This isn’t you, my heart screams as it battles to escape.What are you doing?!
Simple. I’m doingwhat I have to.
I got a text message earlier tonight from Boris, one of the handful of my father’s loyalists who ended up going to Russia with him when he was banished. Apparently, although my father is unharmed, someone shot up his car last night while he and a few of his men were eating dinner at a restaurant.
Not to mention, Diego’s threatenedRomanas well. And Val.
So here I am, pulse racing, skin hot and sweaty inside the mask covering the top half of my face, as the black SUV rolls to a stop at the heavy, ominous gates.
The Uber I took only got as far as a checkpoint of Syndicate men at the base of the mountain. There, after presenting my invitation, I was given this plain, featureless white mask and was transferred to the back seat of the black Range Rover, its windows tinted, and driven the rest of the way up the winding road to the very top, where Blackbriar Hall sits like some villain's lair from a horror movie.
The gates noiselessly slide open and the Range Rover glides through, making my heart skip a little as I peer through the blacked-out windows at the massive home.
The Gilded Age mountaintop manor looks something out of a nightmare version ofThe Great Gatsby—huge, towering, built from dark gray stone. Its sinister appearance is made even worse by the low lights illuminating it from the base. The flickering torches on either side of the wide stone staircase leading up to the front door don’t help, either.
I still don’t really know what’s going to happen here tonight. But the internet is awash with rumors about it. Some, like the ones that claim the Syndicate eats babies or engages in demonic blood sacrifice, I’m sure I can ignore with confidence. Val told me before how he’s done some odd Syndicate work for his brother, and never once did he mention anything as insane as that. And he would have.
But mixed in amongst the wild rumors, I got at least some idea what to expect.
As a prospective initiate, I’m going to be paired with a senior member of the organization called an “Adept”. If I make it through the initiation, I’ll be referred to as an Acolyte, and I’ll be bound to the Adept who initiated me, sort of like a pledge in a sorority or fraternity.
What the precise initiation processentails, though, remains a mystery. The most common theory that I’ve read online talks about Acolytes being forced to face their worst fears, or do something that terrifies them. Like, if you have severe arachnophobia, maybe you’ll be locked in a box of spiders or something.
But it’s all speculation. In my hours andhoursof combing through conspiracy theory subs on Reddit and on other forums, there wasn’t a single credible contributor who could prove they had ever been to an initiation.
Not for nothing, this is theotherterrifying thing about Syndicate initiations: thereare nofailures.
Not because everyone gets in. But because if youdon’t…well…
You can't exactly go on Reddit and blab about what you saw.
Because you don’tlive to do so.
Allegedly.
Oddly, I’m not that scared about that part. Because one of the other common rumors is that the person who invites you to the initiation is your Adept.
Which means Vaughn is going to be mine.
Yes, that’s a chilling thought, especially after what happened in the woods, and the lingering memories of his vicious eyes, jetblack aura, and slippery, bloodied fingers wrapped tight around my neck.
At the same time, though, we’re not strangers. Vaughn knows me. He knows I’m one of Val’s best friends. Tonight might get terrifying, and who knows what fear I might be forced to face.
But I'm positive he’s not going tokill me.
Masked guards, dressed all in black and carrying sidearms, check my invitation again before wordlessly waving me up the steps to the open front door.
Halfway up, I hear a sharp “Psssst!” Turning, I see a young woman in a white mask identical to mine running up the steps toward me. I’m in a black, long-sleeved warm-up top and yoga pants; she’s wearing black sneakers, also yoga pants, and a hoodie.
I mean, the invitationdidsay to wear clothes we could “move in”.
When she gets closer, I recognize the bright green eyes through her mask.
“Gabby?” I hiss quietly.
She flashes me a quick grin before leaning close and shaking her head. “No names,” she mutters.
I nod, shivering. “Right. Sorry.”
