by Stella Hart
A sympathetic expression crossed Nate’s face as he looked at me. “It wasn’t a bad idea,” he said. “It just didn’t pan out.”
“I know,” I said, letting out a soft sigh. “It just sucks because I really thought I was onto something.”
I went back to the laptop to do more research on the wealthy families of Avalon that made up our current list. Nate returned his attention to the list itself, forehead creasing as he scanned the names again and again.
I bit my bottom lip and clicked on a new webpage. A moment later, I caught Nate looking at me out of the corner of my eye. “What’s up?” I asked, turning to face him.
“Nothing,” he said gruffly, eyes snapping back to the list. His neck had turned slightly red.
I frowned, wondering why he was being so weird.
I ended up putting it down to irritation over our current situation. It made sense. I was agitated too. I couldn’t stop the hot, shaky feeling of helplessness from washing over me every time a minute passed without either of us making any progress in our search for answers. It made me feel like Sisyphus from the ancient Greek myth, rolling a boulder up a hill for all eternity.
I closed the laptop lid. “Maybe we should get some dinner,” I said. “Having food in our stomachs might help us focus better.”
Nate nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll order something. What do you want?”
It occurred to me that this was the first time in weeks—almost a month, actually—that my opinion had been sought on food. Not so long ago, I was subsiding on stale bread and old pieces of fruit, and I had absolutely no say in the matter.
“Um… pizza would be nice,” I said in a tentative tone.
“Any preferences for toppings?”
I shook my head. “I’ll eat anything.”
He stepped over to the other side of the room to make the call. While I waited, I went over to the window to look outside. The setting sun had just disappeared over the horizon, giving way to a twilight sky filled with indigo clouds and the first stars of the night.
I took a deep breath as I stared up at the nearest glinting star, wishing I could sort out the jumble of thoughts in my head. Everything kept swirling around and around—Greg’s story about the Golden Circle, my father’s waterlogged notes and letter, the list Nate and I had spent the last few hours working on to no avail, and all the ideas I’d had so far that attempted to explain everything but wound up explaining nothing.
I was never going to crack this. I was probably going to end up sitting here all night, staring out at the stars and wishing I could—
Wait… stars…
A memory was suddenly triggered somewhere in the depths of my mind. I ran back over to the desk, brought up the last page of my father’s letter on the computer, and stared at the last line.
PPS. Remember, if you’re ever feeling completely lost, look up to the sky, think of me, and let the stars guide you home.
There was a sudden explosion in my buzzing brain—the good kind—as neurons began to fire rapidly, setting a new idea loose in my head. I opened up a web browser and typed in a bunch of search terms. After a couple of minutes of speed-reading, I stood up straight and called out to Nate, pulse racing as adrenaline flushed through my system.
“Nate! Come and look at this!”
He was standing with his back to me, cell phone pressed up against one ear. When he heard my voice, he turned to look at me. “What?” he mouthed.
I beckoned to him with one hand. “Just come and look!”
He ended his call and strode over to the desk. “Did you find something?”
“I think so. My symbol idea might be right,” I said excitedly, showing him Dad’s letter again. “Remember this part of the letter that you asked about? Letting the stars guide me home?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I always thought it was meant to encourage me to come home to Avalon to investigate everything. But what if it was actually another coded clue that I was meant to figure out?”
Nate’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
I sorted through the pages of notes on the desk and grabbed the piece of paper where I’d recreated one of my dad’s drawings—the one with the circle and dots.
“I always thought this picture was meant to be a clock,” I said. “Just something to represent the twelve families in the Golden Circle. But a clock isn’t the only circular thing with twelve marks around the edges.”
“What else is there?”
I slid the laptop closer to him. “Star signs,” I said, showing him a picture of a wheel with the twelve zodiac symbols around the edges.
Nate looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”
“No. I know it sounds stupid at first, but look closer,” I said, pointing to one of the symbols. “This one is an arrow with a line through it. It looks a lot like the pattern inside your family crest.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why the hell would the Golden Circle use star signs for their symbols?”
“I wondered the same thing for a minute. I thought it might be as simple as them wanting twelve related symbols for the twelve different families. But then I found this.”
I brought up another webpage, which featured a famous anthropologist’s work on the history of astrology in different cultures.
I read one paragraph aloud to Nate.
“The creation of zodiacal signs originated in Babylonian astronomy in the 1st millennium BC. By the end of the 5th century BC, the Babylonians had divided the ecliptic into twelve signs, creating the first celestial coordinate system,” I said. I paused to clear my throat. “So basically, the ancient Babylonians invented the concept of star signs,” I added.
Nate was still staring at me with wide eyes and a wrinkled forehead, like I’d suddenly sprouted horns and started speaking in tongues. “So?”
