He stomps down the street ahead of me. I wait a few seconds, putting some distance between us. Adjusting my mask, I ignore the clacking of my heels, the way the cool breeze penetrates the thin fabric of the cloak. I suck in a nervous breath, fingering the silver ring on my left hand. Benedict turns into a pedestrian tunnel, and I pause for a second—long enough to stabilize my shaking, to take a calming breath. Resolutely, I follow him into the darkness.
Tell the demons I’m back.
Evelyn
Evelyn Snow
Edinburgh,Present
I follow Benedict’s shadow down the long, narrow tunnel—a winding, archway that weaves back into the buildings off the street. He doesn’t turn back for me, doesn’t ensure I’m following him, but I understand why. He doesn’t want to draw attention to us in any way. He stops in front of an old, stone church, looking at the edifice briefly before pushing the door open.
A church.
Of course.
The wind howls, the air quiet from the sounds of the city as I open the front door—carved with the very same ‘V’ found at Blackfriars. Here, it’s not a modern plaque with an engraved symbol. It’s a cut into the wood, something done a long time ago—something done by someone a little less refined. I swallow as I look around. There’s no secret passageway, no mechanical opening. There are a few stands with candles flickering brightly, but no music, no fanfare. Before me, a group of about twenty people stands in a circle around a black blanket on the floor—and Benedict is one of them.
I straighten my spine and keep my head steady as I march forward with purpose. A few of them turn to look at me, but no one makes a scene. I give a few of the onlookers a curt nod before taking my place in the circle. I discretely wipe my damp palms on the sides of my cloak, swallowing. I meet Benedict’s gaze. He nods once, and then he looks down. It’s so different from the Blackfriars meetings—so much less formal.
“De Wallen,” one of The Directors utters. He lifts his hand up, making a fist to show his silver skull ring.
“Mitte,” another says, mimicking the first person.
“Rue Saint Jacques.”
“Christ Church.”
“Ciutat Vella.”
“Hradcany.”
Other people—men and women—utter these strange words, and it takes me a second to realize they’re naming off their Brotherhood branch. Magstræde has two Directors, and I take a steadying breath. We won’t be outliers today. On and on they go—all twenty-four of them. Chills erupt on my skin when I realize the number of Directors matches the number of sacrifices.
I recognize a few of the names, but for the most part, I have no idea which city they come from. Finally, Benedict holds his hand up, showing off a ring identical to mine.
“Blackfriars,” he says, his voice low.
I hold my fist up. “Blackfriars,” I mimic.
I don’t dare look at him. Instead, I lower my hand and look at the ground. I would hate to give us away somehow. I wait for a minute, the silence deafening. I start to wonder if someone is going to say anything when one of them—the man who first spoke, from De Wallen—walks over to the front door of the church. He locks it, pulling on it once to ensure it’s locked. When he gets to the circle, he nods at another one of The Directors—the one from Mitte. They move to one of the doors behind the altar, and I hold my breath.
A few seconds later, Mitte drags a woman—naked from head to toe—to the black blanket before us. My stomach drops, and I swallow the vomit beginning to work its way up my throat. The woman is drugged—something I can spot a mile away. Her eyes loll into the back of her head, and she can barely walk. I take an unconscious step forward, but as I’m about to reach out for her, I see Benedict shake his head at me from my peripheral. Instead, I back up a step inconspicuously, squeezing my eyes shut for a second, trying to take control of the situation.
Hayes and Edward will save her. Benedict is wired. They can see her—how she’s obviously here against her will. When are they going to bust in? My stomach sinks as I see Benedict watching, his eyes glazed over and indifferent. How can he sit and watch this?
I turn to the woman. Mitte shoves her down so that she’s kneeling before us. I wait for someone to start the sacrifice—someone to begin chanting or whatever they do. I look around at all of the masked faces, and they’re all watching like Benedict is—like they’re all under the same spell. I look at the front door, my hands shaking at my side. I splay my palms against my thighs. Can Edward and Hayes get in? Do they have backup? There are twenty-two other people here, and only two of them. I assumed they’d have more people—but I never confirmed.
All of a sudden, I feel unprepared. Surely, they have an ironclad plan—they know they’re outnumbered. My breathing hitches as Mitte slaps the woman once, and it’s then that I recognize her. She’s some actress—I can’t place her, but I know I’ve seen her from somewhere. My whole body trembles.
Control yourself, Evelyn. We will save her.
I look over at Benedict, but he’s staring straight ahead. Does he recognize her? What’s the plan? I should’ve asked for a play by play, should’ve prepared myself andlearned the plan. Then again, Benedict was less than forthcoming. Dread fills me, and I swallow my fear. I shake my hands out and lift my chin. I won’t succumb to the fear—not now. Not when it really matters.
De Wallen, who seems to be the leader, marches up to the woman.
“The pillars of this house will set us free,” he mutters. The woman looks at him—seeing him but notseeinghim. Not caring.
Submission—surrender.
