Chapter Three – EARLIER THAT MORNING
I’m goingto kill the bastard one of these days.
Ten in the morning. I’m showered. Dressed. Nursing a third mug of coffee.
And fucking Freddie is still in bed.
I give my Rolex a glance. I’ll let him have twelve more minutes. At ten-fifteen, he’s getting his ass up, even if I have to kick down the door to make it happen.
Normally, I’d be a lot less lenient. But a part of me can’t help but savor the relative peace and quiet. Right now, the main sitting area of the frat house is blissfully empty save for me. Late-morning sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the array of antique furniture arranged across the black marble floor. Everything is pristine, but in forty-eight hours? Forget about it. Beer stains on the pool table, spliff butts in the fireplace, at least one century-old armchair practically shredded. The new blood gets rowdier every year. Nothing to be done about it.
But right now, the only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock from the corner of the room. That, and the barely-audible drum of my fingertips on the glass-topped coffee table.
Getting the ball rolling is always the hardest part. Every time, without fail, there’s some cocky little freshman who thinks that the rules don’t apply to him. Then comes the culling. We put the poor son of a bitch in his place. And from there on out? Smooth sailing.
Eight past ten. I can’t wait to see the look on Freddie’s face when he sees me standing over his bed. Gummy-eyed and hungover, as per usual. I love the guy, I really do, but he’s even more of a mess than I am.
On the surface, at least.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out of the pocket of my jeans, unhurried, expecting a question from one of the other frat brothers.
The screen lights up.
My jaw clenches.
The message isn’t from any of them. There’s no contact assigned to the number—another burner phone, go figure; seems like he can’t go through them fast enough—but I’ve no doubt as to the identity of the sender.
Anonymous: My chambers. NOW. Urgent.
When my father says urgent, he fucking means it.
“Sorry, Freddie,” I mutter as I get to my feet. “Not your lucky day.”
I half-jog across the lounge, through the arched and shadowy foyer, and up the broad set of mahogany stairs that leads to the bedrooms. The staccato of my footsteps echoes in the silence, a ghostly imitation of the thundering procession that will be taking the same path in just a few hours’ time.
Freddie’s door is shut, which I expected—and unlocked, which I didn’t.
I throw it open without bothering to knock.
“Up and at ’em, sunshine. You need to put on your big boy boots today.”
A groan emanates from the heap of black blankets atop his king-size bed. I note—with distaste, but no surprise—that he’s already managed to make a sty of the place. Wadded clothes, an unwashed bong, and a half-empty vodka bottle are far from the worst offenders.
“Christ, man, can’t you at least throw away your condoms when you’re done with them?”
The blanket pile rustles. “At least I threw away the girls, dude.”
“How many was it this time? Beat your record yet?”
“Nah… can’t say I didn’t try. You know me well.”
“Unfortunately.” I make my way around the paraphernalia scattered across his dark red carpet, step up to the bed, and whip the blanket aside.
Freddie Graves has always been one of those people whose appearance matches his personality to a T. Shaggy brown hair, quick dark eyes, a grin wide enough to scare just about any girl out there into giving him a chance. He’s smaller than me, lithe, but I know the things he’s capable of doing. I’ve seen them firsthand.
Right now, despite it all, his expression is uncannily reminiscent of a kicked puppy.
“Come on,” he whines. “Can’t you allow me a tiny bit of dignity here?”
“If you had any dignity in the first place, Graves, you smoked your way through it a long time ago.” I do avert my eyes, though, just to give him the chance to pull on some boxers; once he’s halfway decent, I turn back and fold my arms. “I’ve got an errand to run. Meeting’s on you.”
“Seriously? The meeting?”
“No, you fuckin’ idiot, not the meeting. The other stuff, your favorite. Frat pledges. Party planning. Front-of-shop business.”
“What if I offed myself instead?”
“Then I’d drag your sorry little soul back out of hell, kicking and screaming, and make you do it all the same.”
Freddie groans and runs his hands through his hair until it sticks out in even more directions than usual. “That puts me in a bind, doesn’t it?”
“I owe you a drink. How about that?”
“Ryker. Do you have any idea how many drinks you owe me at this point?”
“I always pay my debts. You just don’t remember, because you’re always so far gone at that point.”
“That’s gaslighting. You’re gaslighting me.”
“Shut the fuck up and put some pants on, would you?”
He continues to grumble, but I’ve gotten all the confirmation I need. He’s a good guy at heart. A complete psychopath, sure, but a loyal one. I know he’s got my back when it matters.
A meeting with my father? That matters, all right. The old man’s intimidating enough even without the Order at his disposal. The fact that I’m family doesn’t earn me any favors with him. Sometimes, I think it does the opposite.
“Thanks, Freddie,” I say as I head for the door. “You’re a peach.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I’m halfway down the stairs when my phone buzzes again. Same number, shorter message. Just my name.
Ryker
No punctuation. He’s in a mood, all right.
