IT’S GIVING COMMUNITY THEATER
FIVE
IT’S GIVING COMMUNITY THEATER
“Victoria? What are you doing over there? Come on. It’s about to start.”
I jerk in surprise at the call of my name. Maxim stiffens. Not in a good way either.
“Who?”
It’s a command.
And as much as I need him to answer my earlier question, I hiss, “Derek Dyers. He’s a legacy Veronian. Mediocre hockey player according to Shay. Also a massive dick.”
“He wants you.”
While he grinds his teeth, he doesn’t look back.
“Some people do,” I proclaim, annoyed despite myself. Not at him, more at being disturbed.
“I’m well aware of that. Should I serve you his head on a platter, pchelka?”
The croon has me snapping, “Fuck you, Maxim.”
I step aside from him when he chuckles, apparently delighted by my answer, but as I cross the road, he’s there. A hand on my arm. Those callused fingers tucking mine into the crook of his elbow.
Talk about whiplash!
“Dyers's father is a co-partner of Veritas Infinitum.”
“And?”
Like I give a fuck about some slimy hedge fund.
WHEN?! WHEN?! WHEN?!
That’s what my brain wants the answer to.
“They’ve made some interesting investments lately.”
Despite the fact I want to throttle him, my brain kicks in as I recall some articles I read in the financials recently about one of my favorite designer labels going under. “Bianchi?”
The brand was behind these pants and half my current wardrobe.
“Yes. They bought the company and then decided to humiliate the original owner.”
“The linebacker, Bryan Walters.”
The tips of his fingers circle my elbow. “They’re sharks, little one. Remember how they hunt.”
“Do you think I’m afraid?” I huff out a laugh—it’s either that or melt into a puddle at his touch. “I’ve been playing with sharks since I was a child, Maxim.” To Dyers, I call out, “Hi, Derek.”
His displeased gaze fixates on Maxim before switching to the hold he has on me. It’s not polite anymore.
He clamps my arm, locking me to his side with his hand.
It’s not distant.
It’s a claim.
Fucking finally.
He didn’t like the tone I used on Dyers? Well, boo hoo.
“I don’t recognize you from homecoming,” Derek greets Maxim.
“There is more to the world than your little school.” Maxim ignores the hand the younger man holds out. “Perhaps you’ll learn that in a few years.”
Derek scowls. “I graduate next year.”
“Still so young. I heard you play hockey.”
“You have?” That has him preening.
What an asshole.
“Yes. I also heard you lost last season.”
I bow my head to hide a laugh when Derek’s posturing shatters at the reminder.
Maxim might have driven me up the wall tonight, but I hope he’ll put Derek further in his place. The rumors about him are heinous—because they’re true.
A soft bell dings from the atrium. Which is disappointing. Maxim barely had the chance to lacerate Derek’s ego.
Hiding a pout, I peer around the asshole in front of me and see it’s a rather simple entryway for a supposed “elite” society.
“We should go in.”
Furious, and showing it, Derek strides over to the lodge.
“Are you supposed to intimidate little boys, Maxim? Won’t you get a reputation for being a bully?”
“Good.” That he switches to Russian comes as a shock. A nice one.
“I believe his father is high-ranking.”
“I’m sure he is.” He sounds as unbothered as a tiger cleaning his claws post meal. “Some need to be reminded that a few of us would prefer to kill their ass, not kiss it.”
My chuckle earns me a quick glance of shared amusement as he guides me to the door, which is in the style you see in older European churches or castles—a small opening within a wider portal.
Inside, the walls are white. Not smooth like modern-day plaster.
But roughly hewn, adobe-esque. It’s also free from any type of design or ornamentation.
A blank canvas with a floor of oversized slabs.
That is, of course, until I see the faint engravings on the stone and realize they’re burial markers.
Here lies Euric I – 1789–1867 is inscribed below my feet.
“Thank you for gathering here tonight,” a man intones. “I am Alaric, your guide.”
My eyes whip around as I seek out the speaker, but Maxim murmurs, “Look over by the mosaic.”
Mosaic?
Wishing I’d worn my heels now because I’d have a better vantage point, I finally find a mosaic—it’s an oversized “V” in white that matches the walls.
No wonder I couldn’t damn well see it. The tiles barely gleam in the candlelight.
These guys need Inessa, a soon-to-be licensed interior decorator, to come in and renovate.
At the very point of the “V,” a man stands. He has a hood over his face and he wears a cape. Black.
My nose wrinkles at the cliché because of the whole secret society baloney, but I tune in as Alaric continues, “Those who vouch for you, speak the names of the pledged.”
I stiffen. “What?”
Maxim’s hand finds mine. “I’ll vouch for you.”
“You’re not a brother.”
“You don’t have to be. This is about power, sacrifice, and ties by association.”
