Page 81 of The Devil

“When they let us go⁠—”

“Excommunicated us,” I correct.

“That was language for the other members. Saving face. I made an agreement with them. With Senna. But there was a price to pay.”

“Hadn’t I already paid it and more?”

He nods, keeping his head bowed, eyes closed for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner,” he says.

“I’m not saying it to guilt you, brother. You saved me. Our grandfather was a monster who fooled everyone. Tell me what this is. What I’m looking at.”

“They required their mark removed, which I agreed with. I didn’t want that thing on my skin. But, in typical Society fashion, they wanted it done in the most archaic, Medieval way possible.” Here, he pauses. “I was given three days to decide. If I agreed, I was to return to have the tattoo branded off⁠—”

“Christ. Fuck! Why the fuck would you agree to that?”

“Because the alternative would have been to frame you as a murderer and me as accomplice and clean up the whole mess permanently.”

Silence descends between us as I comprehend his words, his meaning.

Permanently. Death. They’d have killed us both and destroyed our bodies along with our grandfather’s.

“So, I returned in three days’ time and well, the rest is history.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Hadn’t you had enough by then? I couldn’t, wouldn’t weigh you down with more.”

I touch the uneven, ruined skin, feeling the texture of it, knowing the agony branding would have caused. Knowing they would have made sure he felt every ounce of pain possible.

My brother and I have a complicated relationship. Always have. I don’t know him, I think. Not really. But I do know the responsibility, the guilt he feels. It’s why he’s so fucking overprotective. He’s making up for what happened to me even though it’s not his fault. Even though he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried because there was only one way our grandfather would stop and that was death. Sev is not a killer. He’s brutal, but he’s no killer.

“It’s why you froze when you saw him. Senna. It’s why you’re being the peacekeeper.”

“We just need to get out. That’s all,” he says, pulling his shirt back up and buttoning it. “And in order to do that, we need to play along. They have the upper hand, Jet. We’re not in Devil’s Peak. We’re on their territory. On their fucking island. They can make us all disappear and it would be easy.”

“And yet they haven’t,” I say, wondering why, feeling a fresh dread. “I need to find Amal. Now.”

27

AMAL

Isit in the conservatory with its glass walls and glass ceiling and watch the weather. Jameson returned for me exactly twenty-nine minutes after leaving me and I had no choice but to go with him. At least I could see more of the castle and have an idea of the layout although I’m not sure if it came down to it how we’d make our escape considering we’d need a plane or a boat to get back to the mainland. Either of those would be hard to obtain and given the storm, I’m not sure even if we had transportation that it would be possible.

“Is this normal?” Gesturing to the weather, I ask the waiter who lays out a lunch I’m too anxious to eat.

He glances out then back to the task at hand. “Pretty much,” he says, setting a dish of chicken curry in front of me along with every possible accompaniment. “But don’t worry, you’ll stay warm and dry in here.”

Thirsty, I drink half the glass of iced tea and when I set it down, he quickly sweeps it up to set a fresh glass before me.

“I don’t need a new glass,” I tell him as he pours me a brand new one.

“Policy,” he says and turns to walk away.

I wonder at a policy like that and pick up the glass, thinking how weird, but drink some more. Rain sweeps the island in violent spasms before wind forces the clouds to clear for moments at a time. The ocean remains a terrifying black. It is as quiet within the glass walls as it is within the stone of the castle. I wonder how it would sound to stand on those cliffs, to feel the wind and taste the sea salt and know the viciousness of the storm.

Shifting my gaze back into the room I take in the beauty of the place. The money. Someone tends the fire in yet another massive fireplace. Above it are dozens of ancient wooden plaques. Coats of arms, I realize. Through them is a pattern of roses and thorny vines similar to the furnishings in my room. A chill runs down my spine because I suddenly realize where I’ve seen it. Why it’s familiar.

Startled, I reach for my purse which I hung from the back of my chair and pull it onto my lap. I almost take the diary out. Almost. But I glance around and see Jameson appear beneath an arched doorway. He’s speaking with another man and they’re looking at me. The staff, too, who appear to be busying themselves are watching.