“Hold on,” I said as I clicked to a different page. “Okay, here. More on the Babylonians. Babylon served as the center of Mesopotamian civilization for almost two thousand years, and human sacrifice was a staple during its entire existence. Ritual killings associated with royal deaths were one of the most common forms of this practice, with handmaidens, warriors, and court attendants ritually killed and buried when a king or queen met their demise. Archaeologists have also uncovered evidence of a similar practice that existed for a period in the later stages of Babylonian history—human sacrifice with bloodletting and organ removal. It was thought that the act of killing a young, healthy person in this manner next to an ailing royal would allow the healthy person’s life force to transfer over to the sick royal.”
Nate raised a brow. “So they were into organ removal.”
“In that particular period, yes. It seems like it was seen as a great honor to the young person. They would sacrifice their healthy body for what was seen as the ‘greater good’—the survival of a royal,” I said. “Even though we know enough today to know that those practices don’t actually work, it’s the exact kind of concept that would appeal to the Golden Circle, isn’t it?”
“You mean the concept of rich elites requiring ‘lesser’ humans to give up their bodies for them?”
“Yes,” I said. “So if the original members of the Golden Circle wanted to pick twelve symbols to represent them after they came up with their organ scheme, I think there’s a really good chance that something Babylonian would’ve appealed to them.”
Nate stared at the zodiac wheel again. “Shit. You might be right,” he said slowly. “My grandpa must’ve lied about our family crest.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves yet. We should confirm the theory first.”
“How?”
“Well, we think the Holland family might be involved, right? Do they have a family crest or coat of arms? Or something similar?”
Nate shrugged. “I don’t really know any of them well enough to know that sort of stuff about them.”
“But you know Devin, don’t you?�
�
“I’ve met him a handful of times because he’s friends with my mom, but I don’t remember much about him, other than the fact that he’s bald.”
“Hm. Let’s see if we can find some stuff online,” I murmured, turning my attention back to the laptop. I typed ‘Devin Holland’ into Google and went to the Images tab. “Here we go. There’s a clear photo of him at a society event in 2008, and he’s wearing a silver pin on his lapel. What does it look like to you?”
“It looks like the letter H. For Holland, I assume.”
“Look at the shape of it, though,” I said. “Then compare it to this Pisces symbol on the star sign chart. They’re the same.”
“Holy shit. You’re right,” he said, eyes widening. “Hiding in plain sight.”
“Yup. Do any of the other symbols look familiar to you?”
Nate peered at the circle with furrowed brows. Eventually he pointed to the Scorpio symbol, which looked like an M with an arrow on the tail end. “I’ve seen this one before,” he said.
“Where?”
“I dated a girl called Anna Montgomery in my first year at Blackthorne. Her father had a signet ring with that exact pattern.”
I tried my best to ignore the spike of jealousy I felt in my guts at the mention of another girl. “Is the Montgomery family on our list?”
“Yes. Right there,” he said, pointing to a spot on the upper third of the page.
“So that’s three we have so far. Lockwood, Holland, and Montgomery,” I said, circling the names. “Does anything else jump out at you?”
Nate fell silent again as he stared at the star symbols. “This one looks familiar,” he said slowly, pointing to the Capricorn symbol.
“Any idea where you might’ve seen it?”
“On some guy my mom invited to a charity gala she hosted a while ago. I can’t remember his name right now, but I’m pretty sure he owns a bank in Arcadia Bay,” he said. “I think he was wearing a pin on his suit jacket when I saw him, and it looked like that. But I’m not sure. I could be remembering it wrong.”
I googled ‘Arcadia Bay banks’ and skimmed through the results. “There’s a Beck, Hilson, Van Zandt, Chamb—”
Nate cut me off. “That’s it. Van Zandt,” he said, sitting up straighter. “The guy’s name is Horace Van Zandt.”
“Do you remember what the gala was for? There might be photos online.”
“Breast cancer research, I think. Last year.”
I searched for ‘breast cancer fundraiser gala Arcadia Bay 2018’ and found an online photo gallery. “Can you see if he’s in any of these photos?” I asked.
Nate clicked through the photo sets and eventually stopped on a picture of a short man with gray hair standing next to a slim blonde. “That’s him.”
“Zoom in on his jacket.” I leaned forward and squinted at the screen. Then I nodded. “You were right. That’s the Capricorn symbol.”
Nate circled Van Zandt on our list. “That’s four down.”
“Do you recognize any other symbols?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Damn.” My shoulders slumped. “None of them look familiar to me either.”
Nate leaned over to me, eyes flashing with a mixture of sympathy and excitement. “Don’t feel bad,” he said, taking one of my hands in his and squeezing it firmly. “This is good. Your symbol idea was right on the money. Now we’ve identified four of the families, and we know exactly what we’re looking for with the rest. We might not even need Greg or Mom anymore.”
“I know. I’m just wondering how we can actually find the rest,” I said, brows dipping in a frown. “I mean, they’re all over the place. Your family put their symbol in their crest, the Montgomery family put theirs in signet rings, and the Hollands and Van Zandts put theirs in lapel pins. The others in the Golden Circle could’ve put theirs anywhere.”
“True. But my grandpa had a signet ring with the family crest on it, so jewelry seems to be the common theme. We should focus on that,” Nate replied.
