Emma isn’t around our dorm much. I have no idea where she goes, but when she is around, she doesn’t initiate any sort of talk between us. Our schedules are practically opposite—she showers in the mornings while I take one at night, she wakes up at eight, with barely any time to get ready, while I’m up just before dawn.
But our one conversation, held while she bandaged my burn, seems to have made her docile, and my theory turns out to be correct when Emma offers me an espresso before scurrying off to whatever mysterious errands she runs. Despite that one moment, though, she doesn’t search me out, and I don’t try to find her.
I spend most of my evenings hanging out with Ivy, anyway, catching glimpses of her roommate, but never getting enough alone time with Eden to expand on her knowledge of Piper being a Virtue.
I admit, I’m split between finding out more about the Nobles or the Virtues, and my stagnant week has propelled my unfounded theories to the front of my mind. So much so, it’s almost impossible to try to balance a routine of schoolwork while carving out time for detective work.
I stare at my phone, sitting silently beside my laptop as I finish off my calc homework, my legs cramped under the thick wooden desk in my room.
I haven’t asked Chase any questions this week. I assumed our deal was off the table as soon as he destroyed, then stormed out of his dad’s study. I’m not so brazen as to expect his answers when I’ve so utterly pushed him beyond patience.
But I miss him. I miss us, whatever there was of us. Piper’s pregnancy shook him badly, and I have a new understanding on why he cleaved such distance between us after I told him what Ahmar knew. Then, I fucked it up worse by pretending to help him figure out if he was the father, when really, all I wanted was details on Briarcliff’s underworld.
I pick up my phone, and after unlocking it, my thumb hovers over the message chain with Chase.
It’s Friday evening, and he’s expected to be back at school on Monday. It’d be nice to try and smooth things over with him before then, right? It wouldn’t be desperate to text and make sure we’re on neutral ground.
Besides, he asked Tempest to stay close to me while he couldn’t this week.
He punched James in the face for insulting me.
The guy has veins of ice, eyes the color of a frozen forest ground, and the frostiest demeanor, even toward his friends. But he did all that. For me.
I type out a sentence and press SEND before I lose my nerve.
Me: Do my daily questions still apply?
I slam my phone face-down on my desk, then swivel back to calculus. I won’t wait for his response. I will not.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrates, and I whip it face-up.
Chase: You don’t have much time left.
Smiling, I pick up the phone. I’ll take that as a yes.
Me: Did you
I delete the message, my head falling back on a sigh. Sack up. You can do this. Schoolwork and Ivy have made my imagination easier to handle, but it’s never truly gone away. Not when all I can picture is Willow’s auburn hair mixing with his golden locks, a blend of shimmering metals I could never emulate.
Me: Willow tells me she slept with you at your party.
Chase: Where’s the question.
Does he have to be so obtuse? I huff out a breath, daring myself to do as he says and ask, instead of assume.
Me: Did you?
…
Three dots appear, and I watch them with way too much intensity. I’m desperate to see his answer, and I’m not sure how proud I am to feel that way. Nor do I have any idea how he’ll react. On Saturday night, he’d said he was done with my investigation, and therefore, with me.
A guy has never made me this before. Turned me into a girl who can put all her insecurities, concerns, and the bigger picture aside, just to read his words.
Chase: No. I haven’t been with anyone since you.
I fall back against the chair, pressing the phone to my chest. Okay. He doesn’t seem mad. Maybe I can salvage the wreckage of Saturday night with one simple question, unrelated to Cloaks, or Briarcliff, or Piper’s murder.
And entirely centered on us.
Me: Do you miss what we had?
I’m nervous.
Holy shit, I’m so beside myself with nerves. I push to my feet, pacing my room while biting down on one corner of the phone.
Nothing.
Oh, Callie. You may have screwed the pooch with this one.
I busy myself with homework and an unnecessary cleaning of my bedroom until an hour passes, my phone annoyingly quiet and black on my nightstand. I check it twice to make sure there’s a signal, and still, Chase doesn’t respond.
With my stomach settling somewhere near my feet, I go about my nightly routine of a snack, a shower, and then bed, all the while trying to put a positive spin on Chase’s no-answer answer.
It’s for the best.
You won’t be distracted by your crush on a boy anymore and can lessen the pressure of dividing your time.
The hours of hurt can be better utilized by focusing on the Nobles. Use the last gift Chase gave you and read Daniel Stone’s rule book.
This weekend, bust into the chem lab, use its tools to open the book, and satisfy your curiosity, once and for all.
Forget. Him.
My eyelids grow heavy. The ceiling I’m staring at grows darker, and soon, I give in to a dreamless sleep.
Well into the night, my phone goes off with a loud, buzzing sound.
I snap awake, rubbing the grit from my eyes, and squint at the screen, swiping open the message.
Chase: Yes. I miss it.
17
Before dawn on Sunday morning, I decide to do it.
