Page 128 of Speak

I signed up for the spot with the name ChloeUltor, the Latin word for avenger, ordered a gold, Emperor Moth blind mask to wear with large black moth wings, a black skintight, stretchy leotard with gold vines that outline my curves, bejeweled small-holed fishnetsand thigh-high black boots to hide my tattoos which I’ll put foundation over, and a hair spray dye I ordered that can cover my silver stripe.

If I’m given the job, I’ll dance on Saturday and Sunday evenings. So I’ll still be able to TA for Maverick. The most important part of this is still being able to watch Jonas’ games on Friday nights. To be there for him as much as he’s there for me. As though I’ve manifested him, I feel the dip of the mattress.

I open my eyes, only to be shrouded in darkness, no Jonas. A sinking feeling settles into the pit of my stomach as I descend, burrowing further under the blanket between my men, closing my eyes tightly, sending a prayer, for the first time ever in my life, to any deity listening, to please, please, please, keep him safe.

Chapter Twenty- Nine

Jonas.

“…Pro Familia, Sanguinem.”

It should be a crime (it probably is) to perform a ritual with an opening hymn. I’m exhausted and the only thing I can think of, is Raven. Tonight, after I came back from New Bedford on Syndicate orders, I was told we had three new initiates. Three young men that have proved themselves “worthy” to enter the brotherhood. Three new lackies.

The Elders, or Legacies that haven’t died yet, are conducting branding rituals under the Monroe library on the altar just twenty feet away from me. They stand before a fire on a dais, torch sconces along the maroon brick walls, the rest of us, red cloaks, stand around the circular dungeon-like room beneath the library.

It takes everything I have not to shake my head at the initiates that are currently giving their lives away. They aren’t legacies. They’ll forever be lackies. Pretty rich thugs, no matter what highbrow career they choose, they’ll always be doing Legacy dirty work.

I have six more months of this. Once I graduate in April, it’ll be over. No more secret shit. No more late nights. I’ll be able to just go home and be with Raven. First, we’ll move to New York, then, I’ll make her wife and then-

“Ezekiel Cage Wilson.” One of the Elder Legacies in a white robe calls the sophomore forward. From the sound of his voice Ibelieve it’s Stephen Prescott, who took his father's place as an elder after he died three years ago.

Zeke obeys, stepping forward, his head bowed.

“Your witness?”

“I have two, sir. Charles James Ashby and Marc Antony Rivera.”

With the mask, it’s difficult to get a read on the Stephen's face but he sounds bored, monotonous. “Very well.” He calls on Zeke’s witnesses and they step forward as well, they pull at the sleeves of his black cloak, and it pools around his ankles like a velvet puddle, displaying his naked body. They shove him forward, and he kneels before a stone slab, a sacrificial-like altar with runes gravely etched into it like hieroglyphics.

I can still feel the coolness of the rock against my cheek, as they press him forward. Stephen turns back toward the fire only to come, walk down the three steps with the branding iron, glowing orange, the train of his cloak dragging behind him as he finally stops in front of Zeke. His witnesses hold him down.

“You have completed your initiation, no ties have led back to you, nor the Syndicate. Your father is proud, your brothers are proud, we Elders are proud as we welcome you as a piece of the future, a Legacy. You, Ezekiel Cage Wilson, are now a member of the Syndicate. We witness your final initiation rite as is our duty.” Stephen presses the hot iron into the side of Zeke’s left ribcage as he screams and shakes.

I feel my own ache, the pain of it forever seared into my memory as the scent of burnt flesh reaches my nostrils and I hold my breath to hold back my gag. But it’s not over. As soon as Zeke has recovered, a small bowl and a carving knife is brought to Stephen by a red cloak, and he slashes quickly, holding the bowl under small gash, collecting Zeke’s blood… for the ledger. So he, and his witnesses, can write their names and their crimes down – the only proof of what they did.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I lift my gaze to find a pair of green eyes across the room watching me beneath a red hood, red-rimmed and tired. Axel. His grandfather Eugene is a white cloak, sitting on the dais in a wheelchair, too old to be the one performing this. I cast my sight back down, counting the minutesuntil I can get back to my dorm to shower and nap before tomorrow. I also need to see my girl before the game.

I usually look forward to this game, the West Shore Titans are great adversaries and put up a good fight, but I doubt we’ll be able to beat them this year on their turf. I go over plays and calls in my head as they go on and initiate Marc and Charles. I go over every way we’ve worked harder with River, to bring him to Chase’s level, to make sure he can at least partially carry the team the way Chase, Riordan and I did. It’s not all on his shoulders, it’s mostly on mine.

I barely hum the old hymn; grateful this is all over. In a timely manner, we all exit the dungeon, into the tunnel that leads underneath the university, out into the medical department where the morgue that holds cadavers for the students to practice on.

We change, believe it or not, there, in the morgue. I do so quickly so I can get back to my dorm as soon as possible. The best thing I can say about all of this, is my dorm is straight across the pathway. I’m on my way out, backpack on, heading into the corridors of the silent empty school, when I hear my name being called by Axel. I continue, not stopping even when he reaches me.

“Goddammit, Ax, just stop.”

“I heard about the fire. Is she okay?”

“Axel-“

“I know, I get it. You don’t want to talk to me, I just need to know she’s-“

“No, Ax, it’s that I don’t want to talk to you it’s thatshedoesn’t want to talk to you. And until she’s ready to, I’m going to have her back on this. Leave it alone. She’ll reach out when she wants toifshe wants to.”

He nods, twisting his lips to the side. He looks miserable, like he hasn’t slept well in weeks. “Will you tell her I said hi?”

I drag my teeth over my bottom lip. “Sure.”

“Thanks. Will she be at the game tonight?”

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