Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SLADE
“Haven’t seen you in several weeks,” Knox says as I enter the security area at EV.
I don’t want to be here, but the Severing requires fifty-one percent of the members to initiate a member of the Eight, and I doubt my grandfather would take my no-show lightly.
I nod, not interested in discussion. Not this evening.
Kenji slaps me on the back of the shoulder and snickers. “He’s been playing house. Going to be cut short though with your trip to D.C. coming up.”
I frown.
“Knoxy-poo has been playing babysitter. He’s barely been around either. If we didn’t require full security tonight, Graves would have you back on his daughter.”
Knox growls.
“Oops, didn’t mean it like that.” Kenji snickers at Knox, who stares at the buttons on the elevator.
“Get in,” Knox says. “I’m not allowed down in the Ritual room. Oh, and I need your weapons, Kenji.”
I step into the elevator with Kenji while Knox leans against the door to keep it open.
“Graves can pry these from my cold, dead hands himself. Move.”
Knox sighs and shakes his head. “Good to see you, Slade. Have fun, guys.”
The doors close, and Kenji groans. “I’d rather make a deal with the devil’s—”
The elevator jerks as we descend from the top level of security past the main level and down into the Ritual Chamber.
Kenji runs a hand through his long hair, and he smolders at his reflection in the elevator doors. “Knox is just pissed Graves has him on bodyguard duty.”
“Hmm?” I ask, though the sound barely makes it out.
Kenji stills. “Did you not hear me earlier? Graves’s daughter is in town. You all right, Slade?”
I nod. Yeah, that’s right. I heard something about that a few weeks ago.
“Nervous about who they’re going to pick as Henry’s Offering?”
I nod. I have an idea of who it’ll be. Most likely Lena. A well-to-do businesswoman my grandfather has been in an on-again, off-again relationship with for the past several years. But there’s always the possibility …
No. Graves wouldn’t do that.
They couldn’t do that.
When we reach the bottom, the doors open into the hollow beneath the society.
Kenji and I both key in with the biometric locks, and the door opens to the waiting area, which is just a room before the room with the room.
The waiting area is modeled similarly to the Sovereign Chamber in that the walls are one-way mirrors into the Ritual room.
They go dark when the rituals take place, but until then the room is on full display.
Several members stand in broken groups, discussing business or sharing the last of their drinks from upstairs.
At the far ends of the waiting chamber, sleek, rectangular slabs of obsidian stone rise from the floor in each corner.
Water spills down each face, the fountain silent, but beneath the trickle, the names of every member have been etched.
Rows upon rows of past and current members illuminated under a perfectly angled light, casting a faint shimmer over the surface.
I shiver. The last time I was here, my name got carved into that panel and the society’s name was scarred on my chest.
“It’s cold in here,” Kenji says, pulling at his black suit.
I roll my eyes. However, he’s correct. It’s cold in here, but on purpose. The climate control is set to the perfect temperature and humidity to wick away sweat during every ritual. “It’s engineered to promote obedience,” my grandfather likes to say.
“Membership quota at thirty-five percent,” the robotic female voice announces, and Kenji sighs.
“They better get moving. I have things to do.”
I turn to him and raise my eyebrows. In another world, I’d love to know what Kenji does in his spare time, but I’m not sure I want to.
We hover close to one of the stone panels as more members trickle down from the club. I wish I had grabbed a drink for this.
My grandfather will be with the other seven, and I’m relieved I won’t be seeing him beforehand.
“Membership quota at forty-eight percent.”
Kenji’s hand hovers over his guns, and I move to block his ministrations. The man cannot keep his hands off his weapons, and part of me wonders what happened all those years ago in Boston to keep him wound so tight.
A few more politicians enter the room, and Senator Landers spots me. He’s practically orange with his fake spray tan. He tries to hide his age, but he’s not fooling anyone. His silver hair is combed tightly to one side.
“Ah, Slade. Looking forward to D.C. next week?”
No. I nod.
“The Washington chapter has decided to model their Market like ours, and we’ll be there just in time for it. I hope to see you there.” He extends his fake-tanned hand, and I take it, nodding once more.
“Membership quota reached at fifty-one percent. Unlocking Ritual Chamber doors. Please proceed to the Ritual Chamber.”
“Oh, and congratulations on your grandfather. Perhaps someday this will be you, huh?” He grins at me, and that sours my stomach.
Yes. Someday it will be, but not for the same reasons as my grandfather.
The crowd moves toward the Ritual Chamber, and Kenji and I go with the flow.
We migrate toward the spots on the floor, red circles that perfectly space all members participating in the ritual.
The altar rises from the center of the room, a white marble circular stage veined with faint gray.
It gleams under low ambient light, while a thin ring of LED flameless candles traces the outer edge.
It’s a common misconception when you join Echelon Vanguard. You assume rituals happen in dark, rank caverns with fire and scrolls of ancient chants, where the members wear hoods and robes.
When in reality, we stay dressed in our suits and allow the shadows of the room to disguise our faces. Only the Eight wear red robes when there’s the Offering.
I swallow, thinking about it. Could I ever do that?
To join the Eight, could I ever offer the one person I care about, what the society sees as a hesitation?
I imagine Thea chained there, to the small D-shaped hooks embedded in the marble.
They aren’t killed or raped during the ceremony, which is surprising for EV, but they can’t return to their lives.
Most, if not all, are permanently dismissed by the one they trusted to bring them here.
Thrust into EV’s servitude in some capacity.
Sometimes they take on roles tending to the Market girls, and other times they are forced to serve EV members during the week.
Typically, the Eight can’t stand to look at those they’ve Offered, so they relinquish them to other chapters across the US.
Either way, Offerings are not free, ever again.