“How exactly would we do that?” I asked, throwing my hands up. “Break into the houses of every person on this list and go through their jewelry boxes?”
“That was your original plan when you moved back to Avalon, wasn’t it?” he said, lips curving into a smirk. “Breaking and entering?”
My cheeks flushed hot. “Well, yes, but that was only because I had no idea where else to start.”
Nate went silent for a moment, eyes focusing on the window.
“We could get on the guestlist to the next major philanthropic event on the island,” he finally said, turning back to look at me. “The big names on our list are always invited to stuff like that, and they’d probably all wear their signet rings and pins. The only issue with that is we’d have to wait a while. I don’t think there’s another major gala until December.”
“And by then, more people could be missing or dead.” I leaned back in my seat and let out a tired sigh. “I wish there was some sort of place on the island where the people on our list always hang out. Like an exclusive nightclub for billionaires, or something like that. Then we could go there and watch them all to see if any of them are wearing things that match the other symbols without having to wait for a big event to roll around.”
“Actually, now that you’ve mentioned it…” Nate frowned and cocked his head slightly to one side. “I know of a place just like that.”
“Really? What is it?”
He leaned forward and raised a brow. “Ever heard of the Devil’s Playhouse?”
11
Alexis
I shook my head and stared at Nate with wide eyes, curiosity well and truly piqued. “No. What’s that?”
“It’s a private social club,” he explained. “Devil’s Playhouse is just a nickname. The real name is the Mayfair Club.”
“Oh. That rings a bell.” I wrinkled my forehead. “Where is it?”
“It’s halfway between Arcadia Bay and Avalon City. You know the red and white lighthouse on the coastal highway?”
“Yes.”
“About a mile after that, there’s a massive building that looks like a cross between a castle and a mountain lodge. That’s it.”
“Oh. I know that place. I always thought it was someone’s house,” I said, dropping my gaze to the laptop. I quickly typed ‘Mayfair Club Avalon Island’ into Google so I could read more about it.
“It used to be a house, back in the day, but a developer bought it a while ago and renovated it,” Nate said.
“Oh, yeah. It says right here—Gerald Ellesmere purchased the mansion in 1979, upon which it was converted into an exclusive member’s only club,” I replied, peering at the computer screen. “Wow, it has everything.”
The website I was looking at had a writeup about the Devil’s Playhouse along with several photos of it. Apparently, the venue contained three bars, two nightclubs, a formal ballroom for exclusive black-tie events, a cigar lounge, a rooftop restaurant along with three other restaurants on the inside, two movie theaters, a jazz lounge, burlesque stage shows, private dining rooms, and a casino. On top of that, there was an entire floor of private suites that could be booked for long or short-term stays.
I scrolled down the page to look at the photos. The magnificent exterior featured a mix of gray stonework and timber, ornate gables, and polygonal turrets which gave it an imposing air of old-world wealth and superiority.
The interior was just as impressive. The private dining rooms in the eastern wing had been decorated with a Parisian Bohemian flair, featuring eclectic art and gilded mirrors on the walls, tables with cabaret-style lamps, chandeliers with crystals in the shape of feathers hanging from the ceiling, and colorful velvet cushions artfully arranged on chairs. The bars appeared to have been inspired by the speakeasies of the early twentieth century with polished wood, vintage light fixtures, and dark wallpaper, and the spacious formal ballroom was filled with marble and gold.
It was incredibly lavish and beautiful; the
kind of place that conjured up mental images of men in smoking jackets and women in dazzling gowns.
“When you said private social club, I pictured something small,” I said, marveling at the pictures. “This is more like an entertainment center. They even have a casino.”
Nate nodded. “Yeah, it’s huge,” he said. “The older members of the families on our list would have memberships, too.”
“And they all hang out there when they feel like a night out?”
“I think so. Unless there’s a major event somewhere else.”
“Are you a member?” I asked, raising my brows.
“No. I’ve never even been there.”
“But you’re a Lockwood. Wouldn’t an exclusive club like this be right up your alley?” I asked, arching a brow. “A place to party away from all the riff-raff like me?”
He laughed drily. “From what I’ve heard, it’s mostly tailored to older people, so I’ve never had any interest in it,” he said. “I’d rather go to bars in the city or parties at Blackthorne.”
“Could you get a membership, though? So we can get in and do some people watching?”
“That’s what I’d like to do, but I’m not sure how. I really don’t know much about the place,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We could ask my mom, because she’s a member, but I don’t think she’s going to answer any of our questions anytime soon.”
I let out a brief snort of amusement. “No shit.”
Nate cocked his head. “Does that site say anything about memberships?”
I scanned the rest of the webpage. “Yes, but not much. The person who wrote it isn’t actually a member. Just a journalist who got invited to do a writeup of the place.”
“What did they say?”
“They were told that there are two avenues of entry to the club. The first is by invitation. In that case, prospective members are proposed by one of the owners and seconded by two high-ranking members. Women must be at least twenty-two to be considered, and men at least twenty-five.”
“That’s out for us, then. We can’t wait that long.”
