Chapter 52 Elle
ELLE
I wake with a start on a hard surface, my eyes covered, and drenched from head to toe in sweat and urine.
A part of me wants to believe it’s water, but the acrid scent assaulting my nose leaves no room for interpretation.
The second thing I smell is smoke with a hint of burnt flesh—that isn’t an aroma you can forget, no matter how hard you might try. Chatter echoes around me, quiet but present enough that I can use it to determine where I’m at exactly.
My heart plummets as I concentrate, noting the way the noise seems to carry down narrow passages and bounce off solid overhead structures.
I’m in the caves.
I can feel it in the cool air that lashes against my skin when I’m hauled to my knees by my armpit. The ground is harsh on my joints when I land, but I swallow my wince, unwilling to reveal anything to people I can’t even see.
Only a coward strikes someone when they’re not expecting it—because they can’t risk their victim fighting back.
When I get my hands on the person who attacked me, I’ll gouge their fucking eyes out.
A solitary thought crosses my mind, temporary reprieve from the nightmare: Did Sutton show up for me? Is he waiting, hoping I come?
What will he think if I don’t show?
And then, a more horrible thought than that: He didn’t write the note.
He wasn’t trying to meet up with me at all.
Agony strikes my heart, and I hang my head a little.
Idiot. And now look what fucking trouble you’re in.
Why is this stuff always happening to you, Elle?
Footsteps approach me, soft and short, stopping a foot or so away. I peer through my blindfold, trying to get even just a hint of a silhouette past the fabric, but it’s too thick to see anything at all.
“Noelle Rose Anderson. Granddaughter of Deidre Anderson. Descendant of Cronus Anderson. Anathema. Have you come to stake your claim in our organization?”
Fear grips my muscles. “I’m not sure who you are exactly, so…”
The blindfold is ripped away, and I’m met with thick, putrid darkness—so dark, the only thing I can see is the iridescent, oblong gold mask three inches from my face. A serpent winds around the outer edge, curling up so its mouth extends into the air just above the wearer’s head.
“Avernia’s long awaited a proper Death’s Maiden. You volunteered your service and, as such, are expected to carry out the responsibilities of loyalty and honor. Do you accept this role?”
It’s a woman’s voice, distorted by some sort of technology.
Who brought me here?
How do they know it was me who volunteered?
Though I want to believe it was a random member, someone simply coming to collect a debt they were owed, the fact that the whole note from Sutton was likely fabricated makes me highly suspicious. That person would’ve had to know we’re an item and would also have to know we’re having issues.
They’d be close.
My veins seem to constrict as the possibilities race through my mind in an endless parade of anxiety.
Also, the person before me used my full name, even though the whole point of Death’s Teeth is anonymity.
They know me. Intimately.
They know I’m an Anderson.
Unease sparks on my shoulders. On either side of the serpent-masked figure, lanterns flicker to life, illuminating just enough so that I can see we’re situated in one corner of the square stage built into Tartarus.
I can feel a crowd below, watching the action up here. Anticipating their show.
Nausea rolls through me, sudden and alarming. I don’t want to be here.
Leather cracks against itself, the sound reverberating in my ear. A beat later, I feel a tingling on my lobe, and when I reach up, I feel a drop of blood beading on my skin. The serpent-masked figure leans in, and I notice the whip they clutch in one hand.
She just whipped me.
If I previously had any belief that Death’s Teeth was a farcical organization, even after what I’ve seen with my own eyes, that idea is fading rapidly.
“What happens if I don’t accept the responsibility?” I ask in a low, quiet voice.
The figure chuckles softly. Their voice is somewhat familiar, but I can’t be sure of their identity because the cloak hides everything. And I can’t imagine anyone I’ve met being this willing to pull me into deep shit.
Not even Sabrina, who dragged me into it in the first place. She wouldn’t do this.
Right?
There it is, still hacking away at my resolve: the kernel of hope I’ve carried that whispers maybe everyone isn’t out to get me. Maybe I can get ahead by merit alone, and maybe people don’t give in to their selfish urges when left to their own devices.
But I’m living proof of the exact opposite.
When given the choice between fighting and taking the easy way out, I opt for the latter with hardly any questions asked.
