Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Henry Tullis
Racing through the corridor to reach the Sanctum for the House of Eights meeting, I am constantly startled. I’ve never managed to come here without running, or at least jogging, to our room in the Great Hall. The whole place gives me the heebie jeebies.
When Eric called the emergency meeting, I originally thought it was about the rowdy party last weekend. Tom and Julian managed to sink one of the alumni’s yachts. But now… knowing the painting has been replaced, I’m certain Bizzy told him.
She tells him everything.
The mood is somber as we settle around the table. Most of our meetings are at the behest of our Regent, Dr. Alphonse Fraine, but occasionally one of us decides to meet. Like tonight.
Eric stands, his brows lowered. “I called this meeting because… where do I even start?”
That’s when Aaron does what he excels at. He takes over. “Anyone else wonder what our purpose is for being here? I don’t mean protecting some eccentric billionaire’s secrets. Our true purpose?”
Standing next to Eric, Aaron looks around the table intently. I’ve never called him a friend. In fact, Aaron’s never seemed built for friendship, beyond Eric. Most of the House is afraid of his wrath.
Eric continues, “When we took our oath, I thought we were joining a club. A fraternity. But recently, I’ve been having nightmares about the House of Eights.
” He describes standing on the ledge of the clock tower, watching the Great Hall go up in flames.
As he starts to tell us about a mysterious figure he saw in the fire, Aaron fixes him with a hard stare.
The look is enough to stop him mid-sentence.
Tom Rausing snickers, then quickly covers his mouth, the meeting already becoming a joke in his eyes. Under his breath, he coughs, “Loser.”
Without a word, Aaron abruptly grabs Tom and pulls him out of his chair by the collar.
He kicks his chair aside before saying, red-faced, “Show your fellow House member more respect, Tom. Or Daddy gets the bill for the yacht you destroyed, the hotel room in Paris, the ski chalet in Vermont, and the accusations over a certain Dutch au pair. Understood?”
He throws his hands up. “I’m not laughing now, if that helps.”
I’ve never really questioned whether there was anything random about how the House of Eights was put together.
“Why do you think we were assembled?” I ask Eric, not sure what I’ll get from Aaron, sarcasm or hostility.
“Yeah,” Tom’s buddy Julian says, leaning back and slinging an arm over the back of his chair. “What’s this all about?”
Taking a deep breath, Eric asks, “Why does the House of Eights have twelve and not eight members?”
The answers come at once, ranging from snide to sincere.
“...the meaning behind eight…”
“Rockefeller can’t count?”
“...twelve is a solid number of assholes…”
“It’s the angel number.”
“A dozen can get more done?”
“Who cares?”
In frustration, Eric asks, “What? Did you think the Regents thought, ‘this so-and-so looks like fun, let’s pick them’?”
“Oh, shut the fuck up, Hewlett,” Julian replies.
I keep to myself most of the time, never sure if I’m meant to share what I know or what I’ve been seeing in my sleep. I certainly never want to be made fun of for it. I respect Eric for taking that chance.
Trembling, I stand. “Our ancestry. I think we’re all chosen based on our ancestry.”
He nods. “Right. But that’s not all. I can’t be the only person in this room having these dreams… I can’t.”
The room goes quiet.
Robert, the historian among us, stands. “I think Rockefeller started the House of Eights with only eight members.” He clears his throat, his face reddening. “Four members infiltrated and are working against us.”
Tom sputters in disbelief. “Run that shit by me again?”
I lower my head, watching my hands tremble as I pick at a hangnail. Everyone is yelling at one another, throwing accusations across the room.
The only ones quiet are Eric and I.
There has always been a slightly menacing feel to the House of Eights. I didn’t want to continue initiation, but the only way out was death.
Nothing to take lightly.
Somehow, it makes sense that four of the group might be trying to destroy us from the inside. Maybe bartering secrets, siphoning off riches… ending lives?
Goosebumps rise on my arms.
The calculated, uncanny billionaires revered in these halls could make most fictional villains blush with their ruthlessness. We sit among traitors. Catching Eric’s eye, I know he may be the only person I trust going forward.
For an hour, I sit silent while the noisiest among us hurl insults and call names. Aaron paces the entire time, interjecting when it gets loud enough that no one is being heard.
The meeting adjourns, but I remain in my seat.
So does Eric.
Genuine fear alights his face when he stands to dig a piece of paper from his pants pocket. He shoves it into my hand before Aaron is back at the table. “This was in my backpack.”
The enemy is among us.
Terrifying words to read. Who left it?
Aaron reenters the room after realizing Eric isn’t behind him, putting an end to our discussion.
Aaron leans against the stone wall with his arms crossed. “Well, Henry, have you figured it out yet?”
Not fond of admitting he has the upper hand over me, I shrug. Aaron Rothschild gets off on being superior. I’ve never understood Eric liking him. Not at all. My friends and I don’t. He’s been brutal toward Biz.
But there isn’t an explanation before Eric yells, “Oh, fuck. What does that mean?”
We all stare, stunned, at the elaborate stone clock on the south wall.
It’s running again.
It’s been nonfunctioning since we started meeting here.
Wait a damn minute.
My skin crawls. This is not good.
“Are you blinking in Morse code? Biz?”
In our hurry to leave the Great Hall, Eric, Aaron, and I weren’t as careful as we usually are.
After checking to see if there was a logical reason for the clock restarting, we determined there most definitely was not.
Stumbling upon Bizzy, who was clearly looking for an entrance to the chapel, I knew I’d have to come up with a reasonable excuse for being with them.
Seeing us, she tried to hide. Fortunately, I’m the only one that saw her.
“Huh. Could be. Why were you traipsing around in the dark, in the basement of the Great Hall with Eric and Aaron? What in the world is going on with that?”
“Nah-uh, let’s deal with you trying to break into the chapel. You’re lucky it was just me who saw you. Aaron would turn you in.”
“Henry Richard Tullis. Are you part of that secret club with its mystery membership? Is that why? It’s just all the best-looking guys congregating in the Great Hall to… do what? Are you the ones planting the cherry bombs?” She chuckles to herself.
Rumors always abound that a secret society exists, but it’s only speculation. We have a vested interest in keeping it quiet. Big life-or-death deal.
“Right. No thanks. I have enough weird things in my life. Hey… are you saying I’m good-looking? Aw, Biz. That’s special.” I mock her, placing my hands over my heart.
She tells me the main floor of the chapel and the basement are both locked up tight, but she thinks there’s a secret door going somewhere.
My pulse picks up. There is. To the cellar where the Sanctum is. “It’s probably mechanical.”
She’s not going to accept that explanation. I know my best friend. Biz isn’t going to give up until she sees the painting up close or gets through that door.
“Ahhh… fine, shit, fine. Let’s go.” I turn her by the elbow. “If you insist on doing this, I’ll aid and abet. Just this once.”
Who am I kidding? I’ll do anything to keep her safe. If she stumbles onto the secret of the House of Eights, it could mean her life.