Thirty more minutes tick by. Still nothing.
Forlorn, I stare at the front door, silently willing him to enter. When he doesn’t, I slide off the stool and go to the bathroom, just for something to do.
Coming out of the stall, I wash my hands, noticing a beat late that there’s something scribbled on the mirror. I look up, stepping back to get the full picture, and my heart plummets to my stomach.
Et tu, Brute?
The words drip down the glass in thick crimson liquid. Like they were just written.
Another Shakespeare reference, but I can’t imagine Sutton trying to freak me out like this, no matter how mad he is.
Grabbing my things, I power walk back to the door, my fingers closing around the knob at the same time something shoves against me from behind. My forehead connects with the wall, blurring my vision as I’m accosted and wrestled to the ground. I flail, trying to find a weak spot in my attacker, but they’re stronger and have the element of surprise on their side.
My head swims, unfocused. Something pricks the side of my neck, and the unfocused bits become darker and darker until I can’t see anything at all.
51
SUTTON
Jean-Louis isn’tat the manor when I show up.
No one is in fact, which irritates the fuck out of me. Our family seems to only want to appear at the most inopportune times and not when I might actually need something.
I came to ask if he’d known—if he’d known Bellamy had beenpushed, and if he knew she’d been the sacrifice.
If that was why he always suggested her death had merit. That she had honored it in that way by becoming just another facet of the organization.
He had to know. There’s no other explanation as to why he pushed so hard for me to become Incarnate. With a sacrifice already having happened, there was a gap in the control, and he couldn’t stand the disarray.
A gap meant vulnerability in the Dupont line. No wonder he was so eager for Beckett to fill my shoes should I fall short.
I’m not surprised to find Beckett sitting on the balcony when I return to my apartment.
He won’t stop bouncing his knee as I approach or twisting the baseball cap he’s wearing. I walk past him, putting my key in the knob, and head in.
Beckett scrambles after me, nearly tripping over the threshold as he sprints to get inside.
“Father’s not home,” I say as I make my way to the kitchen, pouring some diet soda from a can into a glass of ice. “In case you were curious.”
He scoffs. “Like I give a shit.”
“Oh? That’s a new development.” Settling on my sofa, I take a drink and place the glass on a coaster.
Beckett hovers in the archway between the foyer and living areas. He tugs on the drawstrings of his hoodie, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Quit being annoying and come sit. Distract me with the musings of your day,” I order.
Swallowing, he walks over and sits on the arm of the recliner next to the couch. As he does so, he pulls the cuffs of his sleeves down over his knuckles—but not before I notice the broken, dark red skin.
I sigh, leaning my head on the back of the couch. “What the hell, Becks? Have you been fucking fighting? How are you planning on applying for a Curator appeal in the fall if you’re getting into trouble like that still?”
He clears his throat. “What if I don’t apply?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe I want to take your advice and get out of Fury Hill. Get out from Father’s shadow.”
“Just because you’re here doesn’t mean you have to live by his rules, you know. He would get over it.”
