32. Jet
JET
The freezing rain blowing in from the open window is bracing, sobering. It helps clear my head, but I still feel unsteady on my feet. I look at Sev who is watching me, one hand on my back.
“Did you drink any of that whiskey?” I ask.
“No and I told you to stay sober.”
I shake my head. “I am sober. This isn’t me drunk. I think they laced it.” I recall the servers with their trays carrying flutes of champagne. Ours were the only ones with whiskey. “Shit.” I push my hand into my hair.
“Not possible. I mean, anyone could have picked up the glasses we took.”
“I’m sure they’d just be collateral damage but I’m telling you, they drugged the whiskey. Just don’t eat or drink anything.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
I force myself to straighten, to look out the window into the dark distance.
The mask I saw is anonymous enough. Gunmetal black, stern expression with a slit for a mouth.
The nose is exaggeratedly large with holes for the wearer to breathe.
Eyes are hidden behind dark glass so the wearer can see out, but I could never see in.
Cruel and terrible. I always wondered if it was to hide the wearer’s identity or to terrify me.
There could have been dozens of that mask made. Hundreds, even.
But there was one thing I recall and that’s the thing that has sweat trickling down my spine. The red print like that of a thumb, like an anointing, in the center of the forehead. Made by my grandfather as if in blessing.
I understand why he chose the men he did. It was for their blackmail potential. That’s all. It was about money for him. Never mind what it did to me. How it nearly destroyed me.
But hell, doesn’t everything come down to money in this world?
I force myself to stand taller. To shake off the memories. I killed him. Killed him and one of his chosen perverts and I’m here. Still alive. Still standing. Me. Not him. He is ash and dust.
That hellhole in the cellar no longer exists.
The room was sealed. The Blackstones no longer own the property, house or land.
It belongs to The Society and last I heard, it’s quickly becoming a ruin.
Any hell I relive only exists in my head and any power it has over me I give it and I refuse to feed it. I fucking refuse.
Some mother fucker is playing games tonight. A game that tells me at least one person here knows what happened.
There’s one man who comes to mind. One man whose presence takes me right back in time.
Councilor Senna.
When The Society got involved, he was the councilor who took control of our particular situation. Normally, three councilors oversee every case. In ours, it was only Senna. Did I think it was strange at the time? Or was I too traumatized to think at all?
Back then, it was a relief. Only one man would hear my shame.
Sev and I were asked to step aside. The Society not only took the bodies for disposal, but they went through everything Grandfather owned and destroyed all of it. It was like he never even existed when they were done.
Now I wonder what they found among his possessions.
Now I think we were na?ve to think they’d destroy it all. No. They’d have held on to something. Something that could be used to silence us should anything like what is happening now happen.
“It’s Senna,” I say.
Sev doesn’t verbalize a response, but I get the feeling he’s come to the same conclusion. “Are you sure you saw it? Maybe you were mistaken. It’s a masquerade ball.”
“I’m not wrong. Not mistaken. Senna’s a liar. Would you put it past him to fuck with me like this?”
Sev shifts his gaze away. He shakes his head.
“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill the bastard.”
“Not here, you’re not. He’s protected here, Jet. It’d be signing our death warrants. And by our, I mean you, me and Amal.”
I grit my teeth. He’s right. I need to get them off the island before I do it. I don’t tell Sev that part. “Let’s go. I want to get Amal.”
“Just a minute. I’ve been seeing this everywhere. What the fuck is it?” he asks. He turns on the flashlight of his phone to study something on the wall.
I step closer. My eyes have adjusted enough to see we’re in some sort of old library.
The ceiling is high, although not as high as the Great Hall.
This particular room looks old, like it’s original to the castle and I realize it’s not only cooler because I opened the window, but it hasn’t been modernized at all.
The only source of heating is the fireplace inside which no fire burns.
Sev makes a whistling sound, stepping backward to pan his phone’s flashlight over it to take in the full scope of the design on the wall.
“What?” I ask absently following his gaze. It looks like a huge sort of family tree almost, although I know it can’t be. It’s not even a tree although wood is carved to look like something else I recall having seen throughout the castle.
And somewhere else.
It’s that realization that has my blood turning cold.
I recall what I thought insignificant doodles on the edges of the pages I read of Amal’s mother’s diary. And inside them a name.
