Chapter Thirty-Six
“Come on,”Harper begs, draping herself dramatically across my doorframe. “I get if you don’t want to hang out, but won’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”
I feel bad—I really do. We’ve barely gotten the chance to talk since Tuesday, and when we have, she’s taken the opportunity to grill me about Ryker—which is fun enough, of course, but also a little bit exhausting. Now that the week is through and even the most drawn-out of sorority initiations have wrapped up, we finally have the opportunity to hang out for an evening.
Except that we don’t. Because I have business in the city.
“It’s just a nice little study spot I found on campus. Boring, but private—and I need privacy to focus.” I gesture to the bulging tote bag sitting on the bed next to me. “I mean, just look at all the crap I have to do.”
In reality, the bag is a lot lighter than it looks. Stuffed under my copies of Dracula and Carmilla are my cloak, mask, and ring, along with a few key implements from my duffel—a bit of insurance in case things get out of hand at the casino.
“That looks like a lot of crap,” she admits. “But, come on, it’s Saturday. Don’t you want to get out and live a little?”
“Not if it means jeopardizing my education. I told you, my dad?—”
“Will bring you home if you get anything below an A minus on your midterms. I know, I know, but those are still weeks away!”
“One week,” I correct her. Time really has flown by—it’s hard for me to believe that we’re already approaching mid-October—but I’ve been careful to keep track of deadlines. The thing I told Harper about my grades is true, even if I used it to distract her from what’s really keeping me busy.
Harper sighs. I can tell she’s disappointed, and I do feel bad for lying, but it’s not like I have much of an option. If she knew it was a matter of life and death, she’d obviously understand; that’s what I need to remember. I’m keeping her safe by hiding the truth.
“Lia, girl, I love you and everything, but sometimes I think you’re a little too strait-laced for your own good.”
So strait-laced, in fact, that I’m creeping away to a private casino to do the bidding of a bloodthirsty cult leader. Right.
I give her an apologetic smile. “We can grab brunch tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay… yeah. Good luck with your studying.”
She closes the door behind her. I wait until her footsteps fade, then spring into action.
It’s just past seven. Early, maybe, but I don’t know how long it’ll take to get to the casino. If I use the entrance to the tunnels where the enforcers led us out, hidden under the watchtower, I have a solid twenty minutes of walking ahead of me just to get to the place that I’ve come to think of as the ritual room. If I’m lucky, the pathway marked with the diamond symbol won’t be too terribly long—but over the course of my life, I’ve learned that relying on luck is never a smart idea. The sooner I get moving, the better.
Final checks—the locks on my duffel are secure; I’ve got all my supplies. At the last second, I check the phone hidden in the bag, and what I see doesn’t surprise me:
ENCRYPTED NUMBER: Checking in.
A sigh courses through me. I want to believe that he’s at least sending them himself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he passed the task off to somebody else. He isn’t a bad or neglectful father, just a little bit distant, but it still stings when I think of how Harper talks about her mom.
Me: I’m fine. Getting ready for midterms. Love you.
I power the phone off, swing my bag over my shoulder, and start on my way.
Ten minutes later, I’m deep in the tunnels, masked and hooded. I stashed my bag deep in the bushes disguising the entrance at the base of the watchtower, hopefully hidden enough that nobody will find it—but even if they do, there’s nothing that would give away my identity. Just the assigned reading for Professor Marko’s Intro to Lit class.
Everything else—note, ring, keychain flashlight from the campus convenience store, tools from my duffel—is coming with me.
The ritual room is empty when I reach it. It’s beyond creepy even without the scarlet candles illuminating it. Someone has cleaned up the bloodstains and removed the bowl from the pedestal, but I can still remember the look in the eyes of the man slumped over it, bulging wildly, frantic as an animal…
I shake myself back into the present. No time to get distracted now.
The diamond-eyed skull grins as I approach it. I know it’s just a trick of the light that makes it look as though there’s life flickering within the gemstones, but that doesn’t stop it from giving me the shivers.
