19. Two Days Until Bonding
Chapter nineteen
Two Days Until Bonding
Laurel
“What do you think?” Samantha asks, holding out the ball gown.
“Red?” I reach for the fabric, letting the smooth material slide under my fingers. In the afternoon light, the color shifts between garnet and wine, darkening wherever the folds overlap. The bodice is structured beneath the draped fabric, with a deep sweetheart neckline and no straps.
“I thought everything tonight was supposed to be blue.”
“The ballroom is blue,” Samantha says. “You’re not.”
I look from the gown to her. “What does that mean?”
“It means nearly half The Order has traveled here to see you. Wearing the same color as the curtains would be a waste.”
“Half The Order?” I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. “How many is that? Exactly?”
“I don’t know.” Sam shakes out the folds of the dress. “Three or four thousand, give or take. Not all the international members could make it on such short notice.”
She lifts the dress higher, and the skirt spills toward the floor in a sweep of red silk. It’s beautiful. Dramatic. The kind of gown meant for a woman who knows every person in the room will turn when she enters.
Nausea climbs my throat at the thought.
“I’ve got jewelry to match,” Sam says brightly.
She goes to the dressing table, where four matching black velvet boxes sit, each bigger than the next.
“They’re Ashford heirlooms. One of the women bonded to Carrson’s great-great-grandfather wore them to her own prebonding ball.
Mother got Carr’s permission for you to wear them. ”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because it’s my job to prepare you for tonight,” Rebecca answers from the doorway.
Sam and I turn toward her.
“Normally, a mother prepares her daughter for bonding. The prebonding ball is part of that.” She steps farther into the room.
She’s dressed in a tailored pantsuit over a cream-colored blouse, the wide legs swishing around her ankles as she walks.
A gold belt circles her waist, and the backs of her high heels shine under the lights.
She looks like a businesswoman returning home after closing a deal, which I guess isn’t far from the truth.
The newspaper ran a story this morning about the healthcare bill she pushed through. Sam showed it to me over breakfast, her face glowing with pride.
“Since you don’t have a mother…” Sympathy passes across her face. “I’ll step in.” She moves closer, her voice softening. “I didn’t have a mother to help me either. My friend Louellen prepared me.”
“I’m sorry.” Up close, Rebecca is even more intimidating. Her strawberry-blonde hair is swept into a smooth chignon, a shade darker than Sam’s, but they share the same aqua-blue eyes. “Did your mother pass away too?”
“No, but she wouldn’t have understood what was happening. She might not have approved.” Rebecca smiles sadly. “You see, I was an outsider too. Just like you.”
I turn to Sam.
“It’s true,” she confirms. “Mother wasn’t born into The Order. She joined in college, when she attended Ashford University. She studied psychology.”
I try not to gape, but it’s hard. Who would willingly join a blood-bound secret society?
Especially a woman?
Rebecca catches the question on my face. “I knew what The Order was before I joined. I wanted what it could give me.”
“And what was that?”
“Power,” she says simply. “The kind that turns an idea into law.” She turns to Sam. “You can go now, darling. Only a Mother can help Laurel from here on out.”
Sam hesitates, looking from me to her mother. I doubt she realizes she’s positioned herself slightly in front of me, as though she’s protecting me.
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I could stay a little longer?”
Rebecca’s expression firms. “Are you questioning me, Samantha?”
“No, Mother.” Sam lowers her eyes.
Sam steps forward and gives me a quick hug, then turns to her mother and embraces her too. I wasn’t expecting Rebecca’s arms to clasp so hard around Sam’s shoulders. She closes her eyes and pulls her daughter against her, holding her close.
There’s love in the gesture. Tenderness.
I’m probably not meant to hear what Sam whispers into her mother’s ear before stepping back, but I do anyway.
“Help Laurel.”
Rebecca nods, one hand resting on Sam’s shoulder before she lets her go. She watches until Sam disappears down the hall, then turns to me.
“Follow me.”
Rebecca leads me downstairs and through the kitchen, where the air smells of cinnamon and cloves. At the end of a narrow hallway, she opens another door to reveal a broad staircase leading downward.
Rebecca flips a switch on the wall. Bright lights illuminate steps covered by tan carpet.
“This is where the wine’s kept,” she tells me, walking ahead with one hand resting lightly on the railing.
I follow more slowly. “Why are we going down here?”
My nerves have begun to hum. My body recognizes the danger before my mind does, and the feeling only grows stronger when we reach the bottom.
