Chapter 27
AVA
The thing nobody tells you about secret societies is how much time you spend waiting around for things to happen.
We leave campus a few hours after sunset, loaded into the black Escalade like we’re on a field trip from hell.
I’m in the back seat with Ford, Wes at the wheel as usual with Raf brooding in the passenger seat beside him.
Every one of them is dressed in a black– button-downs, slacks, and tailored jackets.
They look like they’re headed to a funeral, which…
as it turns out, is exactly how this feels.
The second we roll away from the gates of Corvus College and hit the open road, I feel the shift in the air, like someone flipped the switch from safe to hunted.
Wes drives with both hands on the wheel, posture locked, eyes on the rearview every few minutes.
Ford is next to me, his bottle of ‘car whiskey’ already clutched in his grip.
Raf is quiet, gaze constantly shifting, knee bouncing.
We ride in near silence for the first hour. I think about asking where we’re headed, but something in the way the boys have gone cold tells me not to. The tension is a clear message in itself. I focus on the dark beyond the windows, watching the trees open up the further we drive from campus.
At the two-hour mark, Ford finally breaks the silence. He pops the top off a fresh bottle– he must’ve stashed a whole fucking bar under the seat– and offers it to me.
“You want a hit, Ava baby?” he asks, cracking a smile. “Might take the edge off.”
I shake my head. “I want to remember everything about tonight. Just in case I die or whatever.”
Wes snorts, a soft exhale of air that sounds almost fond. “You’re not gonna die, Doll,” he says, voice pitched low and gentle. “Worst case, they reject you as an initiate and we have to kill you.”
“Nah, we’ll keep you around,” Ford says, elbowing me in the ribs. “For a while, at least.”
“You guys are the worst comforters in the world,” I grumble.
“Yeah, well,” Ford says, “we’re not really in the market for comfort.” He downs another swig, then leans over, dropping his voice to a growl in my ear. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Do I have a choice?” I scoff.
“Not really,” Raf mutters, gaze fixed on the side mirror. “It’s a one-way ride.”
We fall silent again. The further we drive from the safety of campus, the more the inside of the Escalade feels like a coffin.
At some point, I must zone out, because the next thing I know, Wes is flicking on the blinker and pulling us into a gravel parking lot lined with mossy stone walls. I sit up straighter, heart pounding, as I realize where we are.
It’s a graveyard. An ancient one, by the looks of it.
The headstones are crooked, some half-swallowed by ground and weeds, the names carved in letters so thin I can’t even read them in the glow of the headlights.
Beyond the first row of graves, a small stone building perches on a hill, gleaming in the moonlight.
Ford grins when he sees my reaction. “Like it? It’s got great Yelp reviews.”
Wes slides out of the driver’s seat, opens my door, and I step out into air so cold that goosebumps pebble up on my skin instantly, even through my coat.
I huddle into it, wishing I’d picked something thicker, but then Ford’s on the other side of me, crowding close, the heat of him alleviating the chill.
“You’ll warm up in a sec,” he says, eyeing my bare legs with open appreciation. “Or maybe you just need a shot after all.” He lifts the bottle in offering, but I shake my head again.
Raf steps around to join us, nodding toward the cemetery. “Stick together,” he directs. “Keep your eyes up.”
We crunch up the gravel path in a cluster, feet sliding over loose rock. The mausoleum looms larger the closer we get, its columns shadowed and greened by age. The door is wrought iron, rusted but still impressive, with a heavy lock at the center.
Raf pulls a key from his pocket as we approach. It glints in the moonlight, old and heavy-looking. He slides it into the lock, turns, and the mechanism groans as the gate swings open.
“Here we go,” Ford says, winking at me. I want to punch him, but I’m too busy scanning the darkness for whatever horror is about to pop out.
Wes enters first, hands in his pockets, head down like he’s done this a hundred times before. Ford steps in behind him, then turns, gesturing for me to follow.
