Eight is considered a sacred number. In biblical meaning, the number eight represents the cycle of life and the promise of renewal, symbolizing completeness, wholeness, and perfection.
The secret of the House of Eights slipped out in the 1930s when a suicidal member spoke to the press about it. It was later dismissed as complete fiction, but the rumors and whispers never truly died out.
That member died in a car wreck two days after his interview.
Mya Abbott stands. “Are you in charge now, Crawford? The better question is, where’s Dr. Fraine? Eric doesn’t need to check in with you.” She rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms.
Each cycle of the House of Eights has had a Regent leader. Dr. Fraine has held that position for two cycles, eight years. More often than not, he’s too busy to attend our meetings, preferring to meet one on one in his office.
Hart Crawford has become the self-appointed leader, and he hates to be questioned, especially by any of his fellow H.O.E.members. He levels a glare at Mya. “Until you have something of worth to add, you can keep your mouth shut.”
The feeling of tension in the dark stone room with no windows, where our voices often echo, ramps up as Mya sits in a huff. Gas-lit torches cast light that dances across the stone ominously. It gives me the creeps and always has. Running the length of the Regent’s Great Hall, located under the basement and accessed through a hidden door from the chapel, is our sanctum. It holds the table and chairs, as well as two safes. One safe contains past evidence and communications, while the other holds assets such as gold bars, cash, jewels, and artifacts. Only Dr. Fraine has the combinations.
The symbol on the table and the inset, elaborate artwork on one wall are the only things that give any identity to this space. The scrolling carved stone, featuring the Latin phrase “Ad Infinitum,” is an ornate feature that draws my eye each time we are seated here.
I hold my tongue while Hart berates us all for laziness, lack of focus, and disloyalty to our cause. “If we need to step up, we’ll fail if all of you keep acting like this is a game,” he warns, his voice sharp and unwavering.
Ellis laughs, interrupting Hart’s lecture. “Relax. You’re buying into a fairytale. Do you believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too, man? What are we actually doing here, huh? If this isn’t some elite fraternity, what do you think it is? I’m here for connections beyond school, to pave my way to big money. You act like the lore is real. I guarantee it’s not.”
“Ellis, you’re proving my point. You’ve seen enough in the last three years, and you still think it’s all a story meant to keep us scared and in our place.” Hart walks around the table, his fists clenched as tightly as his jaw. “Predicted disasters and deaths, prophecies coming true, even the opportunities that have led usinto unimaginable situations. How could you even question it anymore?”
I no longer do.
But maybe it’s because I’ve always had sensitivities. Memes affectionately called it my uncanny knack, but I’ve felt change coming, sensed whether it’s good or bad. I’ve had memories that don’t make sense, dreams that haunt my waking hours about disasters from the past.
I’ve had memories of them, their roles still murky.
I know Elizabeth.
Ellis shares a look with Rett. Both have reached a boiling point with Hart.
They can both trace their family trees back to American presidents, a legacy of power and the ebb and flow of money. Rett is a great-great-grandson of Woodrow Wilson. Beyond modeling, he’s in position to take over financial institutions along the entire east coast. Ellis is related to Gerald Ford, and his family controls an international communications company. One blowhard classmate and fellow member won’t make either of them back down.
“Can we get back on track here?” I ask before it turns into a full-blown fight.
“Where are we at with Tullis?” Soren asks.
“Dead. He died in a plane crash last week,” Mya says in a bored voice.
My guts ripple.
Then it hits me, as if a fist slammed down into the center of my being. I look around me to see an Olympic-sized pool. Pennants marking years of collegiate excellency hang from the rafters. Standing poolside in Rafferty Hall at RockAm, I’m alone.
Voices filter to me from the locker area as a young Henry Tullis walks in with a towel around his waist. He turns to look at me. “Hey, thought you were too busy to meet up?”
A laugh comes from a tall, dark-haired male, obscured by the stands. He says, “He can’t stand being left out. Of course he’s here.”
That voice… is it…
Kaitlyn pulls on my shirt, her voice in my ear. “Are you high right now?”
Blinking as I stare at her face, I nod. Words fail me.
What in the fucking tarnation was that?
Henry Tullis, U.S. Ambassador to Germany, was fifty-eight years old when he met his demise. Why did I just have a vision of him as a college student here?
Why did I feel like I was there with him, while he was an active member of the House of Eights? What does it mean?