It’s why I wound up lost that night eight years ago, why I ran off to LA and fucked up majorly there, and why I’m sitting here even now.
The path of least resistance is paved with insecurity.
“If you refuse,” the masked figure says, reaching to grab my chin with their bony fingers, “you die. And so does he.”
Brow furrowing, I try to jerk away from her grip, but she squeezes my jaw and motions with her hand to someone behind her. Two more anonymous members enter the stage area, rolling some sort of apparatus between them. It takes me a second to adjust as they emerge from the shadows.
A large wooden pole supports a man’s weight. He’s bound to it, his legs encased in a rectangular barrier. The scent of kerosene or gasoline becomes pungent, invading my senses as I stare at the new additions.
Based on the lighter color of his skin, it’s not Lexington. And I know it’s not Sutton—these people may be chaotic, but killing their esteemed member seems a little unruly, even for them.
Which means it’s either Asher or—
Percy’s face is a mix of horror and confusion when the hood is ripped off him. A cloth is tied around his face, shoved between his lips, keeping him gagged even as the situation registers.
His body trembles when we make eye contact, and he screams, the noises tearing from deep within his chest.
Tension knots through me, making breathing difficult. He didn’t even come with us that night, so he has no clue what’s happening.
Pure panic laces his eyes, and tears begin streaming down his cheeks as a piece of cardboard is lit and brought close to the pyre he’s bound to.
“You can’t burn a person in here,” I say, forcing the words past my own fear. “Having any fire in a cave is reckless and stupid, but one that big would kill us all.”
“Death’s Teeth may be guided on this plane by the rules its humans have constructed to maintain a semblance of order and power,” the original masked figure says. “But our ultimate ruler is Death. Delaying the inevitable is all we were created for in the first place.”
“It makes no sense to torch something just because you didn’t get what you wanted.”
“Strong opinions from a woman known for doing whatever she pleases, damn the consequences.” The figure releases my face, reaching around to grab a fistful of my hair and yank my head back.
They lean above me, our faces dangerously close.
“Tell me, dear. When you volunteered yourself, did you have no intention of following through? Did you think Incarnate wouldn’t care if you were unfaithful?
Did you think this was a joke, or that we wouldn’t find out who you were? ”
“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t, and I haven’t been unfaithful.”
“A pity then that your friend will die for nothing.”
They bring the burning cardboard closer to Percy’s face, and he begins thrashing against his bindings, dislodging the gag long enough to shout my name. It echoes around the cavern, making my eardrums bleed.
“Elle, please!”
His sobs rattle my bones, and when the masked figure lets go of my hair, I kneel, pressing my face to the ground.
“Please!” I cry at their feet, clad in nylon stockings and nothing else.
Slender, feminine feet with a silver toe ring peeking through the material.
“Please don’t hurt him. He has nothing to do with any of this. Let him go.”
The figure stares at me for several long minutes, as if contemplating my plea. “Centuries ago, we had another Maiden beg for the life of someone she loved. It did not end well for her, but you already know that, don’t you?”
I lift my head but not my face, focusing on their ankles. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There’s only one campus entity who claims that sort of omnipotence. I curl my hands into fists, my breaths growing ragged as the cogs continue churning, my mind tentatively putting pieces together.
“What a shame you didn’t bother to read any more of my journals,” the figure says, stroking my hair.
My stomach drops.
Pythia.
This is Pythia standing before me.
Her identity remains a mystery, but still she reveals a piece of it.
“I’ll ask again,” Pythia says, digging her nails into the back of my neck. “Do you accept the responsibility you volunteered for, or are you relinquishing your claim to the your title and thus Death’s Teeth as a whole?”
“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to buy time. Her words are barely audible over the blood rushing between my ears, but I still want to try.
“You don’t need to,” she replies. “The machinations are of no consequence. You just do what you’re told, or you forfeit your right to be here. Choose wisely.”
“But I…” Glancing at Percy, who’s been gagged again by the masked figures next to him, a pit opens up inside my chest. My emotions fall inside, lost to the ether of terror reigning within.
The figure turns abruptly, nodding toward the members flanking Percy. His screams start up again through the fabric in his mouth as the fire comes closer to his face.
