Chapter Twenty-Six
Over the courseof the evening, I’ve refined my plan down to every last detail. The half-mask will serve as a decent disguise, but some extra makeup—black around my eyes, my lips darkened by just a few shades—should help ensure absolute anonymity. Thank God for Harper Quinn and her beauty tips. I tie my hair back in a thick French braid, then tuck it into my bra strap; once I add the hood, it’ll be more or less invisible. If a few stray strands work their way out, I’m not that concerned—my hair may not be the same shade of blonde as Angelica Alexander’s, but I imagine they’re hardly distinguishable under the moonlight. I’ve planned my outfit for under the cloak, too: dark leggings and an equally nondescript turtleneck sweater. Both of them are part of the uniform set given to me by the school, so I won’t have anything that could single me out as an individual. I stock them up with a few essentials from my duffel bag, as well as the note from the skull-marked box. No money, no phone, no identifying documents.
Once everything is in place, mask and hood included, I check myself in the mirror. The figure looking back at me is unrecognizable; even those sharp hazel eyes don’t register as my own.
Harper’s words play through the back of my mind.
I’ve got this, right?
Yeah. We both do.
I pull off the cloak and mask for now and stuff them into a nondescript bundle under my arms, taking a deep breath.
It’s ten minutes to midnight, and I’m ready to get out of here.
The hallway is empty as always, and the click of my key in the lock seems as loud as a gunshot in the heavy silence. I keep my steps brisk as I head for the staircase. My senses are on high alert. If someone happens to peek out of their room now, I could be in trouble—even if they don’t look twice at the pile of dark fabric I’m holding, they’ll know that I’m leaving the dorm alone, very much not dressed for a party.
But I make it to the stairwell without incident, and that’s when I really pick up the pace.
My heart pounds a frantic staccato as I dart down the steps. I can’t tell if I’m excited or frightened—both, I suppose, and to call it overwhelming would be a tremendous understatement.
The stairs seem to go forever, looping around, around, around—until I finally reach a door marked FLOOR 1, and when I open it, I’m in the main hallway.
A quick glance to the left warns me that there are a couple of girls still lounging in the common room, but they seem distracted and a little bit boozy. All the same, I keep close to the wall as I dart to the front door and slip outside into the welcome cover of the night.
I make for the south edge of the woods at a steady trot. Campus is quiet tonight, and it’s no wonder why—the Greek row is lit up like a series of bonfires, pulsating with music and voices that I can hear even from across the sports field. A sharp herbal tang lingers in the air, sweeter and earthier than tobacco smoke. All those guys and girls celebrating, tied up in whatever thrilling or humiliating rituals the frats and sororities have arranged as part of their initiation—and here I am, disguised from head to toe, running off into the dark woods.
So much for a normal college experience.
My breath is coming hard and fast as I reach the edge of the trees—not out of exertion, but rather pure adrenaline. Whatever’s awaiting me past that shadowy cluster of trunks and branches, I know for certain that it’s going to change my life. That, on a very fundamental level, it might even change me.
I throw on my disguise. Mask secured. Hood up.
Then there’s nothing left to do but swallow hard, curl my hands into tight fists under the cloak’s long black sleeves, and plunge forward.
One step in. Two. The trees absorb the light like ink spilling across paper, leaving me in a featureless void that I can only navigate through touch. Rough bark, soft moss, twigs and roots underfoot. The scents of growth and decay, braided together until I can’t tell one from the other, fill my mouth and nose.
This is the right place—I’m sure of it—but there’s no sign of life. Maybe I’m too early? Or maybe?—
A hand closes around my shoulder.
I swear my heart stops beating for a second. I freeze, eyes stretched wide against the darkness. Silent. My instincts shriek at me to defend myself, but I have to resist. Have to show this person—whoever they are—that I’m not an easy one to scare.
“Good little lamb,” a voice murmurs at my ear. A man, but not one that I recognize. I stay rigid. “You stay quiet, and no running away, now. You’re to do as I say. Nod once if you understand.”
I dip my chin.
“That’s right. Now turn and face me, nice and slow.”
I obey, tracing out a semicircle in several small steps. My eyes have adjusted enough for me to make out another hooded figure, but no detail—until a small flame flickers to life between us, illuminating the gleam of a blade that must be at least six inches long.
“When you hear the question,” the hooded stranger says, face still hidden by the hood, “you’re to answer Carnadon’s crimson stone. Is that understood?”
I nod again.
“Staying quiet? That’s smart. But smarts alone isn’t always enough.” The arm holding the lighter extends, while the knife retracts. “Now, you’re going to follow the light, nice and easy. Try to break away, try to take off running… any funny business like that, and it’s game over.”
The blade flickers out again, burning bright under the flame, and it takes every bit of control to keep myself from reacting.
Strong fingers seize my upper arm. This time, I’m expecting it, but a bolt of alarm shocks my system all the same.
“Like I said… just follow the light.”
The man begins to walk, and I walk with him, eyes fixed on the tiny lighter flame that he holds in front of me. Despite the chorus of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl, I swear I can hear the coursing of my blood with every thundering heartbeat. It doesn’t take long to realize that we aren’t headed in a straight line—instead, the person whom I can’t help but think of as my captor is leading me in circles and switchbacks, making it impossible to keep track of where I first came from.
Impossible for most people, that is.
