Eulogia

Chapter 21 #3

“He’s paranoid,” I say. “But he’s predictable. The moment he catches wind that Martine is being flaunted around like a prize, that I’m letting the doors open, he’ll assume it’s his easiest time to make a move against her. He won’t resist getting a closer look.”

Archie runs a hand down his face, then lets it drop into his lap. “So you’re dangling your wife like raw meat to draw out a man who has no plan other than murdering her.”

“Exactly.”

He stares at me. “And what if he brings backup? You’re throwing a party, not running a fortress.”

“I’ve accounted for that,” I say. “Security will be masked as staff. Every entrance is monitored, and every license plate is logged. If he so much as breathes near the perimeter, I’ll know.”

“And if Martine finds out?”

I pause for just a second.

“She won’t,” I say.

Archie whistles through his teeth. “You'd better hope not. She’s already unpredictable when she’s happy.”

“She won’t be touched.”

He studies me, jaw tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“No,” I reply. “I’m ending one.”

The iron gates of Eulogia swing open without a word. The car hums along the gravel path, the tires crunching like bone underfoot.

Even after all these years, the grounds still look like something out of a dream. Manicured hedges, trees older than the country itself, the looming silhouette of the main building watching over it all like a god.

Archie leans forward as we approach the lower path. “Never gets less eerie, does it?”

“No,” I say. “I think that’s the point.”

I take the unpaved road toward the back end of the property. No student tours ever get close. We park under the thicket of black pines, where the canopy eats the light, and the air runs colder.

We step out into the silence.

The mausoleum stands just ahead, framed by ivy and the passage of time. Heavy stone columns, a perfectly tended gate that never squeaks, and a door that only opens for the right kind of key. The Brotherhood of Death keys.

Archie adjusts his coat as we walk.

“Feels like walking into confession.”

“This place isn’t for confessing.”

I press my hand to the inset panel on the side of the mausoleum—the lock disengages with a mechanical click. Stone gives way, and the door opens inward on perfectly balanced hinges.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old wax, wet stone, and something metallic beneath the surface, like blood dried onto cold marble. The torches lining the walls flicker to life in sequence, responding to movement. Ritual tech. Our blend of old and new timeless control.

We walk through the antechamber in silence. Beneath our feet, the floor is etched with names no one outside the Society would dare to say aloud. Dead men. Former leaders. Martyrs and monsters. Those who kept their mouths shut and those who bled for it.

At the center of the main chamber, the others are already arriving.

Louis Belmont stands near the altar, lighting a cigar with the ceremonial flame like it's a casual Tuesday. Hudson Taft’s in conversation with Saxton Morgan, their silhouettes sharp under the low light.

No one raises their voice here. There’s no need.

Archie leans in toward me, his tone quiet but amused. “So what’s the agenda tonight? Sacrifice or strategy?”

“Both, probably,” I say, nodding hello to Dashell Cure, who’s lighting his cigar in the corner by the cigar box cabinet. “But I’ll take strategy first.”

Archie grins. “How civilized.”

I scan the room. Each of us is wearing the same ring. Branded and bound to The Brotherhood of Death. We don’t meet like this often, only when something’s coming.

And something is.

The torches along the chamber walls burn low, their flames steady, casting sharp shadows across the marble floor. The stone table at the center is already surrounded. No one sits. This is not a place for comfort. It is a place for decisions, for orders, for consequences.

Chairman Creekmore nods once, and the murmuring dies.

One by one, we take our places, a loose circle around the altar.

Saxton Morgan exhales smoke through his nose, already bored, while Hudson Taft slips his phone into his coat as if he had never been looking at it.

Eyes shift to Creekmore as he steps forward, his expression carved from stone.

His voice is clean and cold as his eyes immediately shift to me.

"We need an update on the girl."

The room stills.

He does not say her name. He doesn’t need to.

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I pause, understanding that what I say next could change the course of my entire plan, and I need to be cautious of my words.

Creekmore's voice sharpens. "Because of your hesitation and delay of your assignment, the Chosen Ceremony had to be pushed back."

"She was never a threat," I say flatly.

"That is irrelevant," he snaps, stepping toward the flame. "She was supposed to be eliminated."

The word lands like a blow.

