Wicked Salvation (Righteous and Wicked #2)

Chapter 1

I

LUCIAN

The weight of death never gets easier to bear.

I’ve been to funerals before.

I know what they smell like—wax, incense, aged pages.

I know the way they sound—prayers, grieving relatives, whispers sweeping through the congregation whenever some things are said from the pulpit.

I also know the way they feel—a piece of your world doesn’t exist anymore, leaving a gaping hole that people desperately try to fill with empty promises during the funeral.

But this funeral? It’s surreal.

Vivienne wasn’t supposed to die this young.

She was the closest thing I had to a best friend; apart from my brothers. Vivienne, the girl who never judged, the one who welcomed me with open arms when everyone figured I was a sinner they needed to avoid.

I can’t tell what hurts worse—the fact that I just know that Vivienne didn’t jump from the window, or that this funeral is so obviously a coverup.

She deserves better than this.

It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since she died, yet here we are—packed into a stuffy church listening to the preacher drone on about his heaven and how death atones for all sins. Even when you’re just a person in love, apparently.

There was no investigation.

It was a suicide, they concluded.

The leaked photo was doctored, they decided.

A tragedy for her of course, but nothing out of the ordinary.

A sad inevitability. A girl too weak to carry the weight of the world.

The school needed this funeral to happen, to erase Vivienne as cleanly as they would scrub spilled wine from the altar. Another life turned into a lesson about sin and consequence.

I clench my fists, swallowing thickly.

My suit feels too tight, tension building at my temples from pulling my hair back so neatly. If Vivienne could see me, she’d probably laugh. But she’d be appreciative all the same. My suit, my shirt, my tie, my shoes—they’re all the color of a midnight sky.

Incense swirls in the air.

The priest drones on, his words meaningless.

At the front of the church is a dark wood coffin adorned with white roses.

Vivienne would have hated them. She prefers dark red dahlias—another example of how little the school cared about her, how hastily this thing was put together.

Those flowers look like they were plucked out of the rose garden this morning.

Marita couldn’t even be involved in planning the funeral of the woman she loved.

I’m sitting in the back of the church, a pew to myself.

During the priest’s break from his verbal diarrhea, the nuns start to sing, their voices rising like mist—delicate and hollow.

The school’s faculty stand in solemn rows.

The students sit stiff-backed in their pews, wearing their “grief” like another school uniform.

They’ll forget her within the hour, while those of us who cared about her will have to carry our sadness for the rest of our lives.

In the front, where the honored mourners sit, is Eden.

With the families of everyone “closest” to her—Marita, Cedric, Alistair.

With his family.

I run a hand along my eyebrows, trying to get rid of the anxious energy in my fingers.

She’s seated beside Silas—their families on either side of them. A picture perfect aristocratic union. Well, only to those without a well-trained eye.

Silas Peregrine-Ashford III’s damn near sweating through his old Italian suit—imposter syndrome clearly suffocating him—while Viscount William Lockhart looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

And even from this distance I can see the possessive grip Silas has on Eden’s shoulders.

She sits ramrod straight, more composed than I’ve ever seen her.

Her mother’s sitting right beside her, stone-faced.

Can’t she tell that her daughter is being abused?

When Viscountess Lockhart turns her head to say something to Eden, so many things start to make sense. The severity of her expression, the dismissive way she looks at her own daughter.

Probably she does know.

But why would she care?

She doesn’t know that the Peregrine-Ashfords are one emergency away from bankruptcy.

It’s not uncommon for mothers to look the other way as long as social mobility is involved.

She’s probably stuck in a loveless marriage herself, trying to fill the gap with social engagements, charity galas, brunches and dinners with other high society wives.

My stomach churns at the thought that she wants the same for her daughter, even though she has more bruises than she can count. Silas knocked her unconscious because he saw us together, and Eden forgave him.

If Vivienne didn’t tell me she saw it with her own two eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.

Can something like this really be Eden’s choice? Does she truly understand the situation she’s in? Not only is she Silas’ golden goose, she’s also his punching bag.

I’ve seen it too many times.

Apologies from abusers are as empty as the love they claim to have for you.

