Page 22 of Stormbreaker

It takes me a moment to realize she means Edward, not Rook.

“Of course,” I assure her.

I stare at the door as it closes, and a part of me wonders if we’ll ever see either of them again.

7

It’s the middle of the night, early the following week, when someone shines a flashlight in my face. My eyes peel open, and I squint against the brightness, my heart starting to race.

“Get dressed,” comes a muffled voice. I glimpse someone dressed in black, their face obscured by a plain leather masquerade mask.

I guess it’s my turn.

My pulse thrashes so fast that my head swims as I sit up. I glance over at Trinity’s bed and note it’s already empty.

Quickly, I throw off my covers and head to the bathroom, past a sleeping Winter and Lacey, to dress in my casual uniform attire. I come out and throw on my dress coat, securing the buttons and the ribbon around my waist. After I tie up my boots, the mysterious masked person grabs me by the arm and tugs me toward the door.

Outside, two more masked figures stand, their hands clasped behind their backs.

“Follow,” one says, then they turn and start walking. I do as they ask while my first chaperone brings up the rear. The lights in the halls are dim, barely illuminating my way. I squint into the shadowed corners as my skin itches. A storm is gathering, and I curse, worried it might throw off my focus.

Of the students who were taken from our history class a week ago, one didn’t make it back. Connor O’Tool from House Fiama failed his test and hasn’t been heard from since. For now, I try to put it out of my thoughts.

As we march down various halls, I peer at the masked face behind me, but it gives away nothing. Where is Trinity? I’m sure they’re forcing me to walk alone to make this more intimidating.

It’s working.

We reach the end of a corridor, and one of the figures in front opens a door to an internal stairwell that leads into the dark. We continue marching, our boots echoing against steel. Down, down we go, and I realize we’re headed for the tunnels.

Panic shadows the corners of my sight, and I will my fluttering breath to settle. My fear of tight spaces will affect my ability to be my best, too. I take another steadying breath as we circle lower, the stairs transforming from metal to stone.

The smells of the tunnels—stale water and abandoned refuse—drift up to meet us. I cling to the wall for support, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, worried about pitching forward and making a complete ass of myself.

I glance back again, and the masked figure shakes their head in a warning. I swallow a knot and continue the trek into the bowels of New Manhattan. Finally, we reach the lowest level and enter a rounded tunnel, flooded with an inch of water and floating shapeless objects that I try not to think too hard about.

I’m led deeper through the underground, willing myself not to throw up from the pressing sensation of being buried alive. Technically, there are exits everywhere we turn. Ladders lead to the surface, where hatches open into the streets. Except most of them are rusted and don’t really look like they’d hold my weight.

Calm down.

I blink and then blink again, trying to adjust to the darkness. A black spot hovers in the corner of my vision, obscuring my surroundings just enough to throw me off-kilter.

We turn a few more corners as the floor dries, revealing crumbled brick and other debris. I listen to the sounds of our footsteps and the echoing drips of water in the distance. After years of living with my father, my hearing is well attuned to sounds that might signal danger.

Finally, we turn another corner to find a circular opening where a massive, heavy door sits open—a vault.

I stop walking, panic clawing up my throat.

Are they planning to lock me in there?

Something pokes me in the back.

“Keep moving,” growls the voice behind the mask. I exhale a shaky breath and then step over the threshold into a small room filled with several more masked figures.

Four people stand before me. Three men, bare-chested and wearing black pants, and the other a woman in a sleeveless jumpsuit. I assume this must be the four student leaders of each House.

“Pledge,” says one of the male voices. I think it’s Devon from Fiama. “You have a choice. To which Society do you seek initiation?”

I scan the silent masks in the room.