Page 11 of Liar
I turn away from the mirror and to Jaxon, glowering.
He finishes lacing up his shoes, then rises from the foot of my bed where he’s been idling, waiting for me to announce that I’m ready and we can leave.
“How very obnoxious and uncreative of you to say.” I step out of the en suite bathroom, then unhook my blazer from the valet stand, where Josh had it steam-cleaned and pressed. Jaxon’s dressed similarly in a dark suit with a black silk tie—a requirement of the Nobles during a formal meeting.
“I’d just appreciate you wearing a new look now and again.” Jaxon smooths out the fabric between my shoulder blades as I find yet another mirror to glower at. “You’ve had a permanent scowl on your face for weeks now. I’d’ve thought you’d be as ecstatic as the rest of the town that Savannah’s alive. More than ecstatic.”
“I am.” I fix my cuffs, then step back from the mirror. Jaxon darts out of the way just in time.
“Sure you are.”
“Of course I am.”
Jaxon follows me to the door, his resulting silence conveying exactly how convinced he is.
There’s no need to fill the silence with puffed-up intentions and over-explanations. Jaxon and I spent more than a few nights musing under our breath whether the Nobles—and thus my father—were involved in her disappearance. Father’s stone-walling of the police during her search certainly helped with that theory.
But in the end, that’s all it was. A hunch.
When I went to visit Savannah at the hospital for the first time, I was well aware that my heart wasn’t beating out of my chest at the prospect of seeing her. I was relieved she was alive, but I wasn’t breaking down doors to get to her.
Go to her, son, Father had said. You’ll be the subject of unwanted talk if you don’t.
He means the Briars would be the subject of the Raven’s Bluff gossip mill. It has nothing to do with my personal reputation and everything to do with his.
I move in front of Jaxon down the hall, our Ferragamo shoes echoing through the empty manor. Mine are slower than Jaxon’s, and stiffer. The tightness in my back serves as a stark reminder of the consequences of saying no to Damion Briar.
Yet, I was willing to endure it for Ember.
We take the main set of stairs, and then the elevator into the underground garage, not bothering to turn on lights during our stroll. Jaxon’s been a guest here so many times, he could walk an emergency exit route out of Briar Manor blind, and I’ve envisioned escape plans so often, the blueprint might as well be a tattoo on my brain matter.
My car gleams in the darkness, more alive than the shadows. Jaxon swings into the passenger side as I take the driver’s seat, and once the automated garage door opens, I gun it into the dark.
Our drive to Winthorpe isn’t peppered with casual conversation. Both Jaxon and I are lost in our own thoughts. We’ve never spoken about the last time we were in the catacombs and I kneeled at his father’s feet while mine whipped a cable cord across my back.
We never talk about those things. If one of us shows up the next day carrying a fresh round of bruises or dried blood collected in the cracks of our lips, we merely nod in understanding, then spend that day entirely overprotective of each other.
Tonight isn’t one of those moments, neither of us burdened with our sires’ rage for weeks now. I assume it’s due to the damage control surrounding Savannah’s reappearance.
Is she still a Society member? Does she have detailed information on her kidnappers and what she endured?
I guess we’ll find out this evening.
As the car crests the final hill, Winthorpe’s castle silhouette looms grand against the darkening horizon, like a scaled, spiked dragon curled up and turned to stone.
I use the back gates and staff parking lot as usual, Jaxon and I departing my car as quietly as we drove in. The same trapdoor hidden between stone and underbrush comes into view as we walk, this time without a line of freshmen behind us. Already, this is looking more pleasant.
Jaxon creaks one flap open and I descend without the use of my phone or a flashlight. He does the same.
It’s eerily thick in the underground corridors, the air pungent with soil and stagnant water. If there were members before us, we wouldn’t know. The dirt pathway is so downtrodden and flattened with time, it’s impossible to discern the scuffle of footsteps by feel or by sight.
We round the corner into the octagon of the main catacomb, stone sculptures of the founders guarding each crypt on all eight sides, standing with their arms folded, the blankness of their eyes fixed at the middle of the room.
There, the Nobles are gathered, donned in all-black suits. The viscounts, dukes, marquises, and barons are all dressed the same, the matter of hierarchy unimportant for tonight’s events—except for the king, of course.
My father isn’t here yet. The tightness in my chest relaxes at that realization alone. Jaxon gives me a quick pat on the shoulder before merging with the rest of the marquises. As the prince, I’m supposed to stand off to the side until summoned by the king. I have no problem with that. I’d much rather lurk around the edges, observing each and every twitch of my supposed brethren before the king enters.
Who will break out into a smile as soon as he enters? Which Noble stiffens at the sight of an unwanted leader? These are things I want to know after my treatment the last time we all met up at this location. My humiliation—Ember’s downfall—were at the forefront of my father’s motivations, and these assholes watched.