Chapter Thirty-Two
Yuki: LIA!!! U missed dinner again :(
Crap.I drop the phone onto my mattress and stretch back across my pillow, groaning. The girls have been trying to set up mealtime get-togethers ever since Shivani made this group chat, and I still haven’t made it to a single one—not because I don’t want to; between Ryker, classes, and the Order, I’ve had a million things occupying my attention, and it’s not like I have much practice keeping track of social obligations.
Me: Sorry, busy studying
Yuki: U mean busy with RYKER ;) One of these days I’m gonna come steal u from under his nose
Shivani: Idk, Ryker isn’t really the sharing sort
Yuki: Who said I needed his permission???
Roxanne: Babe, you’ve got a lot to learn about how stuff works on this campus
Angelica: I didn’t ask to be added to this chat.
Their messages flow in one after another, filling my screen in a matter of seconds. Almost like a real conversation, except it’s all in text format, being delivered right into my hand—despite the fact that all of us are scattered across campus. I know most of the other girls are used to this, but to me it still feels a bit magical.
Almost as magical as the food that was delivered straight to my dorm room this morning—enough bacon, eggs, toast, and waffles to feed a small army, complete with a handwritten note that rests on my nightstand now, black ink stark against white card stock:
Don’t forget to eat. You’ll need energy for what I have planned next.
The prospect sends a thrill of excitement through my core. I can’t wait?—
But I have to.
I told Ryker the same thing I told my friends—that I’m busy studying.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
My business tonight has nothing to do with books.
I’m going to the lookout tower.
My mind keeps bouncing between anxiety and anticipation. I could simply choose not to go… the meeting at the cliffside made it clear that I won’t get another chance to back out. But I can’t do that. As amazing of a time as I’m having on campus, I won’t be able to find true peace with myself until I know what fate befell my mother.
The answers lie within the Order. I know they do.
I’ll be there tonight, cloaked and masked. Ready for my next instructions. Ready to undergo whatever is necessary to claim my place among their hooded, chanting ranks.
Ready to take one step closer towards the truth.
The campus lookout tower, located just beside the castle gates, casts a spire of darkness across the stars clustered above. I’ve never seen its narrow windows illuminated, and have always assumed that it’s just there for show—I mean, why would a school need an old-fashioned guard station like this? It’s not like we’re a prison camp.
Come to think of it, I don’t know whether it would be used to keep us in… or to keep something else out.
I shove aside the chill that passes down my spine at the thought and finish pulling on my hood and mask. It’s ridiculous to get freaked out by something like that. The tower’s a remnant from Verdo’s days; that’s all. Its only purpose now is… well, I suppose I’m about to find out.
I tuck the bag used to carry my disguise in a hollow tree trunk that I scouted out earlier. I’ve got a pretty good view of the tower from here, lurking just behind the front line of the woods, and no one else has shown yet, as far as I can tell. Then again, maybe they’re also hiding—maybe all of us are here, none daring to be the first to make ourselves known.
An owl hoots from somewhere nearby, startling me—but I don’t let out a gasp, don’t so much as flinch. I’m still and silent as a shadow, watching and waiting…
A rectangle of faint red light appears at the base of the tower as a door slides open.
I hold my breath, fingers clasping my cloak tightly around my throat. This is it—the real thing. I don’t think it’s any sort of trap, but I’ll let someone else go first all the same. No reason to take unnecessary risks.
A silhouette darts out of the woods in front of me, followed closely by a second, then a third. I watch with bated breath, unblinking, as they enter the door one at a time, vanishing into that low crimson glow without a sound.
Okay. My turn.
I run with the lightest of steps, my cloak billowing behind me like bats’ wings. The drumbeat of my heart matches my gait as I approach the doorway, give one last glance over my shoulder, and slip inside.
A small, circular stone room, lit by a number of red-glass lanterns set into the walls. A staircase spirals around its perimeter, creeping upwards towards the tower’s peak… but also down, past an open trap door. Into the earth.
A figure in a skull mask guards the way down, motionless as a statue, hands tucked behind its back. The other three initiates are scattered around the room, darting nervous glances towards one another—and, now, towards me.
