I guffaw. “You don’t? You’re the mostspot onScorpio I’ve ever met. Mysterious. Passionate. Intense.”
He smirks. “What’s yours?” He grabs his phone, and I groan, because I know exactly what he’s about to do.
“Aries.”
He types something into his phone and hums. “Interesting.” He looks at me playfully. “Your astrological symbol is a Ram, which is the symbol of courage, impulsivity, and strength.” He sets his phone down and crosses his arms. “So maybe they’re not all full of shit.”
“Where did you go to college?” I ask, reaching over and taking a sip of my coke.
“Panthéon-Sorbonne. You?”
I nod. “Boston University. Favorite word?”
He narrows his eyes in thought. “Hmm. It’s French—foudroyant. Doesn’t really have an English translation.”
I grin. “So, try to translate it.”
His returning smile is lopsided, confident. It does something funny to my insides.
“Dazzling, stunning. In French, it means overwhelmingly beautiful.”
I look down and smile. Another thought occurs to me.
“Wait. I never asked you. Why write a book about The Ceremonies?” It’s weird to bring up the Brotherhood in the midst of our utopia here in the hotel bed, but I haven’t talked to him about it since he told me he was the author.
He smiles and looks away, shrugging. “There was no recorded history of the Brotherhood. No one had ever thought to write it down. So, when Hayes and I outlined our plan to expose them, we figured having a record of what happens day to day would be ideal. So, I self-published the book and printed ten copies. I don’t know how one of those made its way into the Bodleian.”
I shift, pulling my knees to my chest. “I took it home and read it, which is against the rules.”
He laughs. “Did you read the entire thing?”
I smirk. “Of course. I was so intrigued. I’d seen you that first night, and I wanted to know more. I know now it’s because I wanted more ofyou.” I pause. “You were such a jerk that night.”
He sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I know. I’d convinced myself that you were better without me. And I knew if I pushed you away, that maybe you’d grow to hate me even more and stay away from the Brotherhood.”
“Look how well that turned out,” I interject quietly.
He smiles, and I reach out for his hand.
“There are good things about the Brotherhood. Some people at Blackfriars that have become friends. But the Offering is a whole other beast.” He’s quiet for a minute, and his jaw hardens. “The Directors are thought of as deities. Each branch of the Brotherhood has one, or in some cases, two or three, if it’s a large branch. We’re supposed to preach the gospel, per se. Alistair Crownley, the founder, believed in energy and the power of the female. The Brotherhood initially branched off the freemasons. We wanted women to have equal rights, something they never wanted to do. At first, it was fine. We took bits and pieces of those meetings and made our own traditions. Alistair was big into tantric sex, so you can see why we have The Ceremonies. It’s a bodily celebration. But back in the 1920’s, something changed. The Directors started to get together annually for some debauchery—started to push the boundaries a little bit more. And they decided that, according to several other major religions, a sacrifice should be made. It slowly turned into twenty-four sacrifices. Which is how the Offering came to be. Now, they meet every year here in Edinburgh. None of the regular members know—just The Directors. That’s why Hayes isn’t allowed inside.”
He pauses opening his eyes as he stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know why I made you co-Director. You could’ve easily watched the whole thing unfold, safe in the van.” I make an exasperated noise. “A part of me always hoped you’d see me save someone else’s life. To show you the effect you had on me, how you enlightened me. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. And I guess I want to show the woman who started it all for me.”
I swallow. “You know I would not have sat in that van as a bystander.”
He laughs. “That too.”
I swallow. My blood cools slightly. “You said it’s a sacrifice—what kind of sacrifice?”
Benedict turns and looks at me. His pupils are darker, as if talking about the Brotherhood has given him the same sense of foreboding.
“I’ve only been to one other Offering. It was one of the most horrific days of my life.” His nostrils flare, and he runs a hand through his hair. “They’d taken a man off the street. And they killed him—slowly. He was the first. There were twenty-three more—one every hour. I walked out after it was over and vomited all over the cobblestone.”
Goosebumps erupt on my skin, making my arm hair stick straight up. “But tonight is different. MI6 will get to them before anyone’s killed, right?”
Benedict stills and looks at me. He takes my hand and kisses it, infusing me with some warmth.
“I hope so.”