“What?!”
Derek shoots Maxim a displeased look, which has me questioning what’s going on.
Once the Veronians had received Maxim’s offering of an ear, the same courier showed up at my door with an invitation, but… that wasn’t enough? Mine had a time and a date on it. That’s it. No mention of a plus one.
I wait as seventeen names are revealed as well as those who vouch for them. Names I recognize. Powerful names. Known names.
Maxim answers when it’s my turn, “Victoria Vasov.”
“And who vouches for her?”
“Maxim Lyanov.”
A rush of whispers ricochet around the room.
His presence is unexpected.
But not unwanted and definitely known to them.
“Pledges, hold out your invitations for collection and accept a coin.”
The invitees pass around two deep, gilt-edged dishes. They toss the invitations into one and retrieve a coin from the other.
The coin, I recognize, is an antique.
The gold’s ancient. The etchings on it faded. A thin face peers back at me; time has erased his features, countless thumbs have mislaid the details, but on the reverse, engraved into the dull metalwork is the word “Hispania.”
“There are eighteen of you. Until such a time as the Veronians make a decision, you will remain in your houses—House Hispania and House Gaul. Only ten of you will ascend to a position of power within our clutch. No place is guaranteed. We accept the superior or none at all.”
More whispers arise at the declaration.
Alaric, for all that he’s hooded, revels in the confusion and excitement. He’s practically giddy.
“He needs to get a life,” I whisper to Maxim, who coughs to hide a laugh. Which tells me he picked up on the guy’s OTT delight.
Honestly, these morons believe their own press too much.
Disappointingly, I’m bored already. But it’s too soon for that so I tell myself to play nice.
This might feel like some kind of bizarre community theater night, but it’s important. Oooh, no! Like a murder mystery weekend!
“Step forward for the first initiation.”
Maxim squeezes my hand. “I’ll be waiting on the other side.”
“You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
In my ear, he hints, “I have one of them in a warehouse.”
“You have one of them…” I deliberate. “You’re storing them for export?”
I feel the cold twitch of his lips on my cheek as he snags my purse out of my hands. “That’s one word for it.”
Surprised he told me, but pleased, I retreat a step. Which is when I realize… Maxim wants me to be inducted.
Curious.
I follow Alaric, who takes us to an antechamber where there are two openings—Hispania and Gaul.
I pass through Hispania.
It’s not a doorway as I first suspected, but a corridor. Lights beam around us, glowing hotter than the sun as we walk down the hallway. Squinting, I see the chamber is glassed-in and that the shadows beyond move.
So, they’re watching us.
My spine straightens, neck tall, chin angled high. Madame Frost, my cotillion teacher, would be proud.
I will not be found wanting.
That doesn’t mean I won’t be found sweating—holy fuck, it’s hot in here.
It’s a relief to exit the walkway and pass into some air-conditioned comfort. There, I encounter faces I recognize.
Wynter Kinnock—she’s in a couple of my classes. The rest are people I’ve seen around the Rhos’ frat house when Shay and I attend parties—all guys though. Every last one of them apart from Wynter and me.
She’s a Pi—a sister in Pi Epsilon Beta who I think lives in their sorority house, Arcadia.
Unlike myself, who isn’t.
I’ve long since debated if Pies are a shoo-in for the Veronians, but the presence of a sister and a nonmember doesn’t clarify things.
As for the guys, I recognize a few. One’s the son of a CEO who likes to ruin kids’ lungs with vapes, two are brothers on the rowing team, and another’s an heir to some oil baron from the 1800s.
Of them all, only one doesn’t look wealthy.
Unlike the others, his suit’s off the rack and not tailored to his form.
I sidle up to Wynter. “When they call it the old boys’ club, they mean it.”
“Did you get the feeling we aren’t supposed to be here?”
“The ‘vouching’ thing? Yeah. My invitation had nothing about that written on it. Yours didn’t either?”
“No. Nothing. I’m lucky that Derek Dyers vouched for me.”
I gag. “More like bad luck.”
Her snort tells me she’s heard the “rumors” too. “He’s a creep, but it’ll all turn out right eventually.”
“How do you know that?”
She flaps her hands. “I know some people who know some people who’ll make him pay if he hurts me.”
Nodding my understanding, because I have a lot of people who’ll hurt him for me too, I turn when a voice calls us to order.
More men in hoods spread out from nowhere, white tunics in their hands.
“Dress yourselves in the appropriate attire.”
Wynter and I share a small smirk—and they say girls are dramatic—as we tug on the tunics that remind me of what choir boys wear in church.
“Guard your coins with your life. They’re your key to the lodge.”
There’s a pocket in the tunics for this singular reason, I have to assume, so I slip mine in there.
“Step this way.”