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I try to pull my hand back when he reaches for me once more, but he predicts it and snags my wrist before I can get far. My heart climbs into my throat as he pulls me toward the doors that look like, but nothing prepares me for the four robed men who come out after Rey does some coded knock. Stupidly—because I know he wouldn’t do shit to protect me if I were in danger—I make myself as small as possible against his side. I’m scrappy as fuck and I know how to throw down or run if I need to, but neither of those options will work here. For one, I have no clue how to get the fuck out of here since I lost track of where we were about fifty corners ago, but also because there’s no way in hell I’m going to win a fight against four grown ass men.
Rey pulls his sleeve up revealing an intricate scar on his forearm near the crook of his elbow and I gasp at the sight. It’s a fucking branding! I gaze down at it as one of the robed men grabs Rey’s arm with unnecessary force and roughly rubs his thumb across it making Rey hiss. It was too low for anyone else to hear it, but I did.
On instinct, I grab the asshole’s wrist and rip his fingers away from Rey before bringing my knee up. I connect with the bastard’s balls before anyone can stop me, but there’s no need, I’m done.
“Don’t fucking touch him.” I snarl down at the groaning bitch before sliding my eyes across the other three who stand back, watching me within the shadows of their cowls.
“Easy,princessa. They’re just making sure it’s real.”
The robed goons allow us to pass through as the punk I kneed stands on shaky legs, head bowed as I move past him.
“How many times have you been down here, Rey?” My voice shakes as adrenaline courses through me, but I welcome it. Fear is far more debilitating; I’ll take anger over it any day. The doors close behind us, and I look up at Rey whose face has once again closed off.
“I bet you’ve been down here more times that you can even count,” I pull his arm toward me, and he allows it, not speaking a word as I gently touch the burn scar. It’s identical to the pendants of Calavera Society, bust, mask, horns…a wicked and ungodly emblem burned into Rey’s skin. “I have no doubt they knew this was real.”
I look up into his eyes and though they watch me as though I’m a newfound flower that needs to be studied under a glass, I can see the pain and confusion I feel within myself. But I don’t care. I don’t have a single care that Rey doesn’t like me, that he’d rather me be dead or gone than to spend another second in his presence, all I care about is the pain I see woven deep into his soul. Pain that this Society—my father—has brought upon him.
“Did he do this to you? Did he hurt you, Rey?”
As though my words flipped something inside him, Rey yanks his arm out of my hands and grabs the nape of my neck. Pain shoots down my spine as I feel strands of my hair rip out of the base of my scalp.
“I don’t need your pity, little one. I don’t need your care. All I need is for you to cooperate like a good girl, if you don’t, it won’t be me getting hurt this time.”
“Why would you care?” I hiss through clenched teeth, “You’ve made it clear you don’t give two fucks about me, so why the sudden worry about me being the one who gets hurt?”
He leans into my face, his angry gray eyes bouncing between both of mine, “I don’t care about you, Valeria, I only care about what I want and to get that, I need you out of my way, so you don’t fuck things up.Caringfucks things up.”
We stare into one another’s eyes as hot tears of anger burn a path down my face, that last sentence hanging in the air like toxic fumes. His eyes follow one of my tears down my cheek, both of us breathing shallowly as we stand mere inches apart. Suddenly, he lets me go, his hand ripping from the back of my neck like I burned him. I wish I could.
“Just–” he’s never stuttered before, but I don’t comment as he busies himself by fixing his sleeve and covering his scar, “Just stay quiet, speak when spoken to and do not try to stop anything you see no matter how morally wrong it may feel.”
I don’t get a chance to ask him what his definition ofmorallywrongis because he swings the next set of wooden doors open revealing a room filled with masked men in robes and at least twenty younger guys wearing nothing but white long shirts on all fours before them.
“Bienvenida, princesa! The Calavera Society has been waiting for your arrival.” My father’s voice pulls my attention from the trembling men in white to a balcony above me on the second floor.
I spot his smirking mouth—unique with the shiny gold cap just to the side of his front left tooth—but the rest of his face is covered in a golden mask. Everyone else in the room is either in a black, red, or silver mask.
Beside my father is another man who hungrily rubs his fingers across his bottom lip, but I can’t tell who he is because the black mask he’s wearing covers his eyes. By the aged, tattooed skin of his hand and the way his back hunches just slightly, I’m pretty sure he’s much older than me.
On the other side of my father is Mateo. He’s wearing a black mask, same as the older man, but there’s no mistaking that crazy as hell smile of his. Especially that coy dimple in his chin.
I ignore him and watch my arrogant father who stands like a man suffering from a God complex—chin up, shoulders back, arms spread as he looks down his nose at everyone. The mask he’s sporting is the only one that stands out amongst the rest. It's gold and carved to look like the eyes and nose of a human skull. It’s almost identical to the La Muerte statue in the courtyard. There are horns protruding from the top, bent backward like a ram’s horns, and curl back toward the base of his skull.
The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, making the fabric pull apart as he rests his hands on the rail of the balcony, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen ink on my father’s skin.
La Muerte peeks out from his shirt as he twists his head to the side, a sick smirk on his mouth as he watches me. I don’t know this man. I thought I did, but as I think back to every memory I’ve had and measure it to the man before me, I see now that it was nothing but a play.
His mouth opens and I can feel the final act beginning, the bullet that kills the main character and leading to the dramatization of love and loss, of pain and betrayal…of lies and deception.
“Valeria Sinclair Calavera, your initiation begins now.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
* * *
‘COME UNDONE’ BAD OMENS
I’ve spentmy life learning how to turn off my emotions. How to keep my face from showing my thoughts no matter what they are, but in all that time, all those arduous days of learning what consequence awaited me if I showed my hand even a little, nothing prepared me for Valeria.
