Page 12 of Priest and his Anarchist

A moment later, she loses focus, gazing off into the distance. Her mouth falls open, the color draining from her face. That familiar, hand-squeezing panic returns.

River shakes her head. “No. You can’t?—!”

“We have to,” Bishop cuts her off. “And you cannot say no.”

She flinches, resting back in her chair, but it’s like watching the sunset after a hard work day. “He’ll kill her.”

“Who?” I finally ask, and when seconds pass and neither answer, I fall back against my chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. This is what it feels like being an outsider, yet I have been told I am more EKC than Kiznitch all my life. I’ve always felt that way too.

Until now.

“Get some rest,” Nate ends the conversation before he and Bishop turn to one another in hushed tones.

Chapter Three

luna

year one

It towers over me like a schoolyard bully, promising a tale of torment that will be told only after it has tasted you. As if I'd stepped into a colorless world of the dark and disturbed. With a raw Brutalist style of architecture and sable-painted concrete, the only hint of life comes from the woods surrounding us. Even the steps and patio leading up to the front door are black. I have no idea where we landed. As soon as the plane touched down, we were rushed out the back exit to a waiting city car. I could be anywhere in the world right now, and not a single person would know if I was alive.

I stop walking. Plump shrubs absorb an array of dark maroon tulips at the center of the rounded driveway. As impressive as they are, that’s not what stops me. It’s the scattering of flowers that have long stalks with sharp petals. They resemble sunflowers, only they’re—well—black.

I reach forward to touch the petal of one when the wind whistling through the trees catches me off guard. I snatch myhand back and clutch the necklace on my chest. Damnit. Where did they take River? Is she going to be here with me too, or were they being generous when they said I’d see her around often.

Branches struggle to cuddle the mansion in knotted vines as if nature has been reaching for it all its life. In the distance, waves crash against rocks, and birds chirp through the trees. I’m someplace near water. That could be anywhere.

Dark aesthetic aside, the front door bleeds hues of mahogany and vermilion. It’s what I imagine dying to look like.

I shiver at the thought, instantly regretting the dress I changed into on the flight over. Even with my puffy coat, every gust of wind is an intimidating reminder of how exposed I am. Snow-covered grass and Mom’s peppery perfume lingers through the strands of my hair. I don’t want to be here.

I step forward, my boot landing on the checkered pathway that leads to the door. Black and grey. Interesting choice. Not something you’d expect when looking at the cabalistic nature of the mansion. It looks like it came right out of a Tim Burton movie.

The wind picks up again, wrapping its cold arms around my body. I shiver, careful with my steps. The patio creaks when it catches my weight, and I reach out to steady myself on the railing, afraid to fall through. Smooth and shiny, it’s some sort of stone or marble. I’m no stranger to the luxuries of money, but everything about this house seems different. It's as if it’s trying hard to be the opposite. Buried among forests, hidden deep against mountains. It doesn’t want to be seen.

It doesn’t want love or appreciation.

I land on the last step. Do I knock?

With one last skim of hope, I turn, wishing to see the city car still parked in the same spot it dropped me. To see River, or any familiar face that will tell me it’s okay and that I will be safe. Even if they’re lying.

Something grabs my arm. A scream tears out of my mouth when it forces me back around. This time, it’s not the door of death that stares back at me. It’s a figure so tall that I bend my neck just to look up at him. Clothed in a simple black T, jeans, and thick, military-style boots, he is much taller than me. So much taller.

“Can I help you?”

I finally settle on his face and my stomach plummets. In a brush of black and white, the notorious skull work of the Elite Kings Club is painted over his face, hiding any chance of knowing who it is.

Do I know him?

Not likely.

I try to focus on his eyes since they’re the only thing I can see, but the sun has set over the mountain, meaning we are about ten minutes away from profound darkness. Maybe I know him and he doesn’t like me.

Not uncommon. Most people don’t.

I cross my arms in front of myself. “Are you going to say something?”

Before I can ask another question, he tugs me inside. The words of River continue to echo through my head.

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