He stares at me. “And what if he brings backup? You’re throwing a party, not running a fortress.”
“I’ve accounted for that,” I say. “Security will be masked as staff. Every entrance is monitored, and every license plate is logged. If he so much as breathes near the perimeter, I’ll know.”
“And if Martine finds out?”
I pause for just a second.
“She won’t,” I say.
Archie whistles through his teeth. “You'd better hope not. She’s already unpredictable when she’s happy.”
“She won’t be touched.”
He studies me, jaw tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“No,” I reply. “I’m ending one.”
The iron gates of Eulogia swing open without a word. The car hums along the gravel path, the tires crunching like bone underfoot.
Even after all these years, the grounds still look like something out of a dream. Manicured hedges, trees older than the country itself, the looming silhouette of the main building watching over it all like a god.
Archie leans forward as we approach the lower path. “Never gets less eerie, does it?”
“No,” I say. “I think that’s the point.”
I take the unpaved road toward the back end of the property. No student tours ever get close. We park under the thicket of black pines, where the canopy eats the light, and the air runs colder.
We step out into the silence.
The mausoleum stands just ahead, framed by ivy and the passage of time. Heavy stone columns, a perfectly tended gate that never squeaks, and a door that only opens for the right kind of key. The Brotherhood of Death keys.
Archie adjusts his coat as we walk.
“Feels like walking into confession.”
“This place isn’t for confessing.”
I press my hand to the inset panel on the side of the mausoleum—the lock disengages with a mechanical click. Stone gives way, and the door opens inward on perfectly balanced hinges.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old wax, wet stone, and something metallic beneath the surface, like blood dried onto cold marble. The torches lining the walls flicker to life in sequence, responding to movement. Ritual tech. Our blend of old and new timeless control.
We walk through the antechamber in silence. Beneath our feet, the floor is etched with names no one outside the Societywould dare to say aloud. Dead men. Former leaders. Martyrs and monsters. Those who kept their mouths shut and those who bled for it.
At the center of the main chamber, the others are already arriving. Louis Belmont stands near the altar, lighting a cigar with the ceremonial flame like it's a casual Tuesday. Hudson Taft’s in conversation with Saxton Morgan, their silhouettes sharp under the low light. No one raises their voice here. There’s no need.
Archie leans in toward me, his tone quiet but amused. “So what’s the agenda tonight? Sacrifice or strategy?”
“Both, probably,” I say, nodding hello to Dashell Cure, who’s lighting his cigar in the corner by the cigar box cabinet. “But I’ll take strategy first.”
Archie grins. “How civilized.”
I scan the room. Each of us is wearing the same ring. Branded and bound to The Brotherhood of Death. We don’t meet like this often, only when something’s coming.
And something is.
The torches along the chamber walls burn low, their flames steady, casting sharp shadows across the marble floor. The stone table at the center is already surrounded. No one sits. This is not a place for comfort. It is a place for decisions, for orders, for consequences.
Chairman Creekmore nods once, and the murmuring dies. One by one, we take our places, a loose circle around the altar. Saxton Morgan exhales smoke through his nose, already bored, while Hudson Taft slips his phone into his coat as if he had never been looking at it. Eyes shift to Creekmore as he steps forward, his expression carved from stone. His voice is clean and cold as his eyes immediately shift to me.