Tauntingly close, without touching.
They’re toying with him. A cat playing with its meal before devouring it whole.
And it’s my fault he’s here in the first place.
My fault we’re all about to die.
I glance around, wondering how many other innocent students are among the masked crowd.
How many students were tricked or forced into pledging their allegiance to a group that promised to do one thing and refused to release them from its clutches when it became clear their promises were nothing but lies?
Anxiety slices my stomach, but I sit up anyway, gritting my teeth. Sitting idly by isn’t an option.
Sutton doesn’t want me to participate, but the alternative is unacceptable.
Inhaling, I look up at the masked figure. Swallow over the acid burning my throat. Lift my chin.
“I don’t reject the Maiden. I’m going to do it. Let me do it.”
The figure’s smile is palpable as she speaks. “Fledglings, please assist the Maiden-hopeful in her preparations.”
Two or three masks appear around me, instantly grabbing at my clothes and tearing them from my body.
“Hey, wait!” I grunt, trying to keep them off as they scrape and burn, their touch leaving an inextinguishable fire in their wake.
They don’t listen, and within seconds, I’m stripped bare. My underwear is torn off, leaving me totally exposed. A tremor racks my body as I place my hands over myself, discomfort lining every nerve ending, making it hard for me to move.
Being naked in front of dozens of strangers—strangers you can’t even see—is more horrifying than I’d have expected.
It’s different when you’re in control. When you’re the one shedding the clothes, deciding on how much others get to see. Having that choice torn away is dehumanizing.
They leave only my choker, and I push my finger into the snake charm, trying to soak up some sort of motivation from it.
Serpents are resilient, sneaky, and misunderstood.
I shiver as I stand there, wondering if this is what they did to Sutton. To Bellamy. How long did they suffer knowingly? How long before the drugs or whatever they fed the pair took over and blocked out most of the actions?
A fresh wave of nausea ripples through my stomach. I try to focus on my breathing, doing my best not to hyperventilate despite the panic swelling in my chest like a tsunami wave.
“Bring in the beasts,” Pythia orders, and for a second, I’m terrified they’re going to make me fight some sort of wild animal.
Instead, two large, equally naked men are brought out, chained together at the ankles.
They’re wearing full-face golden masks, structured differently from the others I’ve seen so far—theirs have no holes anywhere.
The masks are solid, constructed with the likeness of a human face but otherwise unaltered.
Funerary masks. I’ve seen them in the anthologies about ancient Greece and Egypt in my parents’ home library, though never in person. They’re not meant to be worn but to memorialize the faces of the deceased.
Unease trickles down my spine, like tiny spiders crawling over each vertebra.
Maybe that’s exactly what they’re doing.
I shuffle back, bumping into the rope barrier surrounding the stage. They can’t make me fight men that large—especially at the same time.
Right?
“Cold feet?” Pythia asks, though she’s no longer visible. She hides within the shadows, watching me with a note of amusement lacing her words. “Don’t worry. It will be over before you know it.”
“What will?”
“Since you’re of cursed birth, we cannot trust that you’ll be faithful to Incarnate, so it’s only fair the rest of our members are allowed to taste you before you’re bound to him forever.”
The crowd gets a little louder, chattering excitedly. Hungry for blood.
Sweat pours down my face. I look over the two men: They’re at least half a foot taller than me and probably over a hundred pounds heavier. Scars and cuts mar their naked forms, indicating a history of these situations.
They want to force me to have sex with them in some display of loyalty?
I vaguely recall Sutton’s comment about there being some sex-related things involved in the Maiden induction, but I hadn’t expected something so violent.
My gaze flickers to Percy, who’s watching me with wide, glassy eyes. He gives a small shake of his head, as if trying to discourage me, even as he remains bound and gagged.
I nod slightly at him, hoping it feels reassuring.
The first blow comes out of nowhere—a fist against the side of my skull, knocking me onto my knees. In the seconds spent looking at Percy, the chained pair approached from behind and caught me off guard.
My vision blurs as my hands slap against the ground. I blink, not fully comprehending the sheer magnitude of fuckery that just happened, but when I manage to lift my face enough, I find Percy’s once more anyway.
At the same time Pythia drives a small knife into his chest.