I’m tracking every movement, simplifying them where I can, and building a miniature map in my mind’s eye. When Ryker and I came to the forest, I was unprepared, a little drunk, and altogether a giddy mess. Now, every one of my senses is in overdrive. I’m aware of the density of the air, the pattern of terrain under my feet, my proximity to large objects like boulders and tree trunks—all of those streams of information flow together to give me an impression of where I am… and, if necessary, of how to get out. Based on my study of the map, we should be approaching the cliffside.
And sure enough, there’s the now-familiar crashing of the waves. Triumph warms me briefly. As covert as they’re trying to be, this society hasn’t managed to outwit me. Not yet.
“Stay quiet,” the man growls to me, “and speak only when spoken to.”
Then the trees part, and the crescent moon douses the scene before me in pure silver.
There are three groups of people standing on the rocky bluff—or rather, two groups and one solitary figure. All of them wear identical hooded cloaks, but that’s where the resemblance ends. The group on the left, mostly shorter in stature than the others, is restless and uncoordinated, glancing around and clutching their robes close to their chests. From what I can see, all of them are wearing half-masks identical to my own. Those on the right, however, have full masks of what looks like red leather, fashioned into demonic scowls. They stand in a perfectly straight row, unmoving; when my captor releases me, he goes to join their far end, squaring his shoulders and going stone-still.
The person who stands at the center, framed like Death itself against the star-stained waves, wears no mask at all—at least, not one with any discernible features. The space below its hood is completely darkened, nothing but a swath of shadows, as though it has no face to begin with.
The faceless figure beckons to me now, and I force myself forward until I’m standing just a few feet away.
“What is that which cannot die, though it bleeds eternal?”
Unnaturally deep, edged with the faintest crackle of static. Whoever’s hidden beneath the robe is using a voice changer. A good one, too—most people probably wouldn’t be able to detect it.
I don’t need fancy tech to change my voice, though. I have my own tricks. When I recite the words hissed to me back in the woods, my low, rasping tone is unrecognizable. “Carnadon’s crimson stone.”
One gloved hand raises, pointing me towards the ragtag group on the left. I join them, keeping my head down.
“That is the last of you,” the droning false voice declares. “Just as the clock strikes two.”
As if on cue, the low toll of the campus clock tower sounds in the background, barely audible through the thick copse of birches and pines. A couple of the new recruits around me shift uneasily. I’m not letting myself become unnerved. All of this—the disguises, the misdirects, the voice changer—it’s a bunch of smoke and mirrors. They want us to be frightened—and, for a lot of the people around me, it’s working.
“You have been selected,” the faceless figure continues, “as new recruits to the Order of the Crimson Stone. You are given two chances to decline this invitation. Seeing that you are standing here, one of those chances has already passed.”
A cold breeze snaps in from the sea, washing over us with a ghostly howl. I refuse to shiver.
“Your second chance comes in one week’s time. Tonight, you will be given a slip of paper. If you accept, you will go to the location disclosed upon it. Once you have done so, you will be a part of us to the day your heart stops beating.”
I narrow my eyes, attention sharper than ever.
“Should you attempt to sever your connection with the Order before that time, the end of your life will be… expedited.”
He moves with the swiftness of black lightning. A chorus of gasps rises from the ranks of the new recruits, as well as one louder, strangled yelp—and then, almost before my brain can make sense of what just happened, the faceless figure has one of the small, shivering recruits by the throat, tilted over the side of the bluff at a forty-five degree angle. The victim whimpers beneath their red half-mask, hood falling back to expose a shock of dark hair, and their feet scrabble at the rock, seeking purchase—only for a scattering of pebbles to go plummeting down to the treacherous waters below.
The hooded figure remains perfectly still. If supporting the gasping, quivering weight of the new recruit exerts him, he shows no sign of it.
“Taste the fear under your tongue,” he orders, voice steady as ever. “That iron tang. Powerlessness. Remember the way your heart is pounding. Trying to make up for a lifetime’s worth of beats in the span of mere seconds. You must never forget these sensations. They are what makes you human—they are the most primal fear of all. Fear of the gods.”
In a smooth, effortless motion, he tosses the smaller figure aside. They hit the ground with a stifled sob and stay there, cloak rippling as they tremble violently.
“Should you try to leave us, should you betray us—you all know what awaits you now.”
A couple of the people standing near me are hyperventilating; one retches into the bushes. My breaths alone stay steady. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Just as I’ve been taught.
“Greed in the night,” the hooded figure declares; “blood by daylight.”
The stone-still line of devilishly masked Order members breaks into a chant, their voices in perfect monotone sync.
“Greed in the night!”
Their leader—he must be their leader—stalks towards my group. I can’t quite make out what he’s doing through the small knot of people, all of us craning our heads in an attempt to get a good view.
“Blood by daylight!”
He’s moving along now, engaging in a brief exchange of some sort with each person—giving them something, or maybe taking it…
“Greed in the night!”
Right next to me now. Sure enough, he’s pressing something into the waiting palm of the person beside me—and then I’m facing him, and my hand extends automatically. Even this close, I can’t make out anything other than darkness beneath the peak of his hood.
“Blood by daylight!”
Leather brushes my skin, paired with something more delicate. Paper, just the tiniest scrap. When he withdraws, I close my fist around the slip as tightly as I can. This must be the next meeting place. The next step closer.
His deep, hollow voice joins that of his followers as they recite their chilling chant once more.
“Greed in the night; blood by daylight!”