by Amo Jones
He gestures for me to pass, and I do, well acquainted with this process.
Hitting “Freak on a Leash” by Korn, I start my jog instantly as the city car follows me down the driveway. They follow me through my normal six-mile run, because they know the routine. I run it every other day. Everything is still fresh on my mind.
What if I can’t trust Tillie? I barely know her or Madison. I’d like to say I know Brantley. I’d even like to say I know Bishop to an extent, or at the very least, I feel as though I do. Could what she is saying be true? I’ve never thought about having siblings, and the closest thing I ever got to one was with the boy who had an empty soul and carried the eyes of death.
I’m pulling off my hoodie after my run and giving the dogs water at the front of the house when I hear a car pull up. Tossing the hoodie, my phone, and pods onto the ground, I turn to see who it is. I haven’t seen a Maserati here before.
The door opens and Bishop steps out, wearing a leather jacket, jeans, boots, and a bandana hanging out the back of his pants.
“Is that mine?” I point to the white scarf that’s sticking out of his back pocket.
He smirks, grabbing the thin material and tossing it at me. “It is. Here.”
I catch it, unable to stop the laugh that’s bubbling up my throat. “It looks good on you.” I give it back to him and he takes it, tucking it back into his jeans. “Are you looking for Brantley?”
“He home?” Bishop asks, his eyes going up to the house.
“He was when I left, but that was about an hour ago.” I nibble on my bottom lip, again those same words wanting to come out. I know I should be talking with Brantley about this before anyone else—but does Bishop know? And again, is this true?
“You’re drifting off into space,” he says, and I unlatch the dogs from their lead, watching them run to the back of the house.
“Have you and Brantley known each other long?” I ask, and watch as he leans against his car. I take a seat on the first step of the house. It’s stupid, because we should be inside, but I don’t want to distract him from telling me something.
“All my life.”
His answer shocks me, but it shouldn’t. It’s obvious how close Brantley and Bishop are, as well as Nate and even Eli. They move around together like a synchronized gang. They occupy every and any area of the space they’re in.
“Is that the same with all of you?”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and I look up at him, shading the sun from my eyes by cupping my hand against my forehead.
“Just wondering.”
Bishop pushes off his car and then drops down beside me. His cologne is different from Brantley’s. Stronger bodied. He pulls out a cigarette and lights the tip. I watch closely as he blows gray smoke out from between his lips before dragging his tongue over them. Do I look like him? “We’ve all known each other all our lives. Our families are…” He pauses, flicking the ash off the tip of his cigarette before continuing, “…intertwined.”
“You’re all related?”
“Fuck no.” His laughter fights with the cloud of smoke. I want to reach forward and take it from him.
“You know that will kill you.”
“What will?” he asks around the cigarette between his lips.
I glare at it.
His jaw tenses a few times before he squeezes the trunk with his index finger and thumb. “I don’t give a fuck at this point.” His eyes fall to the ground.
“Bishop,” I say, turning to face him completely. My heart rocks in my chest for him.
His head dips behind his outstretched arm, his eyes on mine. I can’t see the lower half of his face, but it doesn’t matter because I’m distracted by the emptiness in his eyes.
“What happened?”
For moments, he doesn’t say anything. Not one thing. He just stares at me, unblinking. It tests every restraint in my body to hold myself back from putting my arms around him. He may not have tears, but I swear I can hear his soul weeping.
It’s not until he reaches forward and uses his thumb to swipe away the tears from my cheeks that I realize I am the one who is crying.
I snuff my nose. “Sorry.”
His arm hooks around the back of my neck and he pulls me in close, chuckling. “Gotta make you tough, Little Angelus.”
“Latin?” I say, tilting my head at him.
“Yeah, shit, how’d you know that?”
“I have a lot of time on my hands.”