Rebecca reaches behind a shelf of the bottles and presses something I can’t see. A section of the wine rack swings away from the wall, revealing a small wooden door secured by an aged brass lock, its keyhole wide and black.
Rebecca pulls a key out of her pocket. It’s almost as long as her hand. The metal is the same reddish brown as the lock.
“Where’d you get that?”
“It belongs to this house. It’s kept locked away until the Vault is needed.”
She stares down at the key, her expression almost wistful.
The lock resists. She puts more weight behind the key. Metal scrapes against metal, followed by the heavy clunk of tumblers moving into place.
My instincts tell me to run.
Rebecca must see the thought cross my face because she leaves the key in the lock and raises her hands, palms facing me.
“I know this looks frightening. What’s inside may frighten you more, but I’m not going to force you to do anything.” Her voice remains calm, the same tone she probably uses when negotiating with men who believe they’re more powerful than she is. “All I’m asking is that you come with me and listen.”
“Where does it go?”
“The Vault.”
“Like in a bank?” I wrinkle my forehead, realizing that’s a dumb question as soon as it leaves my mouth.
“No.”
Rebecca pulls the door open. Cold air rushes past us, carrying mold, wet stone, and the faint metallic scent I remember from the room where Carr whipped Carrson.
Beyond the threshold, narrow stone stairs curve downward and disappear into darkness.
“You first,” I say.
One corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t argue. She takes a long box of matches from a ledge inside the doorway and strikes one against the stone. The flame illuminates her face as she lights a torch mounted on the wall.
“Stay near me. The lower steps are wet.”
She begins the descent.
I follow because the alternative is returning upstairs without knowing what any of this has to do with the dress, the jewelry, or bonding Carrson.
The door remains open behind us. I keep checking until the curve of the staircase blocks it from view.
There’s no railing. I brace one hand against the wall, concentrating so I don’t slip and fall. The stairs narrow as they spiral, each one worn into a shallow dip by centuries of feet. Water trickles somewhere below.
“How old is this place?” I ask.
“Older than the house. Older than The Order.”
Rebecca holds the torch high enough to illuminate the next few steps.
“No one knows exactly who built the original chamber. The stories mention Druids, rituals, offerings. Carr’s ancestors found it when they came to this land and enlarged it over generations.”
“They found an underground ritual chamber and decided to build their house on top of it?”
“They considered its existence a sign.” Rebecca throws a look back at me. “Powerful people are very good at mistaking what they want for divine instruction.”
That doesn’t sound like the answer of a woman devoted to The Order.
The lower stairs are slick with water. I press closer to the wall and place each foot where Rebecca’s had been. The torchlight crawls over symbols carved into the stone, some little more than scratches, others cut so deeply the darkness fills them.
The staircase opens into a rounded chamber lined with the same damp stone. Candles sit in rusted iron holders around the walls. Rebecca lights them and their flames bend whenever air moves through the room. Manacles hang between them, attached to chains darkened by age.
My feet stop on the last stair.
Symbols cover the floor. Spirals, crosses, eyes, hands, and alphabets I don’t recognize overlap one another as if generations kept carving their beliefs into the stone without caring what came before.
Dark stains fill some of the cracks.
My gaze moves to the brazier against the wall. Ash and charred wood fill the bottom. A long iron rod rests across the rim, its end shaped like the equal-armed cross branded into Carrson’s shoulder.
I’ve traced that mark with my fingers. Kissed the damaged skin. Felt him go rigid when I touched too close without warning.
“This is where they did it,” I say.
Rebecca looks toward the iron. “Yes.”
“To Carrson.”
“To every son of The Order. Carr came here at fifteen. Carrson did too.”
She crosses to the center of the chamber, where a deep rectangular basin rises from the floor on a wide bronze base. Steam curls from the water inside it. Flowers and herbs cover the surface, pale rose petals mixed with lavender, rosemary, and small white blossoms I don’t recognize.
A long bronze slab rests upright against the wall nearby.
Rebecca points to it. “That fits over the basin. Once it’s in place, this becomes a table. Or, depending on what’s happening down here, an altar.”
I look from the slab to the steaming bath. The sweetness of the flowers fights against the smells of wet stone, candle wax, and old blood.
“What is all this?”
“The beginning of your preparation.”
“You want me to take a bath in there?”
“I want you to understand the tradition before you decide whether to participate in it.”