It echoes through the stone chamber and seems to cling to the walls. No one reacts. Not yet. Not visibly. But every man in the room shifts slightly, as if the temperature had just changed.

Hudson frowns. "Wait, that was Hayden’s directive?"

"Three weeks ago," Creekmore says. "After the Huntington-Russell murder breach. Her name came up twice in our investigation. Once through her uncle. Once on the Belmont trail. She became a liability because of her parentage."

"She is not a liability," I say, my voice low.

Creekmore turns toward me. "She is a loose end. We do not let those live."

"I’ll have to formally request that we do," I reply.

Saxton gives a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip. "Careful, Herron. Sounds like you're getting sentimental."

I keep my eyes forward, voice even. "She stays."

Hudson blinks. "Why? What changed?"

The room holds its breath.

I look up, letting it hit. The other guys are so interested in my pushback that they forget they’re interrupting the Chairman.

"She is my wife."

Saxton lets out a low whistle. "No one told me this was going to be an interesting meeting."

Hudson just stares at me. "You married her?"

"The assignment started with her mother. But the girl became central. Then things changed, and she became important to me."

"You do not control something like her," Creekmore growls. "You eliminate it. You do not go against orders."

"I made a call," I say. "And by the rules of the Society, now that she’s my wife, she remains alive."

The Chairman finally speaks. His voice is calm, but beneath it lies something colder.

"You should have come to us."

"I acted in the interest of the Brotherhood, and I had to act quickly. This doesn’t change the outcome of my assignment," I reply.

The Chairman steps forward, placing one hand on the altar.

His ring catches the firelight. "Then she is yours to manage. If she falters, you will be held accountable for her. Alone. You don’t get to make your own choices like this and be sloppy.

She was already assigned to someone else, and you fucked that up.

If this becomes a mess, it’s your job alone to clean up. "

"I understand."

The room is silent again, but it is a different kind of quiet now. The air has shifted. Every man here is recalculating.

Creekmore steps in closer, jaw tight, eyes sharp with insult.

“You don’t get to make unilateral calls like this, Herron. You’re not above the chain of command.”

I hold his gaze. “I’m not beneath it either.”

His voice rises, no longer calm. “This isn’t a personal playground. You don’t get to marry the daughter of a Legacy member just because you feel like rewriting protocol. The next time you act without clearance, there will be consequences.”

I don’t blink.

“You’ll have to get in line.”

Creekmore’s lip curls, the threat in his eyes undisguised now, but I challenge him anyway.

“We’ll be at the ceremony.”

Before a higher-ranked Chairman can intervene, I speak again.

“There’s more at stake than one girl and her bloodline. You think I’m reckless, but I’m the one with my hands in the dirt. And when this is over, when I put the final piece on the table, you’ll understand why I made the call.”

Saxton raises a brow, interested now. “And what final piece would that be?”

I look around the room, deliberate and slow.

“I have information on the Huntington-Russell family. Something no one else in this room has. Something that cannot be shared yet. But when it drops, it will reframe everything we know about my assignment.”

Creekmore looks like he’s about to explode. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not,” I say. “And every decision I’ve made will make sense in the end. Every tough call will be worth it. I guarantee it.”

A long beat of silence.

Then Archie, who’s been leaning against the far wall with the smug detachment of a bored aristocrat, finally speaks.

“Well, if we’re throwing around family secrets and impromptu marriages, I’d like to confess I once slept with a Taft cousin on a dare.”

Hudson Taft turns to him, visibly disgusted. The Tafts are a large family with multiple siblings and cousins attending Eulogia, “Which one of my sisters, you bastard?”

“I never learned her name,” Archie replies with a wink. “But she was lovely.”

Even Creekmore can’t hide the flicker of disdain as the room shifts from fury to uneasy amusement.

But I don’t laugh.

I keep my eyes on the altar, the flame, the men who will try to test me now.

Let them.

They think they know how far I’ll go, but honestly, they don’t.

Not yet.

Creekmore isn’t done. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the way his hand curls into a fist at his side. He steps forward again, crowding the space, daring me to flinch.

“You’re going to need to give us something,” he says, voice low and cutting. “You went against the directive, broke the chain of command, and married without permission. That’s not loyalty, Herron. That’s disobedience, whether she’s a Legacy in this Society or not.”