He laughs, getting to his feet. “Come on. Better get you inside before the Beast realizes Beauty is gone.” We enter the house, and I’m once again left feeling unsatisfied about Bishop and his feelings. I like to fix things. It’s a habit of mine. When I was nine, I tried to “fix” the old tombstones in the cemetery with dusted mud and water. Brantley laughed at me for days. But I don’t think Bishop is broken. I think he’s just—lost. There’s a difference. Lost can still be whole again once it has been found.
Brantley is jogging down the stairs when we enter, his eyes running up and down my body. “You just get back?” He has the usual bite in his tone whenever he’s feeling snappy.
I shrug, unaffected. I’m well-conditioned with handling Brantley Vitiosis, no matter how much time has passed between us seeing each other. “Yes. I take them for at least an hour so it burns them, and me, out good.”
He pauses and clears his throat. “Go take a shower and be ready in thirty minutes.”
“Who me?” I ask, looking between him and Bishop.
Brantley glares at me.
“Okay,” I say, sidestepping away from him and heading up the stairs, as commanded.
They dragged me through the forest, using the lead on the collar. I didn’t want to play anything anymore, and the more the night went on, the more I realized just how much shit I might be in. These boys didn’t mess around; they’re dangerous. I’d never felt scared for my life, but with every passing minute, I lost hope of being set free.
We moved farther and farther in until I was pushed through a clearing. There was a small waterhole in the middle, with chairs scattered around, a small tiki bar and other party items. They obviously used this area for parties, not sure why not tonight. Maybe because they planned this whole thing. They knew who I was from the start.
Brantley pushed me down until my knees dug into the sand, scarring my knees. “We’re going to play a game.” He leaned forward. “You lose, you die. You win? Well…” His eyes flew up to Bishop who was behind me. The full moon hung brightly behind us, casting shadows over Brantley’s face. “Well, I’m afraid you’re probably still going to die.” He paused again, leaning forward until he was close to my face. “Do you know who we are, or furthermore, who I am?”
I shook my head. “I don’t! Am I supposed to?”
Brantley grinned, flashing his straight teeth and dimple. “Wrong answer.”
Brantley
“Do you always have to snap at her like that, you grumpy fucking bastard,” Bishop growls, making his way into the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of whiskey from one of the many alcohol cabinets.
“Madison pushed you to drinking before nine a.m. now?” I reach forward and take the bottle from his fingers.
He squeezes the marble countertop while his head hangs between his shoulders. It’s a brief moment, before he stands to his full height and stares right at me. “It doesn’t matter.”
I put the bottle back into the cupboard and open one of the drawers, pulling out a padlock. “This shit is locked until five p.m.”
“How do you not drink?” Bishop asks, running his fingers through his hair. “You out of all of us…”
I lean on the counter, finally pulling my shirt on. I know why he’s saying this, but I don’t know why he’s bringing it up right now. “Why? Because of everything I’ve been through?” I roll my eyes at the cliché way of how someone should heal if they’ve been through trauma. Not everyone turns to alcohol and drugs. Some need something worse…
Bishop narrows his eyes at me. “Yes, you fuck. Because no one except me knows even half of what you have been through.”
I shrug. “Demons make good pets.”
Bishop shakes his head slowly before finally changing the subject. “What do you make of everything Hector went over with us last night?”
“It is what it is. I mean, remember the legends we were told around the bonfires?”
“Yeah.” Bishop stares. “But now they’re coming back, and they’re coming back the year I take the gavel.”
I lick my lips. “Doesn’t matter.”
“How does it not matter? We’ve got REU reopening, as well as Riverside Prep moving back to the old building, that’s going to set shit off. I won’t be surprised if a war erupts, and aside from that, we still have to fly back to Perdita to check on Nate’s little fuck toy to make sure she’s doing things right.”
I blink slowly, my mouth falling open. “A few things, one, I wouldn’t call her his fuck toy around Tillie, unless you wanna be chopped liver, and two, good. Let them come. Bring a motherfucking war.”
“You freaky fuck, not all of us like the taste of blood.”