Fairbairn.
Now, just in front of me, thorny vines weave around and around, taking up the entire wall connecting dozens of plaques. Coats of arms entangled through the vines, some with creepy little portraits.
“What the fuck is it?” I say aloud, dread in my gut as I reach into my pocket to pull out the diary.
“A record.” Sev is following the line, tracing it with his flashlight. He stops on the name, studies it.
I open the diary to the page that’s folded over. I compare it to the carving. It’s nearly identical.
Sev looks around the room. His gaze lands on the heavy desk in the corner.
“I’ve heard of these. The Europeans use them.
” He moves behind the desk to open what looks to be an ancient and huge leatherbound ledger.
“It’s a record room. This is where all the records of Society members would be kept, all the marriages arranged.
Finances would be accounted for here, the tithes paid, who is delinquent, etc.
Pretty much all business outside of that of the Tribunal would be held here. ”
“How is it done in the states?”
“Well, as Scotland’s much older, I assume they’re using traditional methods.
In the states, I think many of the headquarters have switched to electronic record keeping although for appearances they may keep old ledgers like this one.
This, though.” he shines his flashlight into the book, turns a page to read what’s there.
“They’re still using it. Last entry was just a few weeks ago.
And. Holy shit. This can’t be right,” Sev mutters that last part to himself, the chair creaking as he sits down.
I don’t pay much attention because pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving are starting to come together.
I flip through the diary wanting to find one of the passages I’d read earlier but before I do, it falls open onto a page that’s heavy with a design drawn in pencil.
Vines.
Roses.
A dead bird.
I look up at the wall mounted piece. It’s hard to find the bird in the dark but I’m sure it’s there. I’d bet my life on it.
But it’s not the bird I’m searching for. The bird doesn’t matter. It’s the name in the middle of the sketch.
The same name that’s on the fucking wall.
Fairbairn.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Sev mutters, and when I turn to look at him, he drags his gaze to mine, worry creasing his brows.
“What?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest because it’s all starting to come together. Why they didn’t just kill us. Why they brought us here. Why they’ve been treating Amal like royalty when I expected the complete opposite. It’s all coming together, but it’s impossible. It can’t be.
“What’s Amal’s mother’s maiden name?” Sev asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Jet,” Sev says and I walk over to the desk to look at what he’s looking at.
“What the fuck is this?” I hear myself ask because what I’m looking at is a photo of a woman standing in front of the wall now at my back.
She’s wearing a sundress, her hands clasped over her stomach.
One of those where the wearer could weigh ninety pounds or nine-hundred.
The most wrong part? It could be a photo of Amal. I pick it up. “This isn’t possible.”
“How old is Amal?” Sev asks.
“It’s not—"
“Turn it over, Jet.”
I drag my gaze to my brother and hear the only sound in the room. A thudding. It’s my heart.
I flip the photo over. Read the name written in old-fashioned script. Liliana Fairbairn.
Amal’s mother is Lily. Was Lily. She’s dead. At least that’s what Amal told me.
“Did you know?” Sev asks.
“I don’t even think she knows.” I shift my gaze to Severin’s. “I’m going to get my wife. I’m going to get her and we’re going to get the fuck off this island if I have to kill everyone on it to do it!”
“Wait, Jet.” Sev grabs my arm to stop me rushing to the door. “There’s more.”
“What more? Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.” I shove the diary back into my pocket as I pull free of Sev and rush to the door but as I pull it open, someone on the outside pushes against it and soldiers rush inside, four of them.
My brother mutters a curse as Senna follows the four men. If it was any night but tonight, it would be comical how small he looks in comparison to the soldiers. How almost serene with his arms folded beneath the cloak all Society men own.
“Gentlemen,” Senna says as hands close over my arms to keep me from pouncing.
Someone switches on a light, and I watch him take in the room, his head tilting in curiosity as he walks toward the intricate carving on the wall.
“There is something to be said for the old ways,” he says. He then turns to us. A soldier escorts my brother to stand beside me.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demand. Was it him in that mask? He who arranged for someone to wear it knowing it would pull the rug out from under me? Senna knows everything that happened. All the terrible details.
He shifts his gaze from the wall to the desk, takes in the ledger Sev was very obviously reading then looks back at us.