Omw. I shoulder open the front door. The second I’m outside, I break into a proper jog across the vacant sports field, making straight for the main building of the university.
I haven’t been called to his chambers in a while, but I know my way by heart. Fastest route from the Greek row is through the library at the back of the castle proper. Doors will still be locked, but that’s no obstacle to the keyring that jingles from my belt loop with every swift stride. There’s no need to worry about being spotted now. That’ll change tomorrow. Yet another reason to dread the arrival of the new students.
I’ve broken into a light, pleasant sweat by the time I reach the library entrance. The heavy wooden door is no object for me—the trickier part is actually getting the goddamn key to turn. The mechanism’s so clogged with rust, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it hasn’t been changed since the days of good old Count Verdo. The school’s never been interested in basic renovations. Money’s not an issue—more likely they do it on purpose for the sake of preserving the atmosphere or some equally inane shit. Real charming, Crimson Elite University. Cheeriest vibes this side of Satan’s outhouse.
The key finally twists just as my phone buzzes again. I don’t bother to check it. Instead, I step into the back of the library, not taking time to admire the sweeping staircases or vaulted ceilings, just going straight for the wooden-legged glass cabinet in one corner that displays the school’s rare text collection. None of it’s real, of course. We do have actual copies of most of this shit—letters between the Bronte sisters, journals from Oscar Wilde, stuff like that—but it’s kept locked away in the archives. The stuff on show here is all replicas, though you wouldn’t know it from the plaque affixed to the front of the glass case: PRICELESS ARTIFACTS. DO NOT TOUCH; ALARM WILL SOUND!
Except the alarm won’t sound if you know the eight digit code to the keypad hidden behind one of the case’s clawfoot legs. Hammer that in, and you’re good to shoulder the case aside, press the hidden panel on the wall behind it, and enjoy the cold, sour scent of the secret passage that swings open before you.
I enter the code, shove the display case aside, and jam my palm against the hidden switch. A rectangular silhouette sinks into the dusty vine-patterned wallpaper. The stupid door takes forever to open, ancient gears grumbling softly as it lurches sideways, then grinds to a halt. I flick on my phone flashlight. The narrow stone stairs descending into the darkness before me are far from a welcoming sight, but I don’t have time to hesitate.
I step through the entry, pull the cabinet of false artifacts back into place, and yank a chain inside the wall to send the panel sliding shut once more. The creak of the mechanisms is far louder here than it was from the outside of the passage, whining in my ears as I hurry down the steps and into the damp, winding labyrinth that forms the secret underbelly of Crimson Elite University.
At the base of the stairs, the stone-walled tunnel branches into three pathways. I take the left, moving at a quick lope. Moisture glistens in snaking rivulets along the walls, caught in the cold beam of my phone light. Would it really kill them to hook up some overheads?
I head left again at the next fork, descend another, shorter staircase, and arrive at an unmarked door.
Here goes nothing. If luck’s on my side, I might even escape without any fresh bruises.
I rap three times against the dark wood.
A gravelly voice responds at once: “What is that which cannot die, though it bleeds eternal?”
I force my words out through gritted teeth. “Carnadon’s crimson stone.”
Multiple locks click, and the door creaks open.
Lush red carpeting spills in a broad circle before me. Heavy drapes of the same rich hue cover the walls, broken up here and there by my father’s trophies—taxidermy, mostly; he’s always had a ghastly fascination with the stuff. A suit of medieval armor, a set of ancient vases, a few old Renaissance paintings. Gaudy all around.
I don’t spare a glance to the two hooded enforcers whom I know to be positioned on either side of the doorway. Instead, I make straight for the broad rosewood desk on the opposite end of the room. Behind it, also hooded, sits a man in a scarlet mask. The visage of the Devil. I know it all too well.
“Hello, father.” Full mask means serious business, but he’s wrong if he thinks it’ll intimidate me.
He doesn’t return the greeting, but instead gestures to the antique drinks cart beside him, loaded with crystal glasses and bottles. “Brandy?”
“Isn’t it a little early for that?”
If he gives any reaction, it’s hidden behind the mask.
“Christoph,” he says, voice even and velvety as always, “pour us two glasses.”
One of the enforcers silently strides to the cart. Glass clinks; liquid amber burbles into two slim tumblers. Christoph places one in front of each of us before returning to his post at the door.
“Drink,” my father instructs.
“I have to sort out pledges later,” I remind him. “We?—”
“Drink,” he says again.
I know better than to put up a fight. The brandy stings my throat.
He watches me from behind dark eyeholes, ensuring that I drain every last droplet, and only then does he remove the mask.
My father’s face is as fine as his soul is twisted. Strong cheekbones, a sharp jawline, fierce eyes framed by heavy lashes. I hate how much he reminds me of myself. At least I inherited my mother’s dark hair and blue eyes; his cold brown stare and silver-blonde hair repulse me.
“You took your time.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“Then you need to be faster.”
