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“Because I wanted you here, okay?” He leans in, whispering the words. “So do us both a favor and sit pretty and behave like a good little prosapia.”
Surprisingly, dinner passes without drama. Quinctus are a strange bunch. Phillip Cargill is clearly the leader in the absence of Cade’s father. He commands the room with gentle authority. The man I learn is Bexley’s grandfather, Marcus, doesn’t engage in the monotonous conversation about town growth and sustainability. Harrison Rexford and Bradley Davenport drink like it’s going out of fashion, acting far too handsy with the female servers. But overall, for something as mysterious as Quinctus, they really are quite a boring bunch of men.
There’s more laughter and gossip from the wives’ table. I glean snippets of their conversations remarking on their husbands’ latest business transactions and plans for next month’s harvest ball.
Throughout the whole ordeal, I realize something. Cade isn’t only playing a game with Bexley and Alex, he’s also playing a game with Quinctus. Tension ripples between him and Phillip every time the other speaks, as if they’re vying for power. But Cade is only Electi. Which means he’s either trying to impress them and fulfil his father’s shoes sooner rather than later, or he’s coveting their power for himself.
“You know, Son, it really is time you took a prosapia for yourself.” Phillip Cargill gives Brandon a pointed look.
“He has time, Phil,” Bradley suggests. “Let the boy sow his wild oats first.” His haughty laughter sets my teeth on edge.
“How are you finding everything, Mia?” Harrison Rexford finally pulls me into the conversation.
“The food? It was lovely, thank you.”
“You know, it’s quite curious that your name was pulled from the calix.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “I… I certainly didn’t expect it.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” Something goes through the air, but then the servers are back, cleaning away our dessert plates.
Phillip Cargill stands and clears his throat, ushering the room into silence. “And now the moment we have all been waiting for. Your Transitus.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and pulls out a small wooden box.
“Initium Easton, initium Rexford, please join me at the altar.”
They follow him to the small wooden altar at the head of the room. An open fire flickers behind them.
Phillip flips the lid and pulls out a small iron symbol, attaching it to a long poker and moving over to the fire. “Please kneel and unbutton your shirts,” he says.
Alex and Bexley glance at one another but then take a knee, unbuttoning their shirts.
“You have successfully completed the tasks set before you. There is just one final test. Initium Easton, please repeat after me. Sanguis. Imperium. Electi. Aeternum.”
Phillip moves to Bexley and lowers the brand, shimmering with heat. He presses it into his skin, right above his heart. The smell of charred flesh fills the room, turning my stomach, but Bexley doesn’t falter as he repeats the words back to Phillip.
He’s one of them now.
An Electi.
Cade’s brethren.
A little part of my heart dies with every Latin word that rolls off his tongue.
I don’t want this for him. But he’s imprisoned just like me.
And as I watch him accept Phillip’s hand and let him pull him to his feet, I silently wish that together, we’ll find a way to set each other free.
Sasha is quiet on the ride back to the Electi house.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Not here,” she mouths. I wonder what has her so upset.
“At least Cade went ahead in the other car,” I say, and Channing snorts.
“If you think that’s a good thing, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Will you just put me out of my misery and tell me what happens tonight?”