It’ll only be a matter of time before Silas starts to rampage again—and I need to talk to her before then, even if it means talking to her in his presence.

I don’t give a fuck about him.

But I’m not going to let him destroy Eden before she even realizes what’s going on.

The priest starts to speak—his voice a dull, practiced rhythm.

“Vivienne was a bright light among us, one that was extinguished too soon. She has returned to the arms of our Lord. May we honor her memory and find peace in his divine plan.”

I gag.

Some of the emptiest words I’ve ever heard.

But what else should I expect from a man whose whole life is dedicated to leading a structure that suffocates people, makes them scared of living their lives, all in exchange for a chance at a better one when they die.

Vivienne didn’t die because of some divine plan. She died because someone wanted her dead—I can feel it, and my gut feeling is hardly ever wrong.

But it’s easier to bury a girl than to uncover the truth.

I sit through the rest of the ceremony—I don’t know how long it is, because time blurs as my thoughts bounce around in my head. When I finally come to, the recessional is taking place.

Vivienne’s family walks behind her coffin. Once they disappear through the doors of the cathedral, the other mourners rise and start leaving.

But I don’t move, and I won’t.

Not until Eden does.

I hang back for a few minutes until Eden and her family walk past me.

She looks like she’s in a daze—so much so that she doesn’t notice me.

Silas has a tight grip on her wrist, engaged in conversation with Eden’s family.

There’s no gentleness in his touch, no grief on his face.

Nothing that would indicate that he just attended the funeral of someone the people in his life regarded as close.

My guess?

He’s trying to brown-nose his way into Viscount & Viscountess Lockhart’s good graces so they’ll put pressure on Eden too. It’s an ingenious trap.

But he never accounted for my involvement, the haughty fool.

I slink into the courtyard, my hands in my pockets.

Everyone gives me cursory glances, yet stare when they think I’m not looking.

I square my shoulders with a shrug. I was never one to enjoy the public eye—even though by aristocratic standards I’m of the “best breeding” here.

The world of high society is filled with too many conditional friendships as it is, adding the religious aspect only makes it worse.

I’ve been fortunate to have parents who aren’t concerned about how I choose to live my life, because there’s nothing I can do to erase the legacy my family has created. But Eden doesn’t have that luxury.

The courtyard is thick with the murmurs of students, faculty, and other attendees.

The sky is gray and unmoving, a ceiling of stone pressing down on us.

The attendees have split themselves into cliques, sticking together by their rank.

Even though this is Vivienne’s funeral, there’s damn near a crowd pressing against the Lockharts and the Peregrine-Ashfords.

It’s disgusting to look at.

I sneer, almost turning away until I see Eden step away from them.

She’s dressed in a structured black chiffon dress, her hair pulled away from her face, spilling around her shoulders in shiny coils. She still looks composed—the way she holds that six-figure handbag, the soft steps she takes in those kitten heels. But her face?

Her countenance has fallen.

Her eyes are far away.

And that’s when I approach her.

The moment I step into Eden’s space, my breath catches. It always does, and I’m a bit annoyed at myself that even in this solemn moment, I’m caught up in how beautiful she looks.

“Edie?”

Her brown eyes flick to mine, glassy. Her plump glossed lips twist slightly.

“Oh, hi.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

We’re in the shade of an old elm tree, its branches as gnarled as the web of secrets in this place. I look up briefly as a memory of Vivienne hits me. In lower sixth, this tree was our meeting spot. First, when she went through a breakup.

Then it became the place where she and Marita would meet up as they got to know each other.

I always accompanied them, to ensure that there wasn’t much scrutiny.

It also meant that I got to watch their love blossom from friendship to the kind of love I know Vivienne wouldn’t abandon the way they want us to believe she did.

At least if she wanted to jump, she and Marita would have done it together.

That’s the kind of Romeo and Juliet shit they were on. I’d never seen two people more meant for each other, more in love. And if I believed in a higher power, or fate or whatever, I’d say that their lives were meant to be entwined, forever.

“Look, I’m sorry about not responding to your text—”

I raise a finger, trying to reassure her. “Don’t apologize. I understand that the past few days have been difficult for you. I actually just want to make sure you’re okay.”