“Cut the bullshit,” I say quickly, swatting the knife out of his hand and glaring at him. “Where the hell are we, and what is this?”
He smiles at me as if he’s noticing me for the first time. “Welcome to the Blackfriars Brotherhood, ladies.” He saunters over to the table and hands us each a sheet of paper and two pens. “Sign these.”
I glance down. “A nondisclosure agreement? I need to know what we’re getting ourselves into before we sign anything.”
He watches me with narrowed eyes, flitting between Zoey and I a couple of times. His eyes aresoblue—icy and slightly evil looking. His jaw is ticking relentlessly.
He seems unhinged.
“The Brotherhood was founded in 1824 by Alistair Crownley, the occultist. We model ourselves on Freemasonry, but with our own spin. Each chapter is named accordingly—we are aptly named the Blackfriars Brotherhood, though there are several others across Europe and in other parts of the world.”
I stare at him. “Is it a cult?”
He chuckles, the sound deep and low. “Depends who you ask.” He glances at his watch impatiently. “But it’s about to start, so either sign the fucking papers, or leave.”
Zoey harrumphs next to me. She looks around and clenches her jaw, emboldened. Like me, she’s not usually the first one to back down. And, if her reaction to this guy is any indication, she won’t show any weakness. She grabs the paper from his hand and signs on the bottom line. The man gives her a feline smile as he assesses her. I’m a bit slower, looking for anything amiss in the agreement. From what I can tell, it seems like a standard NDA. I know this is crazy, and I know I should run. But once again, the adrenaline addiction fuels my stupidity.
Handing the papers back, he reaches behind him and pulls some black fabric out of an old box. He hands it over to Zoey first, and then me.
“Wear these.” He walks over to the storage bin, and pulls out two, black masquerade masks. “And these.”
I gawk at Zoey, but do as he says, reaching my arms through the flowing sleeves of the cloak.
“What about the rings?” Zoey asks, pulling her arms through. The man swaggers over to her, and she stiffens. He reaches down and takes her hand, and for a second, the gesture seems sweet and unexpected. But then there’s a flash of metal, and she yelps in pain and jumps back, holding her bloody hand out so that I can see the bloody gash.
“What in the ever-living fuck?” she yells, looking at the knife in his hand.
“You receive your rings after you participate in the ceremonies.” He pins his eyes on me, and I glare right back, holding my hand out.
Showing him that I’m not afraid.
He doesn’t give me as much fanfare—just takes my hand and slices across my palm. I close my fists tightly.Thatwas not in the NDA.
“The blood oath is customary,” he says, smirking. He walks over to the door and turns to us. I quickly put my mask on, and Zoey follows suit, although it’s not easy with a bleeding hand that’s stinging like crazy. “Anything you see or do in this meeting stays in this meeting. Any person you encounter out there does not know you outside of this meeting. We don’t exist. Got it?”
Zoey and I both nod, and exhilaration floods me.
“Through the door. There are no seats. Don’t speak unless spoken to. The Director will be in shortly.”
Then he pushes us out and closes the door behind us. I look at Zoey, and she swallows, but there’s an excited gleam in her eyes as well. When I look up, my eyes adjust to the dim lighting in the old theater. There are numerous wooden pegs, and dark beams line the ceiling, crisscrossing to create a hammerbeam, patterned roof. The stage is a few steps up, like most Shakespearean stages, and there are no windows in the auditorium at all. Candles are mounted on black, iron sconces, and wrought-iron chandeliers dangle every few feet above us, giving everyone a ghoulish glow.
“What the fuck,” Zoey murmurs, grabbing my hand and clamping down.
People dressed in all black fill the open space. They’re all wearing masks and cloaks, and they’re all staring ahead now, their voices a very, very low murmur. Chills erupt along my skin, and my heart races. We find a spot near the back that still has a view of the stage.
“But really… what the hell is this?” she whispers, her voice shaky.
“I have no idea.” I look around, secretly thrilled.
“There’s an exit right there,” she says into my ear, and takes my hand, pointing it at the green exit sign on the other side of the theater.
I’m about to thank her when a door on one side of the stage opens, and a man steps out. He’s still in the shadows, but with each step toward the center of the stage, he becomes more and more illuminated. I thought the theater was quiet before, but as the man wanders out, with each clack of his dress shoe, it gets quieter and quieter. He’s disguised, wearing the mask and cloak. My heart races as he takes center stage, his stance wide and confident. It’s so quiet that I can hear Zoey breathing. I squeeze her hand and she squeezes mine back.
The tattooed man from earlier enters the auditorium and walks onto the stage. He’s in a cloak and mask—and he still has dried blood on his hands. Stepping behind The Director, he reaches up to The Director’s cloak, pulling the hood off and taking a step back, revealing dark hair.
“Welcome, brothers and sisters,” The Director says.
I stiffen.
