Scuffing over carpet has me placing the brush on the counter and turning back to the archway that separates the bathroom and the bedroom. Shit. I complained about being alone, but was I prepared to deal with Priest?

Blonde hair, long legs, and heels that could double as weapons fill the space.

“River!”

She smiles wide enough to flash teeth. “Miss me?”

I throw myself at her with a sigh.

She pulls me back by my forearm, scanning me over. “I had a thought. Now, entertain me for a second.” I follow her through the bedroom. She falls down on the bed, crossing her legs at her ankles. “Has he let you out of the house?”

I shake my head. “No. I haven’t even seen anyone since Vaden brought me in here.”

“Hmm.” River’s eyes gloss over, lost in her thoughts. She comes back to me. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I’m sure it’ll all make sense one day.”

My feet carry me across the room and toward the walk-in closet. The light above me flickers on, displaying the racks of clothing. Every designer item I could think of has found its way into my wardrobe.

“Yeah.” My fingers brush the line of dresses. “Maybe.”

She sweeps past, humming a tune. “Terribly fucked-up individual this boy is.” The words die out as if she wasn’t supposed to say them.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” I choose the first one I see. It’s ordinary and colorless, with thin spaghetti straps and a tight corset.

“We live and die by the sword, Lulu…” Her smile dies, and it’s the first time I’ve realized we’re both in this together. Only her awareness of the entire picture is a lot sharper than mine. “Even if we don’t want to hold it to begin with.”

“You don’t?” My dark hair tickles my shoulder when I move it as she zips me up.

“Not the way that he will want me to.” Her misery catches me off guard. Maybe it’s deeper than I thought.

I once heard Mom and both Dads talk about how Bishop took over after his father. She had said he was good, much better than his own father. Why wouldn’t River like to do it the way he wanted?

“Sounds scary,” I whisper, turning to follow her as she makes her way back to my bed.

“You have no idea…” She picks at her nails, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. “Yet.”

I know she didn’t mean for it to happen, but when the words leave her mouth, they take my guts with it. The underlying subliminal meanings behind what she says hit me like adrenaline.

I fall on the mattress with her. “Are they going to kill me?”

“You don’t need to worry about that.” She lies flat, her hand resting on her belly. “I’m afraid you will not escape this hell quite that easily.”

More days pass without a trace of time, forgetting to mark them on my vanity.

The confinement of this room has become a reminder of the calamity I now live in. Volatile like the clock on one’s life, I’m a time zone that doesn’t exist.

River hasn’t returned since she lay with me that afternoon. We spoke for hours. I hadn’t laughed like that in—well, I don’t know how long. I waited for her. Each day after my morning routine.

I clear my throat and my voice cracks. How long has it been since I last said anything?

Leaving my hair in soft waves that shape my face, I curl a lock around my finger before it falls down my spine and bounces against my palm. I’ve thought about dying it often. Maybe I should. It’d be refreshing to soak it in bleach and strip away every reminder of the naivety that I felt walking into this damn house.

I close my eyes and bang my head against the wall. God. I miss TV.

I miss watching Thomas Shelby and Zendaya smoke so much weed she’d for sure pass out.

I want to pass out.

Rushing to the desk near the window, I pull out a stray pad of paper and rubble through the drawers for a pen. Finding one, I scribble the demands over it and tear it from the notepad before sliding it beneath the door.