Chapter 18 #2
My throat tightened as his words hit me. These women hadn’t been hired to dance at all. They were here for an entirely different form of entertainment, and now I was trapped amongst them, expected to do the same. If any of these men chose me… if they expected me to…
I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't let myself spiral. I'd figure it out. I had to.
“Everyone got it?” the man went on. Most of the girls murmured in agreement. “Good. Positions, everyone.”
I drifted toward the edge of the chamber with the others, my eyes darting across the enormous space.
From up here, the center platform looked like a stage, or maybe an altar.
Inlaid symbols wound across the stone floor in intricate spirals, their grooves filled with some dark, glossy substance that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
The sound of a deep, resonant gong split the heavy air. The low vibration rolled through the vast chamber like a heartbeat, and all around me, the other girls straightened where they stood along the perimeter.
Then came the drumbeats. Slow. Primal.
From a wide arched doorway at the far end of the chamber, the first figures began to appear. Men in black robes, their faces hidden behind stark white masks. The initiates, presumably.
They filed in two by two, their movements disciplined but uncertain, as if they’d practiced but were still scared of doing something wrong. They gathered in a half-circle near the center of the room, just outside the ring of symbols inlaid on the floor.
The drumbeats grew louder.
A second group entered; men wearing the same black robes, but with half-masks the color of midnight. I couldn’t be sure of their position in the society, but they clearly weren’t new. They carried themselves like men who knew they owned the world, their heads high, their strides unhurried.
Then, finally, the last group appeared.
They moved with quiet authority, and the air in the chamber seemed to shift around them. Their masks were gold, catching the flicker of candlelight and throwing it back in molten ribbons. A few of the girls beside me drew in audible breaths as the gilded figures approached the altar at the center.
At their head was a tall man with a commanding presence, his golden mask shaped into the face of a serene god. When he lifted his hand, the entire chamber fell silent.
“Brothers,” he began, his deep voice echoing from the stone walls. “Welcome to the feast of Dionysus.”
The red candles in the chamber flickered, as if stirred by an invisible breath in response to his words.
“We gather tonight to honor those who have proven themselves worthy of initiation,” he continued.
“Our newest brothers stand at the threshold of transformation. To those brothers… you will begin your training soon. And when you return next year, by your sophomore season, you will wear the black masks of the Reapers. You will serve the society and pay your dues in full. Three years of service… for a lifetime of privilege.”
Murmurs rippled through the ranks of masked men. I frowned as I watched them, wondering what a Reaper was, and what they did to ‘serve’ the Club.
The leader paused, his gaze sweeping over them. Even from this distance, I could sense the pride radiating from him; the confidence of a man who truly believed he ruled an empire.
“Of course,” he went on, a wry note threading his voice, “not all of our brothers could attend tonight’s ceremony. Many of them have… pressing engagements. They are scattered across the globe, carrying the mark of Dionysus into the highest echelons of power.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the gathered men.
“One of them is busy running the United States,” the leader said dryly. “Another is somewhere in the Middle East, closing an oil deal worth billions. And one, I suspect, is still nursing his hangover from last week’s yacht party in Monaco.”
Laughter again; low, knowing, self-satisfied.
“But regardless of where our brothers dwell,” he said, his tone sharpening, “they all remember what it means to wear the mask. To serve. To take what is offered and to sacrifice what is required. Dionysus gives freely to those who prove themselves… and takes everything from those who fail.”
The last line hung in the air like smoke. Even from my corner of the chamber, I could feel the importance of it.
The initiates stood completely still, their white masks catching the flicker of the candles, while the gold-masked men began to chant, softly at first, then louder.
The sound rose and fell in rhythmic waves, echoing through the stone vaults above.
It wasn’t English. It sounded ancient. Greek, I guessed, based on the Dionysus name.
I swallowed hard behind my mask.
“Before you take your first step into the brotherhood,” the leader continued, “you must prove your dedication.”
He extended a hand, and one of the other gold-masked men approached with a polished silver tray. Upon it lay a ceremonial dagger. Beside it was a large silver goblet that appeared to be filled with red wine.
