Chapter 18 #2
“Yeah, I’m peachy keen,” I say. “All my friends have been lying to me, and I’ve been drafted into a secret society death match. Couldn’t be better.”
“I’m sorry,” Wren says. “We wanted to tell you, but secrecy isn’t optional in the Veil. You’ve now seen how they treat those who break the rules.”
I wince, remembering the man brutally executed in the chamber on Veil Night.
“I don’t understand. Why are you all doing this?” I ask. “No offense, but none of you seem like the aspiring-cult-leader type.”
My friends are far more likely to argue over where to get the best pumpkin donuts in Salem’s Fall than who should rule the Veil.
Well, except for maybe Lena.
She’s definitely got a competitive streak.
“I don’t want to.” Wren glances toward the other contestants before lowering her voice. “Jonah and I don’t have a choice. Our parents invoked our claims years ago. They think participating will restore our family’s standing.”
Jonah leans one shoulder against the stone wall. “The other Hawthornes treat us like scum,” he says. “I hate them—and I hate my parents for making me do this.”
“Well, I want to be here.” Lena lifts her chin. “My family has advised every ruling house for more than a century. We have never led, mostly because the older houses prefer to call us wise rather than powerful. I think that should change.”
I have to admire her honesty, now that it’s finally out in the open. At least she doesn’t pretend she doesn’t want power.
I look from one face to the next, hoping they’re finally done keeping things from me. Perhaps I’m still naive, but I do want to believe they’re telling the truth now.
“Please—can you tell me what happened to Josh? Rowan told me he was at Veil Night last year.” I swallow hard. “Were you there? Did you see him?”
They all look at me with the same quiet pity.
“We weren’t lying to you about that, Jack,” Wren says. “We really don’t know. Lower houses like ours aren’t present for every ceremony.”
Lena nods along. “Whatever happened that night, no one told us.”
“Did you know he was involved with the Veil?” I ask.
“No,” Wren says, shaking her head. “I’d never seen him around.”
“And my roommate? Eleanor Graves?” I ask. “Do you know what happened to her?”
They don’t.
“We really are sorry, Jack,” Wren says. “Can you ever forgive us?”
She sounds sincere. They all do. But I’ve been fooled once already, and I’m not naive enough to mistake their kindness for safety. In a few minutes, these same people may be trying to kill me.
Someone suddenly slams into my shoulder from behind, the force knocking me sideways. My arm strikes the stone wall hard enough to send pain shooting down to my fingers. I whip around and see Van walking past me, his smile lazy and vicious.
“Enjoy the air while you can.”
I straighten slowly. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.” He brushes an imaginary speck from his coat sleeve. “Not everyone is going to survive tonight. I’d say your time is about up,” he says and saunters over to where Georgina is standing.
“It’s true,” Wren says, her face pale as she watches him go. “I heard the First Trial is really, really bad.”
A deep grinding sound rises beneath the chamber floor, the oil lamps flickering, stone trembling underneath my shoes.
Across the room, a seam appears in the walls as two slabs begin to pull apart, releasing a breath of air so cold and damp, it smells like a grave that has been sealed for centuries.
Beyond the opening, lanterns burn at intervals along a darkened passage, their flames small and amber, illuminating rough-cut walls reinforced with beams blackened by age.
Rowan steps beside me.
I sense him before I look at him, the clean scent of his cologne and the familiar ease with which he occupies space. He stands shoulder to shoulder with me, almost touching, as though everything between us is fine, even after he delivered me to an execution chamber just a few days ago.
“Stay close to me in there,” he says, his voice filled with concern he has either manufactured or convinced himself is genuine. “I can get you through this.”
“Don’t come near me,” I snarl, stepping back from him. “You tried to have me killed.”
“I tried to warn you.” He looks genuinely taken aback by my accusation, almost hurt. “You were the one who chose to go.”
“Into a room where people wanted to kill me! You knew I had no idea what I was walking into.”
“You said you wanted answers.” There is no apology in his eyes. If anything, he looks pained, like I’m the one being unreasonable. “I took you to the only place you were ever going to get them. I didn’t bring you there to die. I brought you there because it’s what you came for.”
Anger moves through me in a sudden, blistering wave.
“That’s bullshit and you know it. And I still don’t know what happened to Josh.”
“Then play the game,” he says. “Maybe you’ll find out.”
For one violent second, I contemplate driving my fist straight into his effortlessly handsome face. I imagine the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles, the shocked look as that infuriating charm of his finally cracks.
“Get the hell away from me,” I hiss. “Or you’ll find out exactly what kind of games I like to play.”
Something changes in his expression then.
Not fear, but appreciation, as though he’s quietly impressed and maybe a bit fascinated.
It occurs to me that Rowan doesn’t crave violence the way Van does.
He craves control. He likes knowing where everyone stands and exactly which strings to pull to move them where he wants.
And apparently, he likes it even more when someone refuses to be moved.
I don’t know how I missed it before, but I won’t make that mistake again.
All conversation stops as a man steps in front of the opening in the walls. He is broad-shouldered and light-haired, wearing a navy coat fastened at the throat with a silver crest bearing an ornate A. I saw him before at Veil Night. The resemblance around the eyes is unmistakable.
Rowan’s father.
“Welcome, claimants, to your First Trial,” Mr. Ashcroft says, his strong voice carrying easily through the stone room.
“These passages are known as the Old Witch Tunnels. They were constructed during the witch trials and expanded during other periods of persecution, when members of the Veil required unseen routes beyond the town boundary. They have not been maintained for more than a century.” As if on cue, a few beams overhead creak loudly.
Mr. Ashcroft notices. “Some sections are rather… unstable.”
No one laughs.
“The objective of the First Trial is simple. Enter the tunnels, master the Earth, and reach the northern exit before dawn,” he says.
“You have six hours. At the conclusion of the trial, if you make it to the surface, your performance will be evaluated according to speed, judgment, endurance, and a final measure that will be revealed only after the trial is over.”
Around me, bodies shift nervously. We all hear the threat inside his words. Not everyone who goes into the tunnels will make it out alive.
“No maps will be provided. No outside tools permitted. For this trial, you may work alone or with others. The Rites will not be halted for injury, entrapment, or death.” Mr. Ashcroft withdraws a silver watch from his pocket and studies it. “Your six hours begin now.”