It’s not unrealistic to think that I’m being watched in some capacity, though. I don’t doubt that the Count has eyes and ears throughout the entirety of this underground labyrinth, tracing every move made by myself and the other recruits. The other fledglings, as he called us.
Head high, refusing to betray a hint of anxiety, I pass beneath the skull emblem and towards the Diamond Court.
Without my phone, there’s no way to be sure of the time, but I’d guess it takes an hour or more of slinking through the tunnels before I begin to hear voices. The pathway is uneven, twisting and turning—sometimes paved with flagstones, sometimes bare soil. Occasional crevices in the walls house unlit oil lamps, but other than that, there’s been no sign of human habitation.
Until now.
I can’t make out individual words. Just murmurs and laughter from somewhere ahead, punctuated with the clinking of glassware. A fairly large crowd, from the sound of it. The rich scent of cigar smoke tickles my nose. No stairs, though, and the ground isn’t sloping upwards as I would have anticipated—if anything, I’m moving deeper into the earth.
I take another sharp bend and find myself facing an iron door. Scrolled letters creep across its top: NOCTE AVARITIA, SANGUIS IN LUCE.
I’m far from fluent in Latin, but I know enough to make an educated guess as to what those words mean.
Greed in the night. Blood by daylight.
The door doesn’t seem to have a knob or handle of any sort—just a ring-shaped knocker at its center. I clasp it in both hands, lift it, and let it drop.
The sound is hollow, gong-like. A small panel slides open in the upper part of the door, and a set of beady dark eyes appears behind it, glaring in my direction.
“What’s your business?” a man’s voice rasps.
“I…” The words Carnadon’s crimstone stone were ready on my lips, but I wasn’t prepared for an actual question. Have to think fast. “I’m here to serve the Diamond Court.”
That seems to satisfy him. The panel rattles shut, chains jangle from the other side, and the door swings inwards.
Those same dark eyes probe me from behind the familiar contours of a skull mask. “I’d wish you luck, fledgling,” he chuckles, “but you’re about to learn that luck doesn’t get you far in a place like this.”
He moves aside, leaving me to take my first few steps into the Diamond Court.
The room is round and wide, lit by a massive three-tiered chandelier hanging from its gold-leaf dome of a ceiling. I have to try not to think about how far underground we must be, how many thousands of tons of soil are suspended above us. Exquisite Renaissance-style paintings line the burgundy paneling of the walls—if they’re authentic, the whole collection is worth tens of millions of dollars at the very least.
But none of the casino’s patrons are admiring the artwork. Instead, dozens of masked figures huddle around card tables, drinking and smoking, swearing and shouting as they make, win, and lose their bets—bets, I imagine, that must be staggeringly high. Threaded among them are waiters—no, waitresses, all of them dressed in little more than lingerie and wearing masks identical to that of the doorkeeper, balancing platters of cocktails and hors d”oeuvres as they cross the sumptuous red-carpeted floor.
Is that going to be my assignment? I sure hope not—it looks beyond degrading, and not in the sexy way that Harper described.
Then again, from the way the Count spoke about these trials, humiliation is going to be the least of my worries.
Okay, focus. Man in white, the note said. Amid the hordes of dark suits and cloaks, he’s not hard to find—a cream-colored tuxedo sticks out on the far side of the room, where a figure in a broad-brimmed hat leans back against the wall, idly smoking a cigar beneath his black half-mask.
Heart pounding, I wind my way through the crowd. A couple of the waitresses make brief eye contact with me, then quickly turn away once again. As far as the patrons are concerned, I don’t even exist; I move through them like a quick-footed shadow.
I can’t tell if the man knows I’m approaching—his white hat is tilted too steeply on his brow for me to see anything beyond the lower edge of his mask. He flicks ash off of his cigar, then crushes it beneath one pale Oxford shoe before it can burn the carpet.
I come to a halt at arm’s length. He still doesn’t look up.