I separate my index finger and middle finger and bring my hand to my lips, licking the middle. “Don’t knock it before you try it.”
Bishop shakes his head. “Sick bastard. And to think—”
“How fucking long has she been up there for?” I stomp across the kitchen toward the wide-opened staircase. “Saint! Hurry the fuck up!”
She walks down the right wing of stairs, coming to the middle and staring at me before taking the first step on the main staircase. “I took twenty minutes, Brantley. Jesus Christ.”
She walks—even slower—down the stairs, her fingers flexing around the burned wooden rail. “Can’t say that name in this house,” I say, just as she lands on the step above me. She’s still not eye level, but close enough. “Might erupt into flames, and we don’t want that.” I catch what she’s wearing. White Gucci crop that hangs loosely off her small frame, skinny jeans that hug her thighs, and Givenchy sneakers. “You know, for someone who has been locked in a house all your life, your fashion sense sure hits the spot.”
She smiles, rolling her eyes slightly while taking the final step down. “You’re the one who gave me too much money and not enough things to do…”
“Yeah, well try me today, because I can think of a few fucking things…” I growl, just as Bishop enters.
“So where are we going?” she asks, her smile way too fucking bright to be this close to me.
Bishop puts a cigarette in his mouth. “To Riverside.”
Saint
I like fast cars. I think I found that out about myself the first time Lucan drove us home in his Porsche. I voiced this with Brantley, too, which is probably why he opted buying me the pretty white Tesla that sits in the garage. I’ve driven it twice, and both times were only around our driveway.
I run my palm across the soft leather. “I like the Aston Martin, but when can I drive the Tesla?”
Brantley ignores me, flooring it until I’m being pressed into the back of my seat. Figuring he’s not going to talk, I push play on some music.
He turns his head toward me, and my eyes move to the front of me. “You might crash.”
“What’s with you and Bishop?” His attention is back on the road again, but I know it’s me he’s waiting to hear speak.
“I don’t know.” I try the words out. “Why?”
His long fingers start running across his upper lip, and I’m momentarily distracted by the movement. I shuffle in my seat. “Why?”
“Do you like him?” he asks, and his fingers tense around the wheel. “And answer me honestly, or have you forgotten, I know when people lie.” He doesn’t turn to face me when he finishes, which is a good thing because I’m not sure he’d want to see the expression on my face right now.
“What do you mean like?” My blood feels warm as it reaches my heart faster and everything inside of me is moving at speeds I can’t catch up with. Thud. Thud. Thud. What is happening? My palms twitch and I run them down my thighs to wipe the sweat away. I can hear my heart pulsing in my ears. “You mean, like as in like him?” I turn to face Brantley when he doesn’t answer me. “Are you crazy? That is—no.”
“Why not?” he answers, and I have to take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. Maybe Tillie is misinformed? His face is expressionless, but the side of his jaw is tight. Ahhh, he’s annoyed. Well, I’m starting to think, so am I. The Tech N9ne song playing in the background isn’t helping either. He’s talking about ripping his heart out, and right now, all I want to do is rip my hair out. My heart rate picks up, my pores release bulbs of sweat as everything in my vision turns red. My mouth opens, and just as the words are about to spill out, the corner of his lips curve in a smirk, yet his eyes remain on the road.
“How’s that anger feel, my little goddess…” His voice is low, husky, but the tone feels menacing. He finally turns to face me while taking the exit. “I can give you some pointers on how to channel that.” His eyes fall down my body. “All of which I’m almost certain you could not handle.”
My brain feels swollen, as if it’s pressing against the back of my eyeballs and they’re about to pop right out of my head. I want to swear at him. Spew all the profanities I learned while watching movies like The Wash, Baby Boy, and Friday, but when my mouth opens again, all that escapes is a heavy exhale of air. My shoulders drop. “Maybe you should show me how to spot liars.” I pin him with a stare. “I might need that skill more.”