“Welcome, Echelon Vanguard members,” the feminine EV voice says. “Please direct your attention toward the rite doors. Thank you.”
Kenji rolls his eyes. “I need a drink,” he whispers.
I clench my fists at my sides as the doors open and in walk the seven, soon to be the Eight. Dressed in their red robes, they walk to their spot on the floor to form a semicircle around the marble stone. Graves leads them, and my grandfather brings up the back.
“To rise into leadership, a member must prove he is willing to sever empathy, identity, and personal morality. An Offering, male or female, is selected by the current leadership as a symbol of weakness. The initiate must sever all compassion during the Severing.” Graves’s voice booms across the Ritual Chamber.
I close my eyes, the baseball-sized emotion growing in my throat.
Everything is derailed. They know about Thea.
There would never be another option for me in the Severing.
They’d pick her, and I’ve effectively lost all credibility with the other girls having taken Thea from the Market.
Their once alleged “loyalty” that I was working toward to perhaps use them for the Severing is now beyond reach.
“Will the initiate, Henry DuPont, please step forward.”
My grandfather does so.
“The initiate has been stripped of all symbols of personal identity that connects him to the outside world. He wears the robe of the Eight and the society’s black cloth around his chest to cover his heart.”
The Eight fold their hands in front of them and together they recite the ritual rite.
“To lead, we must not flinch.
To rise, one must sever.
Mercy is the vice of the weak.
Obedience is forged in the pain of the heart.”
Graves steps forward. “Bring forth the Offering.”
My grandfather stands still, shoulders stiff, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His expression is neutral, as if he rehearsed this. But I can tell he’s nervous. His eyes flicker a little too fast toward the rite doors, and when they open his throat bobs.
“Please! What’s going on?” the familiar woman’s voice screams, and my grandfather’s face pales despite his best efforts. It’s not Lena, not at all. His head snaps in the Offering’s direction, and before she comes into view, I know …
It’s her.
The woman who gave me up to him.
His daughter.
My mother.
My grandfather closes his eyes briefly and braces for her, and when she comes into view, I want to vomit.
The Offering is brought in, blindfolded and dressed in a muted red slip slit up to the top of her thighs.
Muscled forward by two Chamber guards, she fights the best she can, but unable to see, her movements are limited.
The room is quiet aside from her sobbing pleas.
“Where am I? Please! What are you doing to me?” My grandfather’s ashen face trembles.
My mother hasn’t been seen or heard from in years.
Lost in her world of art and love for my father.
I was the one thing in her life that held her back from the future she wanted.
I haven’t thought about her much, just here and there.
I’ll admit when my grandfather said he was up for the Eight, the thought crossed my mind that they might select her as the Offering.
How they even found her is impressive because she doesn’t stay in one place long—a wanderer at heart.
Graves raises his hands as my mother’s wrists are shackled to the marble stage. She pulls and yanks, her short blonde hair slicked to the sides of her face with sweat and tears.
“Will the initiate step forward?” Graves asks.
My grandfather does so and swallows.
“Dad? Dad! What’s going on?” My mother’s voice screeches.
My grandfather looks away.
Her cry rips through me. She doesn’t understand what’s happening—what she’s being traded for.
All I can picture is Thea standing in her childhood home while Phil Harmon watched Graves put a price on her life.
My jaw locks. This is what they do. Destroy women and pretend it’s business and sacrifice.
Bile sloshes up the back of my throat. I’m not sure I could do what my grandfather is doing now.
“It is time, Initiate. You will recite the final piece and stand at our place. As per our ceremony, each member of the Eight will leave a permanent mark on the Offering. It is up to the leader to dictate if it is to be physical or psychological. Initiate, you may recite.”
My grandfather clears his throat. “I give you no name. I grant you no will. You belong to the council’s control.”
He steps back and screws his face as tight as possible.
He must not react. He must not show heart.
He must sever his connection to her. Her name will not be spoken.
She has no free will. Seven prompts. Each one given by a leadership member.
The intent to humiliate, debase, and sever the relationship between the joining leader and the Offering.
Graves speaks first. “Strip her.”
“No!” she yells, and before the Chamber Guards approach her I look away. My grandfather’s eyes hollow, they blacken as his body trembles, but he shows little emotion.
Kenji lays a hand on my shoulder. “Is that?”
I nod.
“Shit.”
My mother is stripped. Her face is drained of color, and she’s frozen. Locked between shock and surrender with the humiliation.
My grandfather stares straight ahead. He knows I’m here, yet he doesn’t seek me out. I hate my mother for choosing herself over me. For leaving me with him. But at this moment, I’m glad she can’t see my shadowed face. Knowledge that her only son watches on would only add more disgrace.
Another member of the Eight speaks. “She is to be branded.”
They bring forth the branding iron, and my mother’s skin burns, her screams echoing throughout the chamber.
Still, my grandfather stares ahead, his focus locked on the bigger picture. Power. Seduction. Money.
He doesn’t care. He severed his connection to my mother long ago. His eyes sparkle, liquid-dark gleaming under the dim ritual lights.
It’s mostly the same. Nakedness, branding—meant to intimidate the Offering, but more so to see if the initiate breaks.
If he lasts, he’s succeeded in ridding himself of weakness.
It’s controlled evil. It’s intentional. We watch in silence while he doesn’t react.
He won’t be rewarded with praise, only with status.
It’s the depraved who can follow through with this.
It’s they who advance to the Eight because they can stomach this.
Those with morality, with heart, or care, can’t.
It’s my goal to sit on the Eight someday, to destroy Echelon Vanguard from the inside.
But how will I ever get through this? If that was Thea …
I’d burn this chamber down with everyone inside.