“Hello?” Oh God, that sounded stupid. Like a confused little girl. I swallow hard and try again, infusing my voice with as much cool confidence as I can muster. “I’m here for my assignment.”
“You’re early.” His voice is thin and reedy, almost whistling in the back of his throat. “Like to get the jump on things, do you?”
I stay silent.
“Not too chatty. I like that. Let’s get down to business.” He takes a long drag of the cigar. “See that man over there, the heavyset fellow?” He points towards a nearby table, and I note with a squirm of revulsion that his fingernails are severely overgrown, almost talon-like. “Let’s call him Sal. You’re gonna be Sal’s good luck charm for the night. Know what that means?”
“No.”
“It means you’re gonna see that he wins his poker hands no matter what. Through that door—” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “They’ll set you up with a uniform and a drink tray. That’s your toolkit: your drinks, your body, and your sweet little voice. Any move is fair game so long as you can get away with it—but if Sal’s not happy by the end of the night, the Count’s not happy, and that’s bad news for you, fledgling. I’m gonna be watching. Give me a good show.”
That’s it? I’m just supposed to improvise? If anything, I’m more confused than before—but the man in white doesn’t seem interested in elaborating. Instead, he returns to his cigar, leaving me with no choice but to follow his vague instructions.
The swinging door he indicated opens easily under my touch, leading to a much smaller room. To my left is a generously stocked bar attended by a black-masked man; to my right, a long, velvet-walled hallway lined with numbered doors.
“New girl?” the bartender grunts.
“Yes. I was told?—”
“Take room three,” he says, reaching for a bottle of gin. “Uniform’s inside. That space is yours for tonight. If you want to give one of our customers a little somethin’ extra, that’s where you’re gonna do it. Leave the uniform when you’re done. I’ll get your drink tray ready.”
I bite back a ‘thank you’—words like that, I can guess, are signs of weakness around here. Instead, I give a quick nod and duck into the hallway.
From the noises coming from behind the first couple of doors, it’s not hard to guess exactly what he meant by ‘something extra.’
God, I hope that doesn’t have to be me. The memory of Professor Marko’s hand brushing the top of my head is still far too fresh. If I’m forced to actually go all the way with some equally disgusting older man, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it.
But I have to. I have to take everything they throw at me. That was my vow.
The room marked with a silver three isn’t much bigger than a bathroom stall, featureless aside from a velvet-topped bench shoved against one of three mirrored walls. The thing that both men called a uniform is sitting on top of it, along with one of those plain black half-masks. Distaste sours my stomach as I lift it up, examining the lacy black pieces under the low light. There’s a bra, panties, and stockings—and some sort of belt thing with fine silver clasps. I’ve never worn anything remotely like this before, but I should be able to figure it out based on what I saw of the other waitresses.
Shame colors my skin as I slowly strip off my robe and the clothing beneath it. I keep the mask on—it’s easier when I at least don’t have to look at my own face in the mirror. Once again, I can’t shake the sensation of being watched. Maybe there are cameras here, too. Maybe the Count or some other heinous old man is watching me expose my body—perhaps even pleasuring himself to the sight.
Is this what my mother had to do, too?
I don’t want to imagine her in this situation. Objectified and exposed. I have to believe that she held herself with more pride than I feel now. Maybe she was braver than me—surely some of the other girls can wear something like this with confidence. Harper would be able to, I bet. But when I look at my body now, I don’t feel strong or sexy. I feel like a piece of meat garnished with dark lace, and I want nothing more than to shatter the stupid mirrors with a fist.
I won’t, though. I can’t. I just have to make it through the night.
I’m tough. I can do this.
When I reemerge, the bartender gives a sleazy whistle of appreciation. “You wear that shit real nice, don’t you, girlie? Whoever’s got you tonight is in for a treat. Here’s your drinks.” He taps the edge of a silver tray of brimming martini glasses. “You spill one of those, break a glass—you fail the trial.”
