Page 107 of Dukes of Peril

He gives me a disgruntled look. “It’s a support group for addicts. No one likes it here, kid.”

“Not the group,” I reply, grimacing at the grungy carpet. “The building.”

Humming, he stirs a sugar packet into his styrofoam cup. “Too institutional for you?” Dusty knows a little about my background at Saint Mary’s, which always makes my muscles tense to think about.

At some point, the university couldn’t deny the high level of substance abuse in the Greek system. The local and campus police can only cover up so much. So the Kings made a concession. This fucked up little group, complete with a certified counselor, is meant to clean up the destruction left in the wake of Lionel’s drugs. Dusty is a haggard fifty-something South Side expat, and if it weren’t for the way he commands the group with a quiet wisdom, one could miss entirely that he’s the one running it.

He’s wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt.

I always tread a little carefully with him. Metal tees or no, counselors are just a few steps away from therapists, and therapists can be bought. “Not really,” I answer, trying to put my finger on why the building bothers me. “It’s yellow,” I say, pointing at the anemic fluorescence overhead. “And it’s old, but notold, you know? There’s no history or heart here, it’s just a room beneath the ground. Every breath we take is filling our lungs with vermillion and dead birds.”

He watches me with a blank expression taking this in. I brace myself for the usual bullshit psych jargon I’m used to being assaulted with. Dissociation. Sensory issues. Med balances. Brain chemistry. Experiments. “Son,” Dusty sighs, bringing a firm hand down on my shoulder. “That’s some weird-ass nonsense. Shut the fuck up and take a seat.”

I blink. “Oh.” And then, “Yeah, okay.”

“Looks like everyone’s here,” Dusty says, walking over to the circle of chairs. “Why don’t we go ahead and get started.”

I take a seat, even though it kills me. For some reason, I have the urge to walk. Run. Fight. Fuck. Jesus, justsomething. I settle for the sketchbook I balance in my lap, flipping it open to the clock diagram I’ve been working on for Vinny. Dusty is okay with me doodling during the meeting, probably because it gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t starting an epic round of contagious, neurotic scratching. It’s never bad until I’m here with the others. Just watching them scratch makes me want to, and watching me scratch makes them want to.

We’re a fucking sideshow.

It’s better not to make too much eye contact with them, anyway. We’re not just a bunch of junkies. We’re also all aligned with the Royal system in one way or another. Everything about this set up feels like a cliché. The dingy room, the circle of chairs, the participants reluctantly avoiding each other’s stares while taking a seat. It’s usually a rotation of six or seven people, most sent here directly by their frat’s leadership, who’d rather their guys get clean than maintain some flimsy pretense of stability. It’s kind of profound, when it doesn’t make me want to punch someone.

It’s mostly guys. There’s an LDZ sitting across from me who compulsively bounces his knee up and down. There’s a Beta Nu who I’m always assessing, wondering if my father has this guy in his sights as another Baron. There are two sacrificial Kappas, pledges to the Counts, who were clearly sent to pretend they aren’t the problem. Fuck, one of them sold me a hit of Scratch last month.

They’re not the only Kappas who have made an appearance, though. A couple weeks ago, Sutton herself showed up, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, pupils solid black. Her skin was so gray that she barely looked alive, and I sat as far away from her as possible, cringing against the energy pulsing off her in erratic, yellow-green waves. Obviously, she’s not here tonight, but that doesn’t mean her presence isn’t felt.

Everyone knows she’s dead and exactly what killed her.

“We all know the rules,” Dusty says, but then stops, his intro interrupted by a loud, jarring slam of the door. It’s a heavy metal thing that all the regulars have learned to ease shut. The guy standing frozen beneath our glares isn’t a regular, though.

It’s Lex Ashby.

He doesn’t look much better than Sutton did the last time she came. His skin is pale, dark bags beneath his eyes, and even though he’s dressed like an Ashby in his preppy white button-down, the arms are viciously wrinkled, as if he’s been pushing them up and down his forearms all day. His dark hair is winning a war with whatever product he’d slathered it with this morning, some locks sticking up while others flop limply against his forehead.

His gaze skitters over us skeptically. “This where all the junkies meet?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, kid.” Dusty nods to the empty chair next to mine. “We prefer to be called the pharmaceutically disadvantaged.”

Lex hesitates a moment, his hands curling into fists, but eventually stalks toward us, lowering himself woodenly into the silver folding chair next to mine. I shudder at the orange radiating off him, not-so-subtly scooting my chair a few inches to the right.

“I’m Dusty, the head junkie,” he says in his rough voice. “And you’re…?”

“Lex,” the guy mutters. After a moment, he adds, “Recreational junkie.”

“What’s your house alignment?” Dusty seems to know a lot about senior Royalty, but he knows fuck-all about our generation. To him, we’re all the same.

“Psi Nu.” Lex raises his chin, eyes flashing with that patented East End arrogance. “I’m in my senior year of pre-med.”

Dusty gives a low whistle. “Tough workload.”

Lex barks a mangled laugh. “Yeah, it is.” He tips forward suddenly, scrubbing two palms down his face. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

Dusty shrugs. “Then we don’t have time for your shit. If you don’t want to be here,” he thrusts a thumb over his shoulder, “then leave.”

Lex drags his hands down his face, bloodshot eyes rolling. “I can’t. I’m here on orders.”

“From your King,” Dusty guesses.

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