Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hart
As I look around the Sanctum table at the other House of Eights members, I can’t help but wonder who is working against our best interests.
Eric has grown quiet, immersed in swimming.
Laird agrees with everything JJ says and does.
Kaitlyn is insistent we don’t know enough about the past.
Masaki is focused on the disasters.
Rett won’t let go of the treasure angle.
Rippley looks more suicidal every time I see him.
Ellis is skeptical of it all.
JJ is letting himself get distracted.
Mya knows more about Tullis than she’ll say.
Amadeo does whatever Mya tells him to.
Soren wants to explore what The Divinities paintings could mean.
And me, I want to stop this. The clock, the disaster, the growing divide within the Eights.
It’s nice to see Ripp has pulled his head out of Rett’s backside. A welcome change.
“While a third of our members were playing patty-cake at Highfair Estate last week, the rest of us were busy trying to get information,” I remind them.
“I contacted the past Scribes who are still alive,” Kaitlyn says. “Each one believes the last time the jaws on the clock were open was in 1988. The year Tullis was Scribe.”
The current House of Eights members only know the identities of the Scribe and Regents from past years, all the way back to the House’s inception. It’s an attempt to limit the flow of information and control access to it.
We don’t have member lists. The guarded secrets remain that way, even from us.
We’re told what to do, and when to do it…
But now that’s changing. The past is creeping up on us.
What does it all mean?
Are they even intelligent enough to pull off the kind of Machiavellian plots I want to pin on them?
“That’s unhelpful, seeing as he’s dead,” Mya says sarcastically.
“He’s dead because he knew something,” Rippley says.
“Obviously,” Rett mutters under his breath.
Nasty looks are exchanged between them.
“Who was Regent?” JJ asks.
“Dr. Fraine’s father,” I answer, sincerely hoping we don’t explore that further. I’m working on that alone, heeding the warnings in my dreams.
“Ellis, did you get the registered Rockefeller Amherst student list from 1988? We might not know who the members were besides Tullis, but it’s a start.”
He shrugs, screwing his mouth to one side. “It was before the digital age. I’m working on it. I was a little busy researching a racehorse. Sorry.”
“Keep working on it. Side note: great time management, man,” I swear under my breath.
How do I make them understand what’s at stake? Am I the only one having these dreams?
“Is everyone clear on their roles during Winter Break? Who’s going where?”
We’re being used.
I want to shout at the top of my lungs.
We’re pawns in their games. Sick, twisted, power-hungry games.
“About that…” JJ rubs the back of his neck. “Can I bring someone along?”
Mya huffs. “Not if you’re talking about your girlfriend.”
Rippley flinches. His chair scrapes across the floor as he shoves away from the table.
“It’s not a vacation, Josh. It could be dangerous.”
Rett weighs in. “Hart’s not in charge. Neither are you, Ripp. If JJ wants her along, and I do too, she goes.”
“If you…” Ripp’s eyes widen. “What does that mean? Are you seeing her too?”
Clocked it ages ago. Her working them both.
They answer at the same time.
“None of your business,” JJ snaps.
“Yes. Yes, we are,” Rett admits.
Ripp angrily wipes a hand over his mouth. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
I look over at Eric, who has spent the entire meeting staring off into space.
“Hey, Van Cleave. Where did you get with that anonymous letter we found hidden in the safe? Is it a code? Anything?”
He blinks rapidly and looks at me blankly. “What?”
“Eric, man, are you okay?” JJ asks.
I’ve been wondering the same thing. First, he seemed to be in a trance standing on the ledge of the clock tower, which was more than a little concerning. Now he loses track of days and forgets what he’s doing.
“I’m… the letter?” He nods to himself. “I’m researching methods to look for hidden messages in the paper itself.”
Hoping for some crucial development during this meeting, I’m growing frustrated.
Everyone eyes each other around the table.
Laird clears his throat and coughs before saying, “A cathedral in Spain and another in Italy burned to the ground overnight from unknown causes. An avalanche in the Dolomites killed fifty-six people and destroyed half a village. The recently named PRV2 virus has killed a total of seventy-three people. Maybe none of it is more than coincidence… or maybe…”
He lets the words hang in the air.