I don’t meet their eyes. Instead, I stare straight into the sunken sockets of the skull, searching for so much as a flicker of light in their depths. I wish he—or she; I don’t know—would move, give away just a trace of humanity… but they may as well be cut from stone.
My gaze darts to the side as more hooded initiates enter the tower, some of them silently, some of them panting hard. Five… ten… a dozen… crowding the already tight space until we’re forced to brush shoulders. I tense at the others’ touch, keeping every muscle taut, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.
Skull Mask breaks into motion with a stride forward. A few gasps rise from the small crowd at the sudden movement, joined by a nervous whimper or two when one of the figure’s gloved hands slam the door shut.
They’re weak. Showing fear like that—I can already tell they aren’t going to last.
I have to be different. I have to be strong.
Without speaking, Skull Mask extends a hand towards the stairs, one finger pointing downwards.
The other robed figures shuffle uneasily, the hems of their cloaks swishing over the stone floor.
Really? None of them are willing to go first?
Fine, then. I guess it’ll have to be me.
My steps are measured, deliberate as I approach the dark maw of the downwards staircase. I can’t see much, especially through the narrow eye holes of my mask, but there’s something—a lamp, or maybe a torch—flickering deep in the shadows.
The chant from the cliffside whispers through the back of my mind.
Greed in the night…
Well, here goes nothing.
The stairs are high ones, built for someone far taller than myself, and I have to brace my fingers against the wall to maintain my balance as I half-step, half-jump my way down. After a few moments, I can hear others doing the same behind me, following my blind lead—but I can’t focus on them. I have to focus on what’s ahead of me, on that unsteady light… definitely a torch, I can see now, held in a leather-gloved hand.
I extend my leg, ready to feel out another step, and find flat ground instead. The torch shifts slightly, just enough to illuminate the shape of another skull, this one even more menacing than the last beneath the flame’s erratic gleam.
The new figure whisks around, torch held high, and starts down the tunnel.
I follow, not knowing what else to do. The tunnel is straight and narrow, heavy with the damp scent of soil and decay. Every dozen meters or so, a telltale waft of air tells me that there’s an opening in the wall, another pathway branching off the main one—but my death-faced guide presses steadily forward, ignoring every turn. According to my keen sense of direction, that means that we’re going past the boundaries of the school, through the narrow bridge of land that serves as a perilous driveway… towards the mainland.
That’s huge. This is huge. If the Order branches out under the city, it has to be much, much bigger than anything I expected.
It’s impossible to say just how long we walk. Time seems to pass differently underground, as though we’ve descended into a different pocket of reality. But I know we must be reaching the end when I hear the chanting.
Low at first. Several voices overlapping, their words impossible to distinguish. Chills prickle down my spine in unsteady waves. Something about the sound is haunting, inhuman, and my instincts scream at me to get as far away from it as possible… but I don’t dare to even slow my pace. I have to keep my head high, my senses alert. I need to be ready for anything.
Louder, louder. I can see the full silhouette of the torch-wielding figure now, outlined by a faint, deep orange glow. And the voices, echoing across the subterranean stone, are beginning to form distinct words:
“In the shadow of secrets we dwell, bound by the power that few can tell. We, the chosen, destined to lead, sacrificing many for our creed.”
The torch-bearer steps aside, head bowed, to reveal a stone archway. After so long in the near-complete darkness, my eyes water at the blaze of firelight behind it, blinding me momentarily as I step through.
My vision adjusts bit by bit… and with every second, chills sink more deeply into my skin.
A wide, circular room of light brown stone, easily five times that of the tower. Snarling flame leaps from a hanging iron brazier. The base of the brazier descends downwards, forming a massive, rusty-looking hook—I can only imagine what that might be for. Lining the perimeter, their heads lowered as if in prayer, are at least two dozen hooded figures, droning out that same horrific chant:
“From the depths of darkness we emerge, silencing all who dare to urge; greed veiled in the shroud of night, bloodshed in the broad daylight.”
