The Director will be in shortly.
It also gives a brief overview of the different chapters—but it doesn’t go into detail, because they’re all hidden away. It does say that they all have their own secret name—something you don’t learn until you’re initiated. This book was written for the London chapter—the Blackfriars Brotherhood. The actual addresses are kept hidden and have been guarded for over a hundred years.
About halfway through, there’s an in-depth, explicit description of what is labeledThe Ceremonies. I blush and shut the book, thinking of the man and woman from last night. Lying on my bed, I close my eyes, and as my fingers brush the sensitive skin on my stomach. Then I hear a pounding at the door.
I grab the knife I keep under my pillow and tiptoe to the wooden edifice. One of the reasons I picked this place, aside from Zoey, is because of the reinforced wooden door. It’s taller and wider than a regular door, since the building is so old. The wood is so thick that we can’t even hammer a nail into it to hang a wreath. It’s a fucking fortress. The three additional locks I installed were likely overkill, but you can never be too careful. I glance at the door with narrowed eyes. I hesitate to check the peep hole—I’m always so paranoid that the other person can see my shadow when I do that. Anotherboom boom boomsounds, this time a little louder. I slink over and stare at the grainy lines of wood, wondering who would be stopping by on a Saturday afternoon. Handling the knife, I creep closer, and nearly jump out of my skin when a voice echoes through the thick wood.
“Evelyn, if you’re there, open up.”
Benedict.
I suck in a mouthful of air. “What do you want?” I ask, my voice angry.
He walked away.
“I want to talk.”
Memories of him at my door years ago in London flood through my mind. I have a moment of déjà vu when I remember him making the same request nearly three years ago—different flat, but same statement. Back then, I sat on the other side of the door and fell asleep, knowing full well that he was sleeping on the other side of my old door, the rain pelting onto him. He didn’t leave for nearly five hours. I watched him wander away, and from the small hole, I could tell he was shivering uncontrollably. Goosebumps rise along my arms when I think about that time, and everything he did for me, trying to reconcile it with the domineering, dismissive figure of the society meeting last night.
The one who demanded I leave.
I inch over to the door, unlocking each lock slowly, willing myself to stop. Before I know it, I’m swinging the door open. He’s wearing a long, billowing overcoat, dark jeans, a white wool sweater, and the nicest pair of Italian leather dress shoes I’ve ever seen. And he doesn’t look happy to see me.
“Were you going to stab me?” he asks, his voice gritty as his eyes regard the knife in my palm.
I shrug. “You can never be too careful.” I gesture for him to come in.
His presence is commanding; authoritative. He strides over to the couch, sitting before I can ask him to sit. His face is slightly flushed, and his hair is all mussed up, like he’s been running his hands through it all morning. He leans forward, his eyebrows coming together ever so slightly in concern as he eyes me.
He looks ten times better than he did last night, and of course I look like a bridge troll. I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth today. I am exposed, open,vulnerable.And I don’t like that feeling at all.
“I was about to shower,” I lie, looking around the messy flat. My first instinct is to tidy up, but what’s the point?
He walked away.
His eyes roam over my body quickly, flicking back up to my face. “I’ll wait.” He arches one brow, leans back, and crosses his arms. A small frown plays on his lips.
“Fine,” I answer, turning quickly.
When I get to the bathroom, I shut the door and exhale slowly. My hands shake as I turn the lock. I untie my robe and wring my hands together while I wait for the water to get hot.
I’m fine.
Everything is fine.
I won’t let him get to me—not now, not ever.
I climb into the clawfoot tub and pull the curtain closed. As I let the scalding water run over me, I put my hands over my face. Why is he here? Why is he in Oxford, and what does he want to talk about? We’ve goneyearswithout speaking; it’s not like we have any reason to see each other, unless it involves Lily, Salem, or Delilah. I finish up in the shower, making sure to scrub every inch of my skin with the lavender oil exfoliant. I grab a towel and dry off. I wrap it around my hair and quickly brush my teeth. When I’m done, I exit the bathroom.
I watch him from my hidden vantage point. He’s still leaning back onmycouch, typing furiously on his phone. His face is illuminated by sun streaming through the window, the golden light making his skin glow. A piece of dark hair obscures his eyes, and he has one leg propped on the knee of the other leg. I shift my weight to the other foot, and the floor creaks. His head snaps up and he rakes his eyes over me slowly.
So, torturously slowly.
“One sec,” I say, my whole body shaky.
“Take your time, Evelyn.”
I meander to my bedroom, ignoring the rich, melodic way his French accent says my name. I put on an old pair of jeans, a tank top, and an oversized cardigan. I slip into some slippers and brush through my long, blonde hair. I run my fingers through it, observing the way the new color makes me seem paler somehow—sallow and translucent. I walk into the living room, sitting across from him in one of our sitting chairs.