Before we can get into another half-argument, half non-argument, we’re driving past a statue made of cobblestone, with the word Riverside carved into the front. Green vines twist and knot over the gray monument and misted fog spills over the pavement of the road from the trees on either side. Brantley turns the music off, and suddenly everything feels too quiet. Trees beyond trees, with fog so thick it feels as though we’re swimming under water.
“Fog in New York? Is that common?”
“It’s not common in general, but no. It’s just the lakes that are in the forest and the temperatures outside.”
I reach for my utility jacket with the fur-lined hood when lights break through the fog and it slowly dissipates. Seconds later, we’re in a small township. It reminds me of the town in Gilmore Girls. There are flowers blooming outside every store, a few people on the sidewalk. We pass the center of town, where the grass is so green it looks synthetic. There’s also an altar in the center, licked in black paint. The town feels as though it’s haunted by the previous residents, but the air smells of money.
Brantley continues to drive us through the town, until he turns right, and then takes a left. Shops morph into fields and there are small trees that look oddly similar to desert roses.
Or maybe I just want to see them because I feel so far away from my garden. My plants.
Finally, we’re at the front of a long driveway with high iron gates closing off public access.
“I never went to school. Maybe I could go to college here,” I muse aloud, taking in the slab of concrete outside the gates that reads Riverside Elite University and Preparatory Academy.
“Like fuck you’re going here. The front is the university, and the back is the high school.” He pushes his door open, and it’s not until I’m climbing out that I can truly appreciate the architecture of the building.
I lean on my door to close it gently. “Wow.”
The front of the school is made up of ancient cobblestone with moss growing between the cracks and around the windows that overlook the front of the entryway. There are prehistoric statues that line the front. Nine, to be precise. I don’t think much of them, but I find myself drawn to them, like a magnetic field. I step closer to the one that is closest to me: a man dressed in a suit, holding a cigar with a long beard. I read over the words that are at the base of the statue. Humphrey Hector Hayes 1687. I recognize the last name as Bishop’s. Gazing at t
he statue to his left, this one is different. He has a half-grin, but the other side of his face looks evil. Menacing. Squinting my eyes, I read the name at the base like I did with Hector. Gabriel Nathanial Malum. He too is in a suit. They’re all in suits, actually. Cars pull up behind me, but I’m too engrossed in the statues to care. I move to the other side of Malum and read. Maximillian Eli Rebelis. That’s the final statue on that side, so I shift to the other side of Hayes, the loose gravel crunching beneath the soles of my feet. Lucan Vitiosis. I pause. Step backward and crank my head up. That’s not the Lucan I knew. This one, like the others, is dressed in a suit, but his eyes are carved out. Chills break out over me, like ice cubes slipping down the base of my spine. I move to the one beside that. Johan Hunter Venari. Before I can move further through the statues, Bishop interferes. “They’re The First Nine Fathers.” I turn quickly, surprised to see so many people here. Bishop, Nate, Tillie, Eli, Hunter. They’re all here.
“The Nine Fathers of what?” I ask Bishop, and only Bishop. I’m not asking anyone else. I don’t realize this could be a test from me until I realize he’s failed.
His features remain frozen. The first clue that he’s lying. Bishop’s face can be animated. He’s going to lie. Instantly I want to argue with him.
“Of The Elite Kings…” He brushes past me, entering through the front door when my eyes find Tillie’s. She’s rubbing her belly—though you wouldn’t know she is pregnant—while keeping her eyes on mine. Her brows are bent inward, her lips pinched together slightly. She looks upset, and when I finally take in Nate, his jaw is set to stone, a slight snarl on his mouth.
“Nate!” Tillie grabs at his arm, but he moves past her and to the front of the doors. Spinning around, he glares at her, and I turn slightly so I can see both of them.
“Fuck no, Tillie! You did that without even fucking talking to me! Fuck. No!”
Eli lights a cigarette, nudging me with his shoulder while blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Don’t worry. This is their foreplay.”