I step into the mausoleum.
The inside is nothing like the outside. Instead of the damp, rot-smelling deathtrap I expect, it’s…
clean. The walls are white marble, veined with gray, the floor polished stone.
There are no coffins, just a long corridor lined with empty niches and a handful of brass plaques, their names unreadable in the dim light.
It smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something metallic.
Raf leads us past the first row of alcoves, stopping at a small wooden door at the far end. He produces another key, this one newer, and unlocks the door. It swings inward to reveal a tight spiral staircase, the steps chiseled from raw stone.
“This is where it gets fun,” Ford remarks, voice echoing off the walls.
I glare at him, then look to Wes. He gives me a nod, then starts down the stairs. Ford follows, and Raf directs me to go next, his hand at the small of my back. I take a deep breath and start to descend, my footsteps echoing.
It gets colder with every step, the air thickening, tinged with something sour. At the bottom of the stairs, we hit a landing with a heavy iron door. Wes knocks twice, then pushes it open.
We enter a room the size of a small chapel, lit by flickering wall sconces.
The ceiling is low, and the walls are lined with more marble, inscribed with Latin phrases and symbols I don’t recognize.
Along one side, a series of black robes hang from metal hooks, each one marked with a silver crown on the sleeve.
At the center of the room is a stone table with a white robe folded neatly on top.
Ford walks over to the rack, grabs a robe, and shrugs it on over his clothes, adjusting the hood so it shadows his face. Wes does the same. Raf comes to stand by me, holding the last black robe in his hands.
He nods at the altar. “That’s yours,” he says.
My legs suddenly feel unsteady beneath me, but I step forward and pick up the white robe.
It’s silk, lined with something stiffer, and when I slide it over my dress, it feels like being cocooned in a body bag.
Raf steps behind me and tugs the hood up over my hair, then Wes comes over, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“Just keep your head down,” Wes murmurs. “Whatever you do, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. And if things get weird, just look at me, okay?”
I nod, but I’m not sure he sees it beneath my hood.
Ford glances at his watch, then says, “Showtime.”
Raf strides to a heavy wooden door at the far side of the room and pulls it open.
A blast of even colder air hits us, and I shiver, teeth starting to chatter.
He leads the way into a long, narrow corridor, the sound of our footsteps swallowed by the stone.
We walk in single file, the only light emanating from the sconces behind us, until we reach a second chamber.
This one is bigger, but immediately feels claustrophobic when I see the five black-robed figures waiting inside. They’re lined up alongside a stone altar, each wearing a smooth, featureless black mask over their face. They look like mannequins. Or executioners.
Everything in me screams to turn and run, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
Wes stops just inside the door and bows his head. Ford copies the movement, then Raf steps up behind me, placing a guiding hand at the small of my back.
I step forward, my knees jelly.
The five men stand perfectly still, hands clasped in front of them, their masks turned in unison as we approach. The one in the center raises a hand.
“Are you prepared to present the initiate?” His voice is run through some kind of filter inside his mask, making him sound like a robotic demon.
“Yes,” Raf answers, his voice clear and strong.
“Then step forward,” the man replies.
Raf nudges me, and I move, the robe swishing around my ankles. I keep my head down, like Wes said, but I can still feel the eyes behind the masks drilling into me.
“The Kings of Corvus College present Ava Morrow as our Doll,” Raf announces.
The center mask tilts to the side. “Miss Morrow,” he says in that creepy-ass distorted voice. “Are you here of your own free will?”
“Yes,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Do you have her collateral?” another masked man asks, his voice modulated like the first.
Raf pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping something on the screen before pocketing it again. There’s a laptop open on the altar, and it pings, the screen flickering to life. For a second, I think it’ll be paperwork, or maybe some kind of digital signature.
Instead, a video starts playing.
My stomach drops through the floor.
The footage is grainy, shot from a phone camera.