I tossed and turned ever since receiving Chase’s answer, both delighted and afraid of our lasting connection. My mind kept firing off instead of spiraling down to sleep, and until I used that time wisely, I wasn’t going to get any semblance of rest.
With the sky still indigo with waning moonlight, I slide out of bed and change, choosing warmer clothing for my trek to the academy in the dark. I toss a jean jacket over a crimson sweater and gray leggings, then slip on knee socks and my white sneakers before heading out.
I have my own granola stash these days, so I throw a handful in a snack bag and grab an empty thermos in hopes the kitchen staff has already started the coffee brewing process.
As I’m bending into the cabinet, I hear, “Jesus, I thought you were a raccoon.”
I jump up on a yelp, then scowl at Emma as she stands near the kitchen counter, her hair flattened on one side and her nightshirt askew.
“They call me a possum, not a raccoon,” I say, stuffing the thermos in my bag. “Or a cat.”
“Neither one is very creative,” Emma muses, and I harrumph in agreement. “Or amusing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“In my defense,” she says, “I thought an actual rodent had made its way up here, but it turns out, it’s just you, before sunrise, banging through our kitchen. Again.”
After one second of hesitation—because Emma never keeps conversations going, ever—I hold up my granola bag as evidence.
Emma grumbles, then gestures to her espresso machine. “Take one for the road, then.”
I smile. “Aw. Are you warming up to my sweet, morning charm?”
“No. I’m giving you something productive to do rather than use our cupboards for target practice. Make me one, too.”
I keep a straight face, despite the giddiness going on inside me at the thought of a freshly brewed mocha. “Coming right up.”
As I’m fiddling with the milk steamer, Emma asks, with a begrudging tone, “What are you doing up so early on a Sunday?”
I doubt she truly cares, so I answer with my back to her, “Getting an early start on the chemistry assignment.”
“Okay.” Emma doesn’t sound convinced. “But we have bio this semester, not chem.”
After pouring the espresso into my thermos
and sliding her mug over to her side of the counter, I turn. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Why don’t you elaborate on what you’re up to during your evening disappearances?”
Emma crosses her arms and glares through her lashes.
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
I cap the thermos and exit our dorm on a cheery wave.
The soft, golden glow of the school’s windows guides me up the hill on the quiet pathway, my footsteps the only sound breaking through the rousing bird chirps and light rustle of wind through the trees.
Not even the enterprising rowing team has left their dorms yet. From what Ivy says, they don’t get on the water until about 5:30, and I’ve beat them outside by an hour.
Usually, being the lone pedestrian on a walkway is a gift, especially coming from New York City, but after being accosted by Cloaks in the forest last month, and Piper’s demise, nature hasn’t been as calming to me lately.
I pick up the pace, suddenly thankful that Tempest had my back all week while Chase was absent. The mockery I’d expected after Chase’s lake house party never manifested, but I still had to manage the usual vermin insults and Falyn’s bitter gaze, her expression more than indicating her plans for my removal from this school.
More importantly, no Cloaks have accosted me. Barely a whisper of the Nobles crossed my ears, and since nobody knew or cared what I reached into the fire for (the act itself was enough ammo against me to last an entire semester), there wasn’t any reason to. And, by keeping my mouth shut, Tempest didn’t ask me about it again. Perhaps he believed I’d grown tired of the hunt.
Not exactly.
I keep my eye on the tree line the entire way to the school, anxious of a Cloak appearing, memories of my previous encounter near Lover’s Leap filming over my vision. Clouds of my breath come in shorter bursts, the sounds of my footsteps pound harder and faster, and the bird chirps fade away into silence.
The side-door into the school comes into view, and I scamper the rest of the way, pushing in and leaving the quiet, darkened forest far behind. My cheeks are cold and stiff from both the outside and my concentrated anxiety, but the minute the door thumps shut behind me, my shoulders relax.
The hushed clinking of plates and tinned sounds of pots floats down the hallway, the kitchen staff getting ready for breakfast, but the lights remain dimmed, and won’t go on full blast for another hour.
I tip-toe past the dining hall, the low lamplight casting shadows against the stone walls, changing the stained glass motifs into stark, gloomy figures.
Don’t look at shadows too long, my old friend Sylvie always said during our childhood sleepovers. At some point, they’re going to start moving.
Shuddering at the memory, I fly past classroom doors until I find the one I want, thankful it’s unlocked when I twist the knob.
I’m conscious of being caught, so I don’t turn on the overhead lights as I pick a lab table and toss my pack on the metal counter. I’d carefully placed Daniel Stone’s manual in a gallon-sized Ziplock, and after turning on the specialized table lamp and twisting it to illuminate the metal countertop, I pull it from top section of my bag.
A row of beakers and chemistry supplies stand in a row by the personal sink, cleaned and ready for the next class. I slip on disposable gloves and choose a pair of large, lab-grade tweezers, adjust the microscope, and, instead of using my fingers, I painstakingly crack the book open and slip it under the lens.
