Page 12 of Liar
I can’t fucking let that stand.
Light footsteps draw my gaze away from the small clusters of boys and men to the same entrance Jaxon and I used.
The queen, Headmistress Dupris, emerges first in a long, white silk gown with cut-outs that shouldn’t be considered sexy on a school principal, yet somehow she makes it possible.
Aurora is next, her short, auburn hair smoothed back against her scalp. One corner of my lips tugs upward. Despite having her head shaved a little over a month ago, the girl knows her style. A white mini-dress caps off her 60’s vibe.
She notices my attention too late, as I’ve already glossed over her appeal and have gone in search of who I really want to see.
Sadly, Belle follows next. Then Delaney. Then a few other Virtues, all in various white dresses, trotting in single file into the room like good little brides walking toward their fidgeting grooms.
Until there’s a gap at the end of the line as if everyone’s arrived and no more are coming.
Now, I know that not to be true.
The Nobles stand in a completed circle at the center of the octagon, folding in the Virtues until white and black alternate like the perfect numbers of a clock around the golden sundial in the center, engraved with the Societies’ maxim. We fly high in the dark. Everyone faces outward.
My scan becomes more fervent as I bounce between the Societal circle and the entrance. It’s not like Ember to send a deliberate message like this. By being a no-show, she’s giving my father a big FUCK YOU, and that’s not what my little pretty does. She’s more subtle than that.
Ember’s too perceptive and stubborn to just give up her seat like this and run home to mommy and daddy—even with my threats tucked into her stomach like sloshing bile. This town and this school have pissed her off too much for her to surrender so easily. And me. I’ll never let her slip through my fingers and escape without my knowledge. Not without proper, punishing recourse.
My gaze narrows.
No, something else is at play, here.
Two large, eight foot torches at my nine o’clock blast with flame, drawing everyone’s attention. A shadow flickers between the two columns, taking the form of a man as he draws closer.
My father.
He comes into the dancing light, all the other, smaller torches lighting up, one by one, around the room. The overhead light disappears, and we’re left with flickering flames and undulating shadows as my father booms out, “Welcome, my Nobles, my Virtues.”
He takes a breath, and I know what’s coming. I stifle a yawn.
“In 1820, my ancestor, Thorne Briar Senior, consecrated our noble grounds and deemed it necessary that only the most capable, the most elite, the most courageous, could become what you are today. No more than fifty members per chapter, as is our Noble-given rule. His brother, my direct line, Theodore Briar, offered himself as the original leader to the Raven’s Bluff chapter—our king—and became the creator of the challenges, an effort to lift our burdens and prove to one another our strength and capability above the common folk. It is a rite that does not exist in any other Noble or Virtue membership. Ours alone.”
Father lowers his head, scanning his circle of members and unleashing a visible, serpentine smile, grinning with no teeth.
He continues, “We’re all aware of our founder’s mistress, Rose Briar.”
The elders murmur stiffly to one another. The Virtues lift their chins, a few risking defiance in their glares.
“And how she came between two brothers, a secret affair that didn’t come to light until hundreds of years later.” Father lowers his voice. “We bear that shame.”
A chorus of voices takes up where Father trailed off. “Altum volair in tenebris.”
We fly high in the dark.
“That’s right.” Father lifts his chin and folds his arms. “We’re able to overcome any shame, defy any inner demons, and transform into an unstoppable secret that can influence entire governments, control the largest corporations, and live like royalty without any civilian knowing the difference. It is a great privilege to be invited into our Society. To become one of us.”
Father’s voice echoes throughout the catacomb, every face, every expression, as stoic as the statues framing the members. I tuck my hands in my suit pockets, grateful I chose a shrouded position under an alcove so I can scowl freely. I sense where this is going. I’m not confident my expression can stay as blank as the stone figures.
“My queen, please take your position beside me.” Father lifts his hand, motioning toward Headmistress Dupris.
She complies. Breaching the circle, she lifts her skirt and strides up the few steps to reach Father.
Admittedly, she paints the better picture with Father than his wife, stoic and proud beside a man whose pride eclipses any woman he latches onto. Julie Weatherby simply wilts when he takes her arm, a haggard reflection of what she once was.
The unbidden comparison only serves to anger me—how could Malcolm let his wife be taken and treated in such a way? It’s not beyond my comprehension, but it certainly prevents me from admiring or respecting him. When your girl is in danger, Societal rules should be damned. No control is worth her suffering unless it’s by your hand and in your control.