“There’s no such thing as the Animos Society,” she said, giving them another one of their canned answers. For a “secret” society, it seemed that everyone in the world knew about their existence, but still, they prided themselves on at least the appearance of exclusