Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
JJ (Josh)
Ican’t stop staring at her in awe.
She’s my girlfriend. A moving work of art, with eyes so expressive I feel like I can read her mind.
Mine. Ours. How can it feel so natural to share her with Rett?
Because of the dreams?
In a simple black dress, hair twisted up, she steps into the art exhibit and then stops. Her hand lifts to her throat.
“Sweetheart?”
Her face pales as she grips my hand.
“Oh, look at this,” Rett says beside us, not realizing she’s frozen. He points to a copy of Botticelli's The Birth of Venus.
One of the Regents is giving a presentation in the room.
“...John D. Rockefeller is widely considered the first billionaire in the United States and the wealthiest American in history. His fortune came from Standard Oil, which became the first great American business trust and went on to dominate the oil industry…”
I’m familiar with his history, just like every other Rock Am student is.
Hell, Rockefeller had accusations leveled against him that no one wants to talk about, like pushing petroleum-based products and plastics into nearly every facet of society, then profiting from the resulting health implications by expanding into hospitals.
Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Times have changed. It's all done in secret now.
I don’t think we use public humiliation and shame enough. Back in the day, it stopped a lot of people from doing a lot of things.
The Regent goes on about the Rockefeller name and legacy being synonymous with authority, power, and leadership. Blah, blah, blah.
Rett has pulled Bizzy away to meet a friend of his while I peek out into the hall at the painting I want her to see most: The Divinities.
It’s locked behind glass, alarmed and displayed near the Chapel.
A sudden compulsion to leave, to avoid the painting altogether, catches me off guard.
It’s the whole reason I wanted to bring her here.
Then I spot Hart standing near it.
A cocky expression firmly in place. He tips his champagne flute toward me, catches my eye, and with a slight nod, fixes me with a glare.
What does he care about art?
Is he here on House business, or is this about Bizzy?
That daggum…
We leave the Renaissance display and start toward The Divinities painting when Bizzy reaches out to steady herself against the wall. Her shoulders sag slightly.
She excuses herself to the restroom.
“Is she alright?” I ask Rett.
“I honestly don’t know. But maybe we didn’t let her sleep enough last night.”
We continue down the hall to Hart.
“Surprised to see you here,” I say, keeping an eye out for Bizzy.
“I imagine.”
The smirk and tone are exactly what I’ve come to expect from him.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he takes another sip of his champagne. “Back in the day, they would’ve referred to her as a homie hopper.”
He’s trying to rile us up.
Rett looks ready to unleash.
“Can you imagine how many people dislike you because they never heard your side of the story?” I ask.
“They’d dislike me even more if they did,” he says calmly. Then he glances past us. “Here she comes.”
Bizzy forces a smile. I notice her arms trembling slightly.
“Sorry about that. Champagne before noon is a no-go for me.”
Except she didn’t take a sip from the glass I handed her. She set it down a minute later.
“Here it is.” I gesture toward the painting, still dumbfounded by its sheer magnificence.
She tilts her head slightly, her mouth dropping open.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask.
Rett adds, “It’s part of a collection.”
She looks at me, tears filling her eyes. “I-I…”
Her hands fly to her mouth as a gasp escapes.
Before any of us can say a word, she runs from the Great Hall.
Hart raises an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“Fuck off,” Rett says, turning to him as we hustle after her.
Her reaction to the painting leaves me feeling off-kilter.
Second meeting in four days, but we’re all feeling the pressure to sort out what the signs mean.
Even though Biz claims to have a virus, a growing sense of unsteadiness is taking hold.
Please don’t disappear from my life.
“I delivered soup and flowers and tucked her into bed. She’s fine. Chill,” Rett says.
I’m impressed. He’s never maintained more than a situationship, but he’s showing dedication.
Ellis arrives late in his gym clothes.
“Kegs, shoulders, gains and bros, gains and bros…” I sing softly to Rett, and we both snicker.
“Something funny, Jameson?” Hart asks. “World devastation a real riot to you?”
Mmm… he’s a problem solver and a problem starter.
“I take it you’re in charge again today?” Who told him he was the head of The House of Eights? No one. He just does what he wants, all the time.
Eric looks up from the papers he’s reading.
I want him to speak up. He’s become a shell of himself. But he looks between us before staring up at the clock wall.
“There’s a message embedded on the sheet of paper,” he says.
We all look at him in shock. No one actually thought there would be one.
Standing up, he shoves the single-page parchment note to the center of the table. It reads in pencil: One house, divided falls.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a blue light and a bottle of liquid. He sprays it, then runs the light over the surface.
We lean in close. It says:
Sacrifice the one, deny the four, kneel the Sentinels, the eight to fight.
The enemy is among us, House of Eights
Rett and I exchange a look. The dreams we’ve been having repeat the first two lines. My heart drums in my chest.
The enemy? Eight fight, deny four.
“There are four people in this room who shouldn’t be here,” I say out loud, more to myself than anyone else.
Four enemies… among us.
Holy damn moly.
Everyone starts talking over each other.
Free will at its finest.
“Conspiracy theories are now known as spoiler alerts,” Laird says next to me.
Eric tries to get everyone to shut up, but no one is listening.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” I say, putting my hands out in mock command. “Shut the hell up and listen. Go ahead, Eric.”
“Doesn’t it make sense? House of Eights. Eight members. What if… what if, over time, four more people were planted in the ranks to stop the original eight from doing what they needed to?”
Who is it… who are the traitors here?
Hart crosses his arms. “I agree.”
I’m looking at my fellow members differently now. Is it Mya, who is openly defiant? Ellis, who acts like it’s all a joke? Hart, who takes control? Even with their faults, I can’t wrap my head around it.
“How the hell do we weed out the enemy?” Soren asks.
Good fucking question.
“Not to alarm everyone, but is anyone else worried about how fucking stupid this is?” Mya asks, rolling her eyes. “What’s the best way to divide a house? Plant suspicions. That letter was meant to stop us from getting anything done.”
The rest of our meeting is spent going over updates on the virus. Getting the student listing from 1988 is still a work in progress, and the winter break trip is going to be tricky.
“You need to be careful about Bizzy,” Ripp says to me before we leave for the night.
“Mmm… jealousy is an ugly thing, Ripp. Do we need to worry about whether you’re a traitor?”
He hangs his head before speaking softly, “She’s playing games. She’s not who or what you think she is. Just… be careful, okay?”