The pages are charred and brittle, but the magnification helps decipher the writing through the ash. It says, in part:
Those who choose to turn these pages accept thee into thy mind.
Oh, boy.
My conscience flickers to life enough to question why Chase gave me his father’s rule book, but my appetite’s too whetted to listen to it. I carefully slip the book from under the microscope and turn the page, repositioning it under and adjusting the clarity of the lens:
Upon the second week and the seventh night, meet in the Vault, where your blood will be tested.
Choose your paper, where your mind will be guided.
Wear your robe, where your identity will be shielded.
Wait for the key of your master, so you may be commanded.
What the what?
Leaning over so far, I’ve nearly crawled onto the table, I tweeze my way to the next page. The handwriting’s changed, no longer the thick, black ink professional cursive. Thin, blue-inked swipes of hastily written notes take over:
March 16, 1971
I, Howard Mason, class of ’74, broke into the Nobles’ hidden tomb long enough to steal one illuminating page, and have documented, from memory, what I else I discovered.
The stolen poem above is, in part, the initiate ritual of the Nobles, creating its own chapter, and thus utilizing its own motivations to influence the boys in this school. Its founder, Thorne Briar, as the first headmaster of this academy, thought to enrich the minds of certain promising young men, using his connections to form agreements among hidden collegiate societies to accept these boys, groomed and taught under Briar, upon graduation. Rumor has it, in order to accelerate these individuals, examination topics are given, answers are dispersed, and the boys will earn top grades so their focus can remain on Briar’s hidden, and demonic, tutelage.
There is also a symbol, forged in iron, above a hearth of human skulls—believed to be the heads of ancient, English nobleman robbed from the graves where they rested in peace—but that has yet to be verified—of a raven, spreading its wings within a perfect circle. The slogan, altum volare in tenebris, means ‘fly high in the dark.’
I now have proof. Thorne Briar is manipulating children of the elite so he may form political and economic history to his preference.
I lean back on a deep, pondering breath. The handwriting is faded, the penmanship rushed in parts, but I turn to the next page, and the next, disappointed to see that the writing has become fewer and farther between, fire damage notwithstanding.
I fear I have been caught.
And, among more indecipherable damage, Thorne Briar’s society is nothing but the manifestation of the narcissistic elite, bored with God, turning to the devil instead to manipulate their greed-inspired destiny.
There is a secret within the Nobles, one they’ve lost sight of. From what I’ve witnessed, it is fast getting out of control, and the women they’ve used—
—they call themselves the Virtues.
—worse than the Nobles, worse than skulls, or keys, or snakes, or wolves. They have motivations so sinful and blasphemous I can hardly put pen to paper and describe—
—find their temple—
—should reveal their true selves or I’ll be forced to inform the Nobles of their transgressions—
—wanton, wasted individuals—
Then, turn after turn, more blank pages.
A good chunk of papery edges has been destroyed, but after about five paragraphs, the rest of the book is empty.
Now, oh now, it’s becoming clear why Chase gave me free reign on this “hidden” book within his father’s personal library.
The book is a decoy. I’m looking at a frickin’ … wooden duck trussed up as the sacred Nobles’ rule book for members.
The manual’s leather-bound jacket was tempting enough, with Daniel Stone’s name embossed under a raven insignia—the Nobles’ symbol. But the inside? It’s just a few pages of the investigative ponderings of a former Briarcliff freshman who decided to make it his mission to break into the Nobles’ meeting grounds and record his findings for … a purpose I’m assuming is similar to my own.
Basically, me as a 1970s boy.
I bite down on my index finger. According to Rose’s letter that Piper found, Rose created the Virtues to counteract the uncouth motivations of the Nobles. But according to this Howard Mason, it’s not the Nobles that are the problem.
It’s the Virtues.
Did Piper know this? Had she read the same journals and letters, coming
to the same conclusions as me?
Is this why she died?
I shake my head, backing away from the sooty, crumbling ledger, open to its last written page.
Help me.
The thought of looking up Howard Mason and if he survived Briarcliff is a sobering one. I don’t know how many more books I can crack open, letters I can read, fucked up warnings I have to endure, before I become so buried in conspiracies, I lose complete sight of myself.
This book, like the other writings before it, provides me with crumbs, and Chase knew that when he thrust it into my hands. As if Daniel Stone would have his super-secret society rulebook hanging out in plain sight for idiots like me to discover.
He doctored this book into bait for idiots like me to discover.
The real one is probably stashed somewhere not even his wife would know about.
This was probably a test to see how far I was willing to go to solve the mystery of the Nobles.
And if I was willing to go as far as Howard.
“What happened to you, Howa—?” I start to whisper, but then I notice a shifting near the closed door.
My eyes dart to the top corner of the room, where the blinking red light of the security camera nestled high in a corner goes dark.
And the shadows start to move.
18
A rustling, hissing sound comes from one corner of the room, but I’m not waiting around for the big reveal.
Virtue (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 2) Page 11