My expression doesn’t change. “I’m aware of what I’ve done.”

“Then make it right,” he snaps. “You say you have information. Prove it. Give us something now. Something real. Or you answer for it tonight.”

The others shift slightly. The tension sharpens. Even the Chairman says nothing. He wants to see if I’ll bend.

I look at Creekmore. Measured. Unmoving.

“It has to do with Martine,” I say quietly. “She’s not a Huntington-Russell.”

That gets their attention.

Hudson’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about? It’s documented. The lineage is public. You can’t just claim the daughter of a Legacy isn’t a Legacy after all.”

“That’s the lie,” I say.

Saxton’s cigar pauses halfway to his mouth. “Then who is she?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“You don’t get to play games here,” Creekmore growls.

“I’m not playing. I’m protecting what’s valuable. When I reveal it, everything you thought you knew about that family will detonate. About our alliances. About why the Douglass situation exists at all. But right now, it stays with me.”

“Convenient,” Creekmore says with venom. “You expect us to sit on our hands while you keep secrets from the inner circle?”

“I expect you to trust me,” I say, voice cold. “I expect you to understand that timing is everything. If I play that card too early, it loses its value. Right now, it’s worth the entire board.”

Archie mutters, half under his breath, “He’s been spending too much time with his wife. He sounds bratty.”

Creekmore ignores him, eyes locked on mine. “You’re gambling with the Brotherhood.”

“No,” I say. “I’m protecting it.”

The more senior Chairman finally moves, his voice slicing through the tension.

“He has until the end of the quarter,” he says. “If nothing is delivered by then, we reevaluate. We’ll see you all at the Chosen Ceremony in two weeks.”

Creekmore’s mouth is a thin line, but he nods.

So do I.

I’ve bought time.

But not much.

And now they know there’s a secret hidden inside Martine’s bloodline. One they never saw coming.

The discussion shifts.

Creekmore steps back into line, though his glare lingers. The more senior Chairman speaks next, voice smooth and measured, as he begins moving through the rest of the agenda. Funding approvals. A failed acquisition in Marrakesh. A list of members currently under surveillance.

I listen. I contribute. I nod where I’m expected to nod.

But my mind is already elsewhere. Timing. Entrances. Surveillance blind spots at the estate. Where Douglass will try to slip in. Where I’ll be waiting when he does.

When the final matter is dismissed, the senior Chairman lifts a hand. “We’re adjourned.”

The torches flicker once and begin to extinguish, one by one. Ritual obeyed. Conversation ceases. Each man peels away into the corridor in silence, as always. No handshakes. No farewells.

Outside, the wind has picked up. It cuts through the trees like a whisper.

Archie and I walk side by side to the car, our footsteps crunching over gravel and damp leaves. The sky above is ink-black now, stars scattered like salt across velvet.

We get in.

The engine turns over, and I pull away from the mausoleum, letting the tires eat the distance back toward the main road. Neither of us speaks for a while. The silence is different now—not formal, but heavy. Tired.

Finally, Archie exhales and leans his head back against the seat.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “I do.”

He gives a dry laugh. “You always say that right before everything goes to hell.”

“This won’t.”

“You sure about that? You just told a room full of assassins and psychopaths that your new wife is sitting on a nuclear secret, and you refuse to share it. Plus, she doesn’t even know the secret!”

“She’s safe.”

“I don’t care if only she’s safe,” Archie says. “I care if we’re all safe.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He grins faintly. “I’m flattered.”

I turn onto the final stretch toward his townhouse, a row of limestone buildings cloaked in ivy and old money.

As we pull to a stop, he opens the door, pauses, then looks back at me with that same crooked smile.

“See you Saturday. At your stupid party.”

I glance at him. “Don’t be late.”

He salutes with two fingers. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can’t wait to see what fresh chaos you serve with the hors d’oeuvres.”

Then he’s gone, coat flaring behind him as he disappears up the stairs.

I watch the door close behind him, then shift into drive.

The Brotherhood thinks I made a mistake, but what they don’t know is how much information I truly have. How much about the Huntington-Russells I really do know. How very undead some of them truly are, and the information I can leverage because of it.

But Saturday will prove otherwise.

One way or another.