It takes me a second to recognize what I’m seeing: the night Wes filmed me getting fucked for the first time.
I remember the phone, the promise it wouldn’t show too much.
It doesn’t, but it’s obviously me on screen.
Every moan, every tremor, every gasped plea.
My cheeks flame. I want to look away, but the five men in black robes are watching the screen, their heads moving in eerie synchronization.
Ford leans in, whispering in my ear. “You look so fucking hot in this, babe.” I don’t know if he’s trying to reassure me or just get off on my humiliation, but my stomach turns all the same.
The video runs for a full minute. When it ends, the man in the center turns back toward us, giving a tiny nod.
“The Invictus is satisfied with the collateral presented. Step forward, initiate.”
My feet move on their own accord, my brain still struggling to process the fact that these masked strangers all just saw me getting railed by the Kings on film.
I agreed to send it to Voss, not to show it here.
I’m furious, humiliated, but now isn’t the time to confront the Kings.
I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.
I walk forward, the hem of the robe sweeping against the floor, and stop a few feet from the altar. The men don’t move. I stand across from them, hands clasped, head bowed.
“Raise your eyes,” the man in the center orders.
I do.
He slides a knife from the folds of his robe. It’s some sort of ceremonial dagger, the blade curved, the handle carved from bone. He gestures for me to approach, my stomach twisting into knots as I do, my pulse roaring in my ears.
He holds the knife out, blade angled up. “Repeat after me,” he says. “I swear unyielding loyalty to the Invictus. Not to one person, but to the society, above all else.”
“I swear unyielding loyalty,” I say shakily, wetting my lips with my tongue. “To the Invictus. Not to one person, but to the society, above all else.”
“I swear unwavering obedience,” he continues, “to follow orders without question, to trust the wisdom of those who came before.”
I repeat it, my voice growing steadier with every word.
“I swear a lifetime of allegiance. Once this initiation is complete, the only exit is death.”
Again, I repeat the words, even though they taste like poison in my mouth.
The man holds out his hand. “Your palm,” he directs.
I extend my right hand, and he draws the tip of the blade across it, sharp and precise. I wince at the sting, clenching my jaw to try to hide it. Blood wells up instantly, crimson pooling in the center of my palm.
“Close your fist,” he orders.
I comply, squeezing until it hurts.
“Drip your blood onto the altar and speak your oath. Blood in, blood out.”
I step closer, holding my hand over the stone. Drops of red fall, splattering on the rock as I murmur, “Blood in, blood out.”
I feel faint.
“Your presentation is complete,” he states with a curt nod. “Return to your sponsors. You will receive communication regarding your first trial soon.”
I start to shuffle backwards, and the anonymous men in robes turn away, filing toward a door on the other side of the room.
Wes and Ford step up to meet me halfway, their faces shadowed by the hoods. Wes lays a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. Ford lifts my hand, bringing it to his mouth and running his tongue over the still-bleeding cut on my palm, winking.
All four of us go back through the door, back down the corridor. We return to the first chamber and shrug off the robes, hanging them on the hooks. Wes helps me with mine so I don’t get blood all over it, his hands startlingly gentle.
“You did good,” he says quietly.
I still want to punch him for not telling me about that video, but I’m too tired, mental exhaustion taking hold. There’s not much I can do about it now, anyway. It’s already over. Better to focus on what’s still to come– like the trials.
We climb the stairs back up to the mausoleum. It feels colder, emptier than before. Raf locking the door behind us as we leave, the boys’ heads on a swivel as we trudge back to the car.
No one says a word on the drive back. Ford passes out, his head lolling onto my shoulder, breath thick with whiskey. Raf stares out the window, alert and watchful. Wes keeps his eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel.
I’m not sure when we get back to campus, or how I make it to my bed, or even whether I sleep at all.
But my palm still stings, the cut down the center starting to scab over.
Blood in, blood out.
I’m in now. There’s no going back.