Prologue
Behind his white mask, the Magister frowned.
The ritual was proceeding to plan. The eight new Initiates stood around the edge of the mosaic circle on the floor with hooded black robes concealing their faces. They chanted with practiced precision, perfectly intoning the ancient syllables: “Ex infortunio, potenter benedic nobis.”
The male voices echoed pleasantly through the underground chamber, reverberating through air thick with the scents of incense and myrrh.
Within the mosaic circle, the elementals of the ritual were evenly spaced, each given a specific position corresponding to a Fibonacci spiral. The gold ingots had melted into a liquid that was bubbling happily, the powdered bones were swirling in fractal patterns, and the horsehair figurines sizzled before bursting into flame.
But the fourth elemental—the most important part of the induction, positioned at the crux of the Fibonacci spiral—wasn’t behaving properly. It wriggled and grunted and cursed, refusing to cooperate. Which was why the Magister was not pleased.
The girl was bound and gagged. The cuffs had a practical purpose: to keep her in the correct spot, the mathematical center of the room, where she would act as a focal point for the energies unleashed by the ritual. But themannerin which her hands were tied to her feet,painfully bending and contorting her body, had the added benefit of heightening her terror and discomfort. That was important.
The Magister was not a cruel man. Or rather, his cruelty was practical. The power of the ceremony was contingent upon the emotional state of the sacrifice; they would only extract fortune for their own lives in proportion to what she surrendered in this moment. Which meant that they needed pain. Fear.Despair.
The problem was, the girl remained defiant.
She was scared, of course, and the dark streaks of mascara down her cheeks served as testament to her terror. But she was alsoangry.And fury kept her afloat. Normally, by this point in the ritual, the sacrifice would have soiled herself, weeping in pure and utter dejection. But this girl held out some irrational hope. Perhaps of escape. Perhaps even violent retribution.
The Magister wondered if they had chosen poorly. But it was too late to go back now. This girl had already been plucked neatly from her life. One death was always easy enough to hide, but two in the same year would arouse suspicion.
“Ex passione, potenter benedic nob—”
Brrreeet—the chanting was interrupted by the chipper ring of a cellphone echoing through the subterranean chamber.
The Magister glowered at the Initiates through the slits of his mask, furious at the ceremony being undermined. These young men had no idea how privileged they were to be in the rarefied echelon that would ever witness, much less benefit from, a ritual as forbidden as this.
The boys all shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the circle.Brrreeet. The sound continued.
One of the Initiates—Collins? Davis? Or was it the boyfriend? It was impossible to make out who it was beneath the cloak in the dim—abruptly broke from formation and went to the corner of the room. The girl’s clothes were wadded up in a pile where they had been cut from her body and discarded. He fished in a small tan purse and pulled out the offending device as it gave one final noisy ring, no longer muffled.Brrreeet!
Despite the interruption, the elementals in the circle had continued their reactions. The ritual was still proceeding, and with a nod ofhis head, the Magister signaled the Initiates to resume the next line of chanting.
“Ex tenebris, potenter benedic nobis.”
The Magister beckoned to the boy with the cellphone. Its home screen showed a single missed call.The Magister contemplated the device until, as he’d hoped, the phone beeped, signaling a new voicemail.
The Magister stepped across the ritual circle. The Initiates continued their chanting, louder now, excited. The Magister raised a hand, signaling them to pause. He approached the girl in the center of the circle and held the phone before her. Even with the gag stretching her cheeks, it recognized her face and opened with a happy chirp. The girl thrashed and grunted, trying to shout something at him, but her words were unintelligible.
The Magister clicked up the volume on the phone and pressedPlayon the voicemail.
A young woman’s voice, pleasantly husky, issued from the phone’s speaker and echoed through the space, audible to all:
“Hey, sorry for calling so late, I know it’s…what, almost midnight there? Just thought I might catch you before bed if you were studying.”
The Initiates leaned in, beginning to understand now. The girl whimpered loudly, as though hoping the recorded voice might hear her and come to her aid.
“I’m up ungodly early here. Big day today. Wanted to hear your voice before I went in. But if I don’t, wish me luck.”
A muffled shriek issued from behind the gag, and the girl fought her bonds with such ferocity she practically convulsed. But it was useless. The ropes held. The message continued, a tremor of emotion creeping into the voice on the other line.
“Anyway, I know you’re busy, but…I miss you. I’m gonna try to come home and visit soon. And…I hope you’re doing great. Love you.”
The message ended—and at last, the girl broke. Her bitter defiance was replaced by abject defeat, as she understood, finally and truly, that she would never see her loved ones again. Her short lifewould end alone and naked in this room, leaving those who knew her to mourn in pain and confusion.
Only the abyss was waiting.
A keening wail escaped the girl’s throat.