Good thing I’m an expert at holding myself steady. I lift the tray with ease and balance it on one hand, earning a chuckle from the bartender.
“You’re a natural. Just don’t get cocky, you hear? That’s their last mistake all too often.”
I don’t reply, just shoulder the door open and return to the casino floor.
The man in white is gone from his previous spot. I don’t see him anywhere, but I do see the person that he called Sal—a big, bald man whose body strains at the seams of his suit, with a black half-mask tied around his sweaty scalp. His deep chuckle reverberates from across the room, oily and repulsive.
I bottle up my disgust and even manage to pull a slight smile to my lips as I approach.
I just need to fake it. Put on an act. Play the part.
“Drinks?” I ask—my voice comes out too quiet, only earning a couple of approving grunts from around the table. I guess that’s a yes. I circle around the table, trying to get my bearings as I distribute martini glasses—these men aren’t very good at covering their cards, and I’m quick to memorize what I can see. I need every last bit of information that I can garner if I want to do this right.
Okay. Drinks handed out. Now what? The man who was pointed out to me—Sal, which surely isn’t his real name—is absorbed in his cards, not even bothering to give me a second glance.
“Um, sir?”
He looks up to me, swipes his gaze up and down—and grins, wide and ugly, exposing a solid gold canine.
“Look at that. You the little angel I was promised? Even prettier than I expected.”
His fingers, heavy with silver rings, reach out to graze my bare waist. I swallow past my nausea and stay perfectly still, my smile frozen in place. He snatches his martini glass in one hand and grabs my free arm with the other, dragging me closer. “See this, boys? This little lady is gonna take good care of me tonight. What’s your name, baby?”
“Maria.” It’s the first name that comes to mind—too close to my own, maybe, but there’s no going back now.
“Maria!”He pronounces it with exaggerated Italian flair. “Sit on my lap, Maria.”
He spreads his legs.
No—my body withdraws instinctively. I can’t… I won’t.
But the whole table is watching, and so is the Order. I have to do this right.
The other masked men around the table laugh and jeer as I slide obediently into place, setting the drinks tray down for now. Distance—that’s what I’ve always been taught. If I find myself through an unbearable situation with no way out, I just have to dissociate from my body. Pretend that I’m puppeteering someone else. I can endure anything that way.
“Now,” he chuckles against my ear, boozy breath stinking, “what do you know about poker?”
Play the part, play the part.
I pout and shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m no good with money.”
“But you’re gonna help me be good at it, aren’t you?” He sips his martini—the click of his teeth on the glass is revolting, far too close and loud. “Let’s have another hand!”
Cards, their backs inked with elaborate Order crests, are shuffled and dispersed around the table. I track each and every one of them, values juggling through my mind as Sal examines his hand. The empty-headed sex pixie named Maria may be no good with money, and neither am I—but my education has been far more extensive in some other areas, and I sure do know my way around counting cards.
Bets are made, hands are dealt. Kings and queens, hearts and spades. I can feel Sal getting hard as he shifts beneath me, but I force myself to ignore it, to stay focused on my task.
“What do you think, Maria?” he mumbles, fanning his cards in front of us. “How’s our luck right now?”
His odds are decent, but not great—and I don’t like the looks on the faces of some of the other men sitting around the table. “Keep the bet low for now,” I murmur. “I have the feeling you’re gonna strike gold soon.”
The rounds continue. With every card played, the map in my head deepens in complexity, and I advise Sal accordingly, fighting to keep my mind off of the fact that he’s growing increasingly aroused whenever I net him even the smallest of victories. Bit by bit, his chips continue to pile—and then, at just the right time, he pulls an ace.
The odds aren’t going to get any better than this.
“This is it. All in.”
“You sure ’bout that, princess?” he slurs.
I have to be. With the cards that have been played so far, the chances of someone having a better hand than him are next to none. Not impossible, but about as close as they’re going to get.