We don’t know. If our dreams are to be believed, it’s all connected. We’re connected.
He’s been tasked with reporting global natural disasters or “accidents.”. Originally, we were told it was for investment purposes. Now I think it was always more than that.
Deep down, I feel a fight coming. Starting here, in this room.
Everyone is already debating whether it matters… the world around us.
Masaki waves me over, lowering his voice. “A major communication grid was knocked out overnight, stretching from Austria up to Finland and east into Russia. Globalcom is scrambling. No clue how it happened. Not yet anyway.”
He’s our tech genius, always tracking the pulse of networks, watching the ruthless way money drives technology forward while stripping away the human element.
“Don’t tell Dr. Fraine,” I whisper back to him. “Actually, whatever you find going forward… hide it in that place we talked about. Only you, Eric, and I know about it. For now, let’s keep it that way.”
He nods. An understanding. He's shared similar dreams with both of us. We have to trust that.
There’s nothing else to go on yet.
High society has always thrived on tightly knit networks… family ties, old-school relationships, and shared social circles. Many events are less about enjoyment and more about reinforcing those connections.
These are the people that make the rules we play by. We ensure their lifestyles stay intact.
Discretion is the ultimate currency.
Elite schools and universities create an unspoken hierarchy, where your alma mater signals your place in the social order before you even say a word.
Truly established people downplay their wealth, choosing quiet luxury… a confidence that comes from not needing to prove anything. Real power is influence: guiding or shaping decisions without recognition.
The rules:
Don’t overshare.
Don’t flex connections.
Privacy has high value.
Don’t lower your standards.
A mastered neutral, expensive look: perfectly tailored basics, real leather accessories… no loud logos, no obvious trends. Crisp white button-down shirts, well-fitted trousers, and loafers.
All of it is a program to use us, just a pile of bullshit. It’s all poser behavior.
The House of Eights.
Be interesting. Have something real to offer. Have money. Be attractive. Otherwise, you’re shut out.
A world built on insecurity, on the pain of those crushed under the weight of corrupt power, greed, and immorality.
I want to be on the side of good. I want to believe we can stop what’s coming. Stop the threat or threats.
But until the battle comes, everyone has to keep seeing me as an arrogant, self-obsessed, unfeeling ass.
“...sacrifice the one… and is with sleep, love the breaking of your soul upon my lips…”
“...is clout chasing so hard,” Mya says as I walk past.
“Who?” I ask.
“Was I talking to you?” she sneers.
“Well, no one else is listening to you.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. It’s part of your undying charm.”
She doesn’t hate me. Well, not the real me. But I respect that she never changes her mind about a thing.
The meeting offers no real answers.
Rippley hangs back. I tell Eric I’ll meet up with him later.
“Got a second?” he asks.
“What’s up?”
He rubs his cheek. “The pages from JFK’s desk… the stuff about…” He exhales. “Do you believe what was written about the Divinities and a possible imposter?”
What the fuck am I supposed to make of that?
“We don’t have much to work with. I’d say we can’t afford to be careless.”
“Yeah. What about the part where an imposter will pretend to be sick… or weak… frail… how did it go?”
“Do you have suspicions about something?”
Rippley keeps himself distant from us. I’m probably the closest to him. He lost his mother to cancer, and his younger sister is disabled. He’s not very trusting.
He bites his lip, his face flushing. “Uh…”
“We don’t have time to second-guess ourselves.”
“It’s just… I think I was lied to. Bizzy Ahrens told me she’s…” He paces in front of me, like he’s debating whether he should say it out loud. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
He’s a House of Eights member. We don’t keep secrets for outsiders.
“No. You obviously want to tell me.”
“Hart… she said she’s sick, dying. But JJ and Rett… they’re both dating her and don’t know a thing about it. She only started dating them after Liz Timms began hanging around. This is going to sound crazy, I’ve been having these dreams…”
He goes on to describe the same dreams Eric, Masaki, and I have had.
“Thank you for telling me. For now, don’t say anything to JJ or Rett. They’ll only think you’re jealous.”
“Are you sure? What if—”
“I’m sure. And I think we need to do what House of Eights does best.”
“What’s that?” His face pales.
“Declare war on Bizzy Ahrens.”