He reaches out and puts his hand on top of mine. No more words are spoken. With a squeeze, he stands up and walks out.
“Hey, Keith,” I call out as he’s about to exit through the doorway. When he turns, I lift my shoulders. “Tomorrow, we get our revenge.”
He smiles weakly. “Goodnight, Cecilia. Get some rest.”
I don’t sleep.I doubt any of us do. What we’ve waited and planned for is only hours away. I’d lie if I said I’m not nervous, because I am. I want to succeed—I really do—but the odds are stacked against us. Despite this, I knew the risks when I suggested we attack the heart of the Exodus. It’s our best shot. Maybe it’s ouronlyshot. For one night, the members gather beneath the same roof for the party of the decade, bringing offerings, like some sacramental ritual, to the gods of unmeasured wealth and power. It’s not an opportunity that comes around often, so we need to be there instead of intercepting members on their way to the party. We need to be at the heart of it, and if we’re lucky, the Bishop might show.
It’s my turn to get an implant in my neck, so I take a seat at the kitchen table. Lauren, an undergrad nurse, is in charge of the procedure. It’s not something I’m excited about, but we can’t gain entry to the property without a chip in the neck.
Lauren is swabbing my neck when Carlo hands us all our masks to wear tonight. Mine is a cougar. I turn it over in my hand, wondering briefly what Delacroix plans to wear. TheElders will be easy to spot with their gold masks. Ours are black—the color of Pawns—to make us blend easier.
“Not gonna lie, this will hurt like a bitch,” Lauren says, placing the tip of the scalpel at my neck. A sharp pain follows, and I suck in a breath. Luckily, it’s a quick procedure. She lets my hair back down and then pats me on the shoulder, which is my cue that she’s done.
Not all of us are going to the nest tonight. Most of the others are hunting in the traditional sense by attacking members on their way to the event when they’re at their weakest. Months of planning and staking out members have brought us to tonight. Everyone knows their role. We’re as prepared as we’ll ever be.
After tonight, the lucky few survivors will start the process again in preparation for the next Reckoning.
My mood darkens when I allow doubts to sneak in. A part of me knows we’re not the first rebels to attack the Exodus on Reckoning night, and we won’t be the last. This event has historical roots. It’s tradition and a display of wealth, power, and influence. Tonight is when they flaunt their power.
Look what we can do. We can murder your entire bloodline for shits and giggles and make the evidence disappear. We’re above the law.
Returning to my room, I change into the black silk evening gown I bought for this event. It has a slit that stops mid-thigh—perfect for grabbing my weapons in a hurry—and a plunging neckline. I’ll regret my six-inch heels later, but the effect isn’t lost on me as I slide my feet into them now. One glance in the mirror reveals a young heiress to one of the largest fortunes in the country. I belong in their world as much as the other Elders. We’re equals where wealth is concerned, and if they hadn’t killed my parents, I would’ve been a member of the Exodus. Promised to one of their sons.
I’m torn from my thoughts when Lauren whistles in the doorway. She’s dressed to the nines, too, in an emerald gown with a mermaid skirt. “You look smoking hot.”
I turn away from the mirror and unzip the bag of weapons on the bed. “We need to blend in tonight. Unless we dress like royalty, we won’t make it through security.”
Lauren stays silent while I strap knives to my thighs. I’m not going down without a fight. The Exodus won’t know what hit them. “Are you…worried about tonight?” Lauren asks, pushing off the doorway, heels clicking on the floor.
“No,” I reply, checking the safety on my gun. “Greta and Keith have prepared us well. We know what we’re doing.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she says as she comes to stand beside me. “What if the Elder you seduced comes after you tonight?”
“I know he will. He told me as much.”
Her eyes saucer, but I wave her off and reach into the bag to grab her a weapon. She accepts it and parts the slit in her emerald skirt to put the gun in the holster. “Don’t worry,” I reassure. “He doesn’t know we’re attacking their cottage tonight, which means he won’t be there if he was serious about hunting me.”
A slow, knowing smile tugs on her mauve lips. “Mr. Delacroix will be chasing shadows.”
Live music streams from the main room, but it’s all pretentious to me. Orgies, live acrobatics, and a fight club. Sacrificed humans suspended from the roof and bled into tiered champagne glasses. Unnecessarily messy and unhygienic, if you ask me. I even saw a room where naked people were covered in body paint.
A shudder runs through me at the mere thought of messing up my freshly pressed Italian suit. No, thank you.
I turn away from the large window overlooking the trees outside and the cobblestone path leading to the entrance. My quick scan of the security footage on the computer screen reveals nothing out of the ordinary. A helpless woman is being nailed to the wall by a group of masked Disciples, another group of people are engaged in an orgy on the top floor in plain sight of anyone walking past, and Elijah—Sinclair’s son—is pressing the thumbprint scanner to unlock the torture room on the second floor. I eye his offering—a young lady unlucky enough to have caught the eye of Sinclair’s sadistic offspring. I don’t feel sorryfor her because that would require empathy, and my black heart has no room for such pesky things as emotions.
I’m circulating through the numerous security cameras when the door opens, and Sinclair walks in, nursing a tumbler of whiskey. “I always knew you were a bore,” he says, “but even back in our Harvard days, you used to be more fun than this. Have you killed anyone tonight?”
I ignore him, clicking buttons. Sinclair is undeterred. Getting on my nerves is one of his favorite pastimes.
He parks his ass on my desk, disrupting my perfectly aligned pencils, and then because he can’t help himself, he lifts one of the spheres on my Newton’s cradle and releases it. I don’t even know why the fucking thing is there. The clinking sound reminds me of Captain Hook whenever he hears a clock ticking. That’s me now. Fighting an eye twitch while Sinclair grins like the devil.
“You didn’t bring an offering.” He tuts. “The Bishop will be displeased. You know I like you, Darian, but even I might have to bring the popcorn when he chops you into pieces for showing such contempt for our precious traditions.”
With a snort, I stop the pendulum from swinging. Ah! Blissful silence. Well, except for the ruckus outside my office. “I won’t lower myself to such”—I wave a hand at the door and the riot outside—“carnal urges.”
“Carnal urges?” He chuckles, sipping his whiskey.
“Besides,” I say, zooming in on the screen and searching the crowd of newcomers, “I have brought an offering.”
