9. Anastasia
Chapter 9
Anastasia
My heart pounds in my chest loudly enough that I’m scared the men around me will hear as we make our way down the narrow stone stairwell. Their whispered voices echo through the space, drowning out the sounds of my too-hard breaths. There’s a black-robed figure to my back, front, and side as we turn down the spiral step by step. Their silver wolf masks hide their identity, but their voices that I’ve heard my entire life give them away. They’re all relaxed, just another night for them, while I’m teetering on the brink of death on my stilt-like shoes. Thank god I chose my chunkiest heels, or I’d have died twice already.
My lungs contract as I follow the crowd into the cavernous room. It resembles something you’d find in a catacomb, not beneath one of the city’s most elite hotels. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. It’s not as if I didn’t know the building was built over top of the original Order of Saints gathering space, but knowing and seeing are two completely different things.
The walls are a mix of tiles and marble, holding up the low ceiling. The entire area is lit by candles that line the perimeters.
I’m still gawking when someone bumps into my back. “Hurry up.”
I scramble forward and make my way to the left like Nikolai had told me, but his crude hand-drawn map hadn’t prepared me. It’s loud while all of the men take their places. The heads of the families, the Saints in the Order, take their spots in the chairs that line each side of the aisle that leads to a dias, where four chairs stand tall over the space, one slightly ahead of the others.
I count the Saints’ spots until I reach my own. I swallow hard, freezing in place. I didn’t realize I’d be so exposed down here. I’m not sure why, but I’d envisioned dimmed lighting and an almost spooky atmosphere.
“Volkov. What are you doing?” a masked man asks me from the seat beside my family’s. I can’t see his expression, but it’s easy to tell by his tone that he’s surprised by how I’m acting.
Shit. I stand taller, trying to puff out my chest. It feels ridiculous, but it’s better than being caught. I have to walk through the Saints, who are stationed behind their family chairs, and the row of Unsainted kneeling after them. No one looks toward me, all their heads bowed forward. My brother already explained that everything in the Order of Saints follows a strict ranking system, and I’m feigning to be one of the highest-ranked, just below the Lords themselves.
It’s a fairly simple hierarchy. Starting with the Lords, which comprises of the Everette brothers, Damon takes up the top spot. They’re followed by the Saint who represents each family, aka who I’m pretending to be, and then there’s the Unsainted. There are other Saints behind them, their silver masks giving them away, but from their position, it’s clear they aren’t in leadership roles. The only maskless men in the space, bottom in line, hopeful of becoming members, are made up of younger siblings and close cousins whom their relatives hope to bring in.
I pick at my red-painted nails, hidden by the thick black fabric, as we wait in silence. The air grows heavier with each second that passes until the wooden door at the back opens to reveal the three brothers. The Saints stand, bowing deeply, and I copy them. Unable to resist the temptation, I peer up through the slim slits that expose my eyes. Even with their gold masks, denoting them as Lords, it’s easy to tell them apart by the way they hold themselves.
Bash is the first to walk down the aisle, and I can’t look away. Gone is his usual swagger, replaced by a coldness only someone who’s used to power would display. His hood hides his face, the mask only revealing his lips. There’s no curl to the corner, nothing that hints at his mischievous demeanor. If I wasn’t so familiar with his build, I’d have a hard time believing he’s the same person I’d spoken with earlier. This is the man he shows everyone else, the man who demands respect from the Saints below him.
My breath catches when he slows his pace, head turning toward me, and doesn’t release until he continues down the aisle, climbing the stairs before taking his spot above us.
I’m so absorbed in keeping up my appearance that I’m completely ignorant of my surroundings until the man beside me stands and walks to the center of the room, one of the unmasked Unsainted following behind him. I shudder at the idea that I may have to stand too. Holy crap. What if they ask me to speak? Nikolai never said anything about being called forward, and if I am, we’re totally dead.
Impersonating a Saint isn’t just a punishment. We’ll be dead. At least I can pretend my brother had no idea. Although knowing him, he’ll out himself in an attempt to save me like an idiot.
My heart doesn’t calm until the two men bow to Damon, speaking in low voices as they lift something from the table. My mouth grows dry at the glint of the knife and the red liquid that drips from the Unsainted’s palm.
This must be the ceremony where he’s sworn in as a Saint.
Heat burns into the side of my head, and I carefully shift so I can look in the direction it’s coming from. My heart skips when I spot Bash looking at me, his neck tilted as if trying to figure me out. I quickly look away and pretend like the floor is the most interesting thing in the world. The fabric that covers my hair and face feels see-through under his piercing gaze, and I cautiously lift my hand to pull it lower over my face.
It seems like forever until the ceremony ends, the surrounding crowd lifting from their seats. My palms are sweating, and my heart feels like it’s going to break through my rib cage. The last thing I want to do is go snooping through the Vault. I breathe in through my nose and count. One. Two. Three. Breathe out. One. Two. Three, until I find some semblance of calm.
This is the reason I risked everything. I can’t give up now. Not when the Salvatores are breathing down my back.
The men are all standing, their bodies providing the perfect cover for me to sneak to the rear, tucking myself close to the wall. Drunken, horny Bash had let slip the fact that there are multiple rooms down here. All I have to do is find them. It’s darker here, the lights pointed away from me, and I let myself disappear down the length of the room. My fingers graze against the textured wall as I follow it until it ends. The air from the hallway is stale, hotter than the cavernous chamber. The temperature rises with each step I take deeper. My wet palms have nothing to do with the heat as I wipe them on my robe.
My muscles grow tense until my shoulders ache. Every second I’m here brings me closer to being caught. There’s a dim light coming from a room up ahead, and my steps falter. This is why I’m here.
It’s not until my head feels faint that I realize I haven’t taken a breath.
I pause, my feet frozen in place as I mentally prepare myself for what’s inside. Out of the millions of excuses I can come up with, none are believable enough to explain my presence down here. Not to mention, a single word out of me will give away the fact that I’m not who I say I am.
Praying to every god I can think of, I step into the room. My shoulders collapse forward when I see that I’m alone in here. I’m pretty sure this is taking years off my life.
Shelves lined with books cover the walls, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The space is lit by a single candelabra holding three flames. It’s eerily silent. We shouldn’t be far enough away to not be able to hear the voices from the other room. The air grows thicker with each step I take until it’s hard to inhale. It smells like dirt and musk from old pages. Forget what I said earlier. This is something out of a horror film, and I’m the stupid girl who just walked into a trap.
There’s a single table in the center, and a thrill tingles through me as I approach. There’s a glass case in the middle, lined with velvet, and the tiara resting within. Holy shit. “I found it.”
My fingers tremble as I go to open it, but the lid won’t open. There’s some kind of lock holding it in place. I lean in closer, brushing off the dust covering it, revealing a manual number pad. I shift on my feet as I take everything in, trying to work out what to do next. There are countless number combinations; it would take weeks, not minutes, to try them all. I lift a brass candle holder from the table and cover the glass with my robe, hoping that’s enough to dampen the sound. The way this room seems to silence all noise is no longer creepy and has turned into my only saving grace. Balancing the heavy weight in my hand, I raise it high. I’ll only get one shot at this.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I turn, shock quickly replaced with fear ricocheting in my chest, and stare directly into Bash’s smiling face.