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
He lets out a wheezy giggle, flecking the side of my face with spittle, and makes his play.
Chips spill across the tables. Cards flip, breaths are drawn—and Sal bursts into a gale of laughter so uproarious that heads turn from across the room.
“Whaddaya know!” he cackles. “Little Maria really does have it in her!”
“You’ve fucking rigged it,” another man shouts from across the table. This one is skinny and sallow, with a stubbly chin and hollow cheeks beneath his mask. I’ve been watching his lips twist into a more and more sour expression as the game progressed—now, it seems, he’s reached his breaking point.
“Ah, calm it,” Sal scoffs, scooping his winnings into a neat pile. “You’re a sore loser, always have been.”
“This is a heap of fucking bullshit, that’s what it is—I know damn well that bitch is no lucky fucking charm.”
“Tell you what, I’m feeling generous after all that.” He shoves me off his lap with a surprising surge of strength, and I catch myself on the edge of the table, disrupting the cloth—an empty martini glass tumbles off the edge—I catch it just in time, a shot of adrenaline buzzing through me.
It almost broke. Almost. But it’s okay—I’m okay.
And I did it. He’s letting me go. I can?—
“How ’bout you feel some of her magic yourself, old pal?” He slaps me on the rear hard enough to sting. “I know you little girls have got your private rooms in back. Show my friend a good time, won’t you?”
“She’d better.” The other man is on his feet, staggering towards me—he’s not as drunk as Sal, but he’s close. Definitely intoxicated enough that he won’t be holding back. Panic boils in my stomach when he grabs my upper arm. “You’ve made me real mad, Maria. Awful fuckin’ mad.”
I’m okay—I have to be. I can do this. A plan is weaving itself into being—not fully formed, not yet, but I have to trust myself.
“I’m sorry, sir… how can I make it up to you?”.
“Only if luck isn’t the only thing you’re good for.”
His tone sickens me, but I force my voice to stay calm. “Oh, it’s definitely not.”
He growls wordlessly. “Show me.”
“This way.”
I guide him towards the room where I got dressed, keeping my steps light, all too aware of the leers and wolf whistles that follow us across the floor. Eyes on us, so many eyes behind red and black masks.
Blue.
Dark blue.
I’d know that stare anywhere?—
But he’s already turning away. The moment was so swift that I could have imagined it. Maybe I’m desperate enough that I’m seeing things, imagining that he’s here… but if Ryker is here, he would help me, right? He’d do something—wouldn’t just stand by and let this man have his way with me…
No. That’s just fantasy. I’m being ridiculous—he wouldn’t know it was me in my disguise. And besides, the Order is far bigger than either of us; even Ryker could be rendered helpless under its control.
I’m on my own.
With no way out.
I lead him through the door, show him to the third room, and shut the door behind me.
The bartender chuckles when I emerge minutes later, fully dressed and hooded once more, with my red and black fledgling’s mask securely in place.
“You have fun in there?”
“I’m afraid my patron has taken ill,” I say, hands curling into loose fists beneath the long sleeves of my robe. “He might need some help.”
“Too much to drink? Ha. Happens all the time.” He waves me off. “We’ll clean him up. You get out of here, fledgling.”
When I step back into the main room of the casino, the man in white is waiting.
“We’ve seen enough. You’re done for tonight.”
Done? I don’t even get to know if I passed the test? “What about… the next trial? The next meeting?”
The man raises the brim of his hat, and for the first time all night, I can make out his eyes—dark, dark brown behind his half-mask, just a shade away from pure black.
“Your last Friday, at midnight. The third floor landing of the tower has a loose tile. That’s where you’ll learn what comes next. You understand?”
How am I supposed to understand something as obscure as that? My last Friday, the tower—but I know at this point that the Order likes things that way. Their instructions are tests of their own, in a way.
I commit the words to memory—I’ll just have to puzzle it out—and give him a nod.
“Now get your pretty ass out of here.”
Once more, I have no choice but to obey.