Greed in the night. Blood by daylight. My heart thunders as I take in more details of the room. A pedestal at the center holds a wide, shallow stone bowl, like something out of an ancient ritual. Something is carved into the floor below—a crest of some sort, though its lines are impossible to read beneath the wildly leaping fire suspended above it. And the walls… archways cut through the ancient brickwork, four of them, each topped with an engraving of a skull.
Four more tunnels, and who knows how far they go? God, this thing might extend through the entire city… maybe even further.
“We are the Crimson Stone. In silence we sway. A clandestine Order. Our wills obey.”
The person standing at the very center of the ring steps forward, brings his hands into a single, ear-splitting clap, and holds them there. Ungloved, to my surprise, with long, tapered fingers, one of which brandishes a heavy silver ring.
Silence. Perfect and deadly. Disrupted only by the shaky breathing of the initiates who filed in behind me, the rasping crackle of flame, and—I can’t be sure… something that sounds like weeping that seems to be coming from the row of hooded silhouettes, though not a single one of them even trembles.
My lungs strain towards hyperventilation, but I force my breaths to stay steady. I can’t betray my fear. Not a hint of it.
The central figure takes another step forward, reaches up, and pulls down its hood.
My heart skips a beat.
I’m staring into the face of a demon.
No—that’s ridiculous—I’m letting my nerves get the better of me, and I can’t allow that to happen. This is a mask, just like the others… never mind the fact that it seems horribly alive in the wavering light. Something in the way he holds himself gives me the unshakable impression that the face beneath the mask is the real disguise—that this eerie, rigid monster is a far truer glimpse into the psyche of the person who wears it.
“Kneel, my fledglings,” he demands. Unlike the man at the cliffside, this one isn’t using a voice changer—his words are silky and natural, spilling like oil into the air. “Kneel for your Count.”
I obey, sinking to my knees and lowering my head for good measure. The whimpering sound grows louder. What is that? A person? An animal? It’s horrifying… all of this is.
Could my mother really have been here all those years ago? Prostrating herself against the cold stone floor for a man in a demon’s mask? The meetings she described didn’t involve anything like this.
His voice sounds again, much closer this time. “Viscount, retrieve the oblation.”
Don’t look up; don’t look up. I can’t appear curious or defiant. Obedience—that’s what the man called the Count demands through his very presence.
Footsteps. Rustling fabric. The whimpering escalates into something closer to a scream—and then it is a scream, stabbing into my eardrums, accompanied by a disgusting, wet ripping noise that makes my stomach turn. A choke, a gurgle—and then nothing but the thick hiss of pouring liquid.
“Raise your eyes,” the Count commands.
I lift my head, knees still glued to the cold stone floor.
The sight before me…
I don’t have words. Barbaric doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Hanging from the brazier’s hook, drifting in tiny half-circles as the chain swings above him, is a man. Not masked or hooded—just a regular man in a T-shirt and jeans, his head covered in a burlap sack.
The point of the hook protrudes from his throat. Blood streams down his front in a scarlet-black fountain, steadily filling the stone basin below.
I can’t tell if he’s still alive. God, I hope not.
“This man transgressed,” the Count proclaims calmly from beside this monstrous spectacle. “His blood is the price of his greed. Go against the Order, and you will join him.”
He grips one of the man’s dangling boots and pulls. A mushy ripping cuts through the air as the hook tears upwards through the bloody throat, gouging it wide open and releasing a fresh fountain of blood into the waiting bowl.
My mind is cold. Detached. If I refuse to fathom what’s happening before me, I won’t be overwhelmed. I have to think of it distantly, pretend that I’m watching a magic trick. That’s the only way I can keep my breathing steady.
“Come.” The Count snaps his fingers towards the cowering fledgling at the far end of our row. “To me. Now.”
The fledgling staggers to their feet. Anyone could be behind that red and black mask—even one of my friends. The thought fills me with unease. To imagine Yuki or Shivani or, God forbid, Harper bearing witness to something this grotesque…
I can’t. I have to stay focused.
The Count reaches within his cloak, retrieves something in his fist, and then holds it on display, fingers splayed so that all of us can see the silver ring resting in his palm.
