Page 70 of Dukes of Peril

So I keep on the path, heading to the outskirts of town, toward the grassy hill that overlooks Forsyth. She shifts in her seat, drawing my eyes to her legs. The bandages on her knees are gone, but the wounds are still a vivid, half-healed pink.

When she realizes where we are, she looks from the window to me.

“You brought me to the cemetery?”

I don’t answer, turning into the narrow drive. Like the rest of the town, it’s divided into four quadrants, with the crypt looming ominously in the middle. In some ways, it’s safe to say the roots of the Royal houses start here, running deep from the decayed bones of our ancestors, generations of Royalty, to the rest of the town. The ropy vines run like a current, spreading down the streets, connecting businesses and communities, all leading to a breeding ground at the University.

I drive slowly, passing the different sections, marked by stone walls or wrought iron barriers. I come to the junction of north and west and stop, idling. To the north, it’s impossible to ignore the large marble Lucia family stone in the distance marking her ancestors’ plot. It’s too far away to see from our foggy windows, but I know from my earlier visit that her mother’s name is engraved in the white surface, along with dozens of other distant relatives.

To our left, on a slight hill, is an arch made of iron, the name ‘Bruin’ curled across the top. Next to me, Lavinia is uncharacteristically quiet. I turn, the leather creaking under my movements.

“I know what it’s like to think I’ve lost a brother,” I begin, remembering there was a time I’d stay awake worrying about someone other than Remy. It was both better and worse with Nick. I didn’t see him enough for certain fears to take hold, but the unknown was almost harder, the possibilities of what he’d be doing in South Side endless. “I didn’t—but if I did, I know I’d want to bring him home.” I look out at the gravestones. Some are tall and regal, monoliths to honor Royalty like her. Others are simple and squat, some just flat and flush with the earth. There’s no equalizer greater than death. “Or as close to it as possible.”

“This is about Leticia,” she guesses, following my gaze.

“This is about you.” I take my hand from the gearshift and place it over hers, resting on her knee. “You don’t have to be a psych major to know there are five stages of grief. You really didn’t get a chance to process your sister’s death, and we can’t—” I stop, not wanting to make this moment about Leticia’s murder. “I don’t know who killed her, but I can do this for you. I can help you lay her to rest.” I look between the family crests. “If that’s what you want, you can pick which ground you want to lay her in.”

A flicker runs across her expression. I’ve seen it before. It’s the panic of having a voice. Whenever Lavinia is given a choice, she freezes for a moment, uncertain of how to decide.

I wait patiently.

“That’s not her home,” she says quietly. “Leticia wasn’t a Bruin.”

“No,” I agree, thinking of my old friend. “But she was Tate’s, and Tate was ours. Her parents took mine up on the offer to have her buried here, so she’d be with friends.” I grip the steering wheel with my left hand, knowing this must be overstepping. “If you think that’s what she was to Leticia–a home–then we can bury her there. But, if you think it’s what your sister would want, we can place her next to your mother instead.” I look to the North, knowing it’s a bit riskier, disturbing Lucia soil. Not that it matters. I might not belong in that section of the cemetery, but Lavinia and her sister do. I’ll fight for their right to be there if I have to.

She thinks for a long moment, eyes focused on the marble headstone signaling the short life of Emily Lucia. “No,” she says with an exhale. “You’re right. She deserves some peace. Something my father could never give her. This is…” Her fingers wind in mine. “This is right. Isn’t it?”

I gaze into her questioning eyes, giving a nod. “I think so.”

I’m prepared. While Lavinia is wrapping her sweater around herself, I get out and round the back of the car, removing a small, watertight box from the trunk. The skull, the only remaining part of Leticia we have, is securely sealed inside. I pluck out the bouquet of flowers resting next to it, and when Lavinia appears, I hand them to her.

She takes the flowers, pressing her nose to the petals. “Blue again,” she notices, eyes soft and somber.

I scratch my neck, gesturing to them. “Remy said I should.” Idly, I wonder how long it’s going to take him to realize that blue means something more to him than just calm and trust.

Last, I grab the shovel.

“So we can just… dig?” she asks, looking around. We’re alone, the sky gray and wet, casting the cemetery in a cold shroud of mist. No funerals or visitors today.

“You can if you pay off the caretaker.” I close the trunk, assuring her, “The family knows. Dad, Pops, and Mom are all good with this.”

She frowns, hugging herself against a gust of wind. “They’re really okay with a Lucia crashing your family’s eternal life?”

I tighten my hold on the box tucked under my arm. “They’re okay with Tate being with someone she loved,” I venture, which is mostly the truth. The other part is that they know Lavinia must be more to us than a mere Duchess if I’m willing to go to all this trouble. I gesture toward the iron gate in the distance, ducking my head as I walk. “My parents don’t buy into this bloodline thing the way other Royals do, Lavinia. Tate was our family, just like Remy is.”

When we arrive at the graves, I find her there.Tatum Grady. Her headstone is a smooth black granite, etched with the date of her birth and death. I stare at it for a long moment, thinking of the last time I was here, six months after her funeral. Nick was gone. Remy was barely himself. I was bruised and swollen from the fight I’d just won at a random bar, drowning my misery in a bottle of shitty malt liquor. Everything was so fractured and hopeless back then, and I find myself wanting to tell Tate everything.

This is Lavinia, I want to say.She put the parts of us we couldn’t find back together.

But when I glance over, she’s staring at Tate’s grave with a pale, drawn expression. “This is her?”

I nod, nudging the ground beside her grave with the tip of the shovel. “I was thinking here. They’d be close.”

Lavinia’s throat jumps with a swallow and she crouches, fingers plucking a single blue flower from the bouquet. I watch silently as she places it on Tate’s headstone, the mist clinging to her powdery blue hair like glitter. “Thank you.” At first, I think she’s thanking Tate, but then she looks up, meeting my gaze. “And thank them for me, too. Your parents.”

Clearing my throat, I shrug. “You’re welcome.” I don’t tell her I’m doing it for Tate as well, because I’m not sure how to explain it. Tate and Leticia had something. Maybe she felt the same way about Leticia as I feel about Lavinia, and it cuts at my mind that Tate hid it from me–from us. Whatever she needed, some facet of trust that wasn’t there, I figure I can give her this. Some small, ultimately meaningless gesture of acceptance.

She’s silent as I dig, my shovel cutting into the earth. I’d waited until a day like this, the ground wet and soft after a night of rain, to finally come out here. It helps that things back at the tower are more settled, Remy attending his classes and support group, while Nick tends to higher stakes DKS duties. This is exactly what I’ve needed. Something real. Something useful.

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