He wants me to argue. That’s what the brandy was for, too. To loosen up my tongue. He likes when I speak out, though he’d deny it at gunpoint. It provides him with an excuse to punish me. And there are very few things that give Draven Pendragon a bigger thrill than hurting his only son.
“Yes, sir. I apologize.”
His face splits for a microsecond, flashing a glower of raw fury that vanishes as swiftly as it appeared. He sips his own brandy.
“I have a job for you.”
Must be urgent if he’s done playing with me so soon. Not a good sign.
“Yes?”
He appraises me for a few more seconds, gloved fingers tapping steadily on the edge of his desk. “You really shouldn’t be in these tunnels unmasked. It’s careless of you.”
So he’s not finished. I should’ve known. He wants me on edge. Doing this, hinting at his real intentions early on, he knows that he has me on a tight leash. Bastard.
I need to choose my words carefully. “With the campus this empty, I?—”
“No.”
Anger cinches my chest. Nothing gets me going like being interrupted. He knows that. Uses it.
“I’m sorry.” The words nauseate me, but I don’t have a choice. “I’ll do better.”
“Yes, you will.”
He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a document—a photograph, I think, though I can’t make out its contents before he slams it facedown between us.
“A little bird told me that we have a very special guest at the university this year.”
Shit. We’ve already finalized our list. Making room for another guy in the frat is going to be a pain in the ass. I’ll do it, of course, but?—
“The business I have with her is personal.”
Wait.
Her?
“Your assignment, straightforward enough—find her. Befriend her. Earn her trust by any means necessary. But do not fuck her.” He pronounces the expletive with crisp, cold precision. “She will not be one of your little toys. Keep her pure. Keep her pretty. And when you’ve got her wrapped around your finger, bring her to me.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I imagine it will be very easy.”
“…Right.” So he’s being creepy about a girl. Not exactly what I would’ve expected, but it doesn’t surprise me, either. I know more than I wish I did about my father’s… rather nontraditional sexual proclivities. “What’s her name, then?”
“Lombardi.”
Fuck. “As in mafia Lombardi?”
“What do you think?”
Fair enough. It was a stupid question.
“This isn’t just any girl you’re asking me to find. This is a mafia princess.”
“Indeed.” One fingertip strokes the back of the photograph, drawing my attention to it again. “She’ll be going by a false name, of course. Nothing to be done for that. She’s been kept… shall we say… sheltered for the majority of her life. So I can’t provide you with an appearance.”
No name, no appearance. Great.
“Word on the street, however, is that she bears a striking resemblance to her mother.”
He flips the photo. I don’t know why I was expecting a formal portrait—something somber, almost royal—but that’s not what I get at all. The woman in the picture stands with her back to the ocean, beaming, her rich waves of deep brunette hair dappled with sunlight. She’s young. Too young to be a mother. But the slight bulge under her white sundress is unmistakable.
“This is Rosalinda Lombardi. Linda to her friends.”
Linda Lombardi is, without a doubt, gorgeous. If the daughter really does resemble her, she’s a lucky girl.
Or maybe not so lucky, considering everything else.
“That’s all I have to go off of?”
“For now.” He finishes his brandy, gets to his feet, and begins to peel off his gloves, one finger at a time. “I’m making some further inquiries at the moment. If anything of interest comes up, I’ll be in contact.”
So that’s it. I’m not thrilled to have another responsibility on my hands, but it could always be worse. At least I don’t have to kill anyone this time. I’ll just try to avoid thinking about what he’s going to do with the girl once he has his hands on her.
Hands which are now bare, I notice with a flicker of unease. He folds his gloves neatly and sets them to the side.
“And one more thing, Ryker.”
I see white before the pain hits me. Dizziness bowls me to the ground, and I find myself gasping, legs askew, both hands clapped over my left eye. It aches like a motherfucker, already swelling beneath the protective lattice of my fingers, bad enough to fill me with nausea.
Behind his desk, my father pulls his gloves back on.
“Perhaps that will be enough to compel you to wear a mask.”
I don’t say anything else. I can’t. Still clutching my face, I scramble to my feet, past his silent attendants, and back out into the hall.
I’m a fucking idiot. Pissing him off the day before classes start—it’s going to bruise, all right, probably blossom into the worst black eye I’ve ever gotten, and people are going to think that I’m weak.
The thought stings more than the punch did.
But they’ll be wrong. I’m not weak. I’ll prove that by whatever means necessary. I’ll be stronger, sterner, crueler. The new pledges won’t know what hit them.
As for the Lombardi girl…
She’s a more delicate issue. Nothing I can’t handle, of course. But brute force can’t get me through everything. Most things, sure. Not all of them.
Fuck.
I won’t be trapped like this forever. I can’t be.
Two more years. That’s my timeline. Two more years of enduring whatever he throws at me. Of planning, scheming, waiting for my chance to strike.
And when the time finally comes, that day will be his last.