“Loyalty,” he pronounces slowly. “Allegiance.”
He tips his hand over, and the ring falls into the bowl of blood with a light splash.
“Retrieve the ring and whisper your name to me.”
The fledgling hesitates, but only for a moment. Trembling, they approach the bowl, head lowered to avoid the sight of the hanging man, and plunge their hand into the vat of scarlet. When they withdraw, blood dribbles from their fingertips, spreading unsteady ripples across the surface of the bowl.
“Your name,” the Count repeats, impatience edging his voice.
He doesn’t move—only waits, fingertips pressed together, as the fledgling steps up to him, leans forward, and whispers something in his ear. My stomach churns. That’s going to be me, in a matter of minutes. What can I possibly say? Absolutely not my real name. Not an alias, either. Something tells me that this man knows exactly who received the invitations… which means that I have to keep up my act.
I have to give him her name.
Angelica.
My mouth goes dry. I can’t do that. And yet I have to. She and I may not get along—as a matter of fact, I think it’s safe to say that she hates me—but I don’t want to put her in mortal danger…
I don’t have a choice.
“Next!” the Count demands.
One at a time, the ritual repeats—he drops a ring into the basin, a fledgling retrieves it, they whisper to him before returning to their place in line. All the while, blood continues to stream from the hanging man, and I find my eyes searching for somewhere, anywhere else to focus—the skulls above the arched doorways grin down at me, eyes twinkling.
Literally twinkling—their sockets are inset with gems, I realize now. Four different types, four different colors—white, amber, black, and violet. I file the observation away in the back of my mind. It must have some significance?—
“Next.”
It’s my turn.
I measure my breaths, keeping them slow and steady as I get to my feet and approach the bowl of blood. My heart bangs away in my chest as though it’s trying to fight its way out, but I won’t—can’t—show any outward sign of distress.
The Count extends his hand, tapered fingers uncurling to release a silver ring into the murky scarlet pool.
“Retrieve it.”
I reach into the bowl.
Hot, heavy, swimming with fleshy flecks… I won’t think about that. My fingertips scrabble at the bottom, searching—there. A hard little circlet atop the rough stone. I pull it out, breathing slowly through my clenched teeth—it’s easier if I don’t have to smell the blood’s metallic, meaty stench.
“Your name.”
I lean towards the expressionless devil’s mask, stomach roiling, the ring burning into my palm.
My breath tickles my lips in the lightest of whispers.
“Angelica Alexander.”
“Next.”
My legs feel like liquid as I return to my place in line. That’s it—I’ve condemned her. Not only that; I’ve almost certainly endangered myself. I get the sense that the Count—and the Order as a whole, for that matter—doesn’t take kindly to being told lies.
Now, more than ever, it’s clear that there’s no going back.
The last few fledglings retrieve their rings, whisper their names. When the Count gestures for the last of them to return in line, a fresh wave of trepidation creeps over my skin. What next? Is there something even more gruesome in store?
“You will henceforth put the Order above your personal greed,” the Count proclaims. “Should you transgress… there will be blood. Blood beneath the merciless light of day.”
“Greed in the night!” the row of hooded figures chants, their voices echoing through the chamber. “Blood by daylight!”
“Within your rings, you will find your first test. Should you fail to complete them by the winter’s first snowfall…”
He gestures to the hanging man, whose skin has gone milky and translucent, entirely bloodless, and I could swear that I sense a smile behind that revolting mask.
“Begone now!” he commands.
We get to our feet. The ring still clenched hard in my blood-soaked fist, cutting into my palm—almost to the point of pain, but I hardly notice.
The voices of the Order rise as one, resuming their vile chant as the unspeaking skull mask herds us back into the tunnel.
“In the shadow of secrets we dwell, bound by the power that few can tell. We, the chosen, destined to lead, sacrificing many for our creed.
“From the depths of darkness we emerge, silencing all who dare to urge; greed veiled in the shroud of night, bloodshed in the broad daylight.
“We are the Crimson Stone. In silence we sway. A clandestine Order. Our wills obey!”