The leader took the dagger and raised it high. “Step forward, Daniel Northmont.”
I froze as the name hit me like a slap. Daniel Northmont. Jeremiah’s stepbrother.
One of the white-masked initiates detached himself from the line and approached the dais.
“Your hand,” the leader said.
Daniel obeyed, and the leader turned the dagger, pressing the blade to his palm in a quick, practiced slice. The young man winced but didn’t flinch as blood welled up and dripped down his wrist.
The leader caught a drop in the goblet, then lifted the cup, swirling it through the crimson liquid before holding it out. “Drink, and be reborn as one of us.”
Daniel hesitated just a fraction of a second, then raised the goblet to his lips and drank. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, feet stamping, voices rising in a dark chant that echoed off the stone walls.
“Blood given. Brother reborn.”
The next initiate stepped forward after his name was called, and the ritual repeated. My stomach twisted tighter with each one. The rhythmic chanting, the smell of blood and spiced wine, the gold-masked men looking down like gods judging mortals… it was mesmerizing and horrifying all at once.
The leader’s voice rang out once more, commanding the hall. “Now, initiates… be welcomed into the Dionysus Club, and enjoy the first fruits of your success!”
The drums roared back to life. Goblets clashed. Candles flared. The ritual dissolved into celebration, but I could hardly hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
The girls around me began to descend from the perimeter ledge in a glittering wave of gold. At the same time, black-clad waiters emerged from a service entrance on the other side of the chamber, carrying trays laden with food and drinks.
I forced my legs to move, following the other girls down into the chamber. The air felt thicker here, heavy with incense and the metallic tang of blood still lingering from the ceremony.
I kept my head angled down, my movements slow and deliberate as I wove between clusters of men.
Laughter erupted somewhere to my left, and a girl's high-pitched giggle answered it.
All around me, the other women were draping themselves over the masked figures, offering whispered promises and soft touches.
I just needed to stay invisible. Blend in. Survive until I could figure out how to get out of this place without attracting attention.
My breath suddenly caught in my throat.
One of the black-masked men had just lowered the hood of his robe, and even in the flickering candlelight, I knew those shoulders. That jawline. The dark ink curling up his neck and disappearing beneath his robe.
Julian.
His mask covered the upper half of his face, but I'd memorized every other detail. The sharp angle of his jaw. The shape of his lips. The way he held himself, coiled tension barely contained. Those eyes, visible through the mask's cutouts, scanning the crowd with predatory awareness.
My heart hammered against my ribs, and I turned slightly, angling my face away, praying he wouldn't look in my direction. My hair was still a slightly lighter shade than usual, because Cherry’s spray hadn’t washed all the way out yet.
Plus there was the gold half-mask and the bright red lipstick that I'd usually never wear. So maybe he wouldn't recognize me.
Still, I needed to get the hell out of here. Now.
I took a careful step backward, trying to melt into the shifting crowd of bodies and candlelight. Another step. Almost to the edge of the chamber where the shadows were deepest.
Suddenly, Julian’s gaze locked onto me. Time seemed to fracture as those piercing eyes held mine for one suspended heartbeat, and I was certain he saw straight through the mask, the makeup, the costume. Saw me.
But then he looked away, as if I were nothing more than another faceless girl, and turned to grab a drink.
I released a shaky breath, but before I could move, a figure materialized in front of me. A man in a gold mask, older, his robe hanging open enough to reveal an expensive suit underneath.
“Well, hello there,” he said, his voice thick with entitlement. He reached toward me. “I think you—"
Suddenly Julian stepped directly into his path. The movement was smooth, almost casual, but his broad frame blocked me entirely from the other man's view. He didn't acknowledge me. Didn't even glance back. Just stood there, a wall of muscle and ink between me and the other man.
“Excuse me,” the other man said, irritation creeping into his tone. “I was just—”
Julian interrupted him. “I was hoping to run into you, Rockwell,” he said, his voice that familiar low rumble that sent a dark thrill cascading through my nervous system.
Yup. Definitely him. “My father wants to discuss something with you. Something about the lobbying down in DC. Sounded pretty important.”
“Ah. I better go find him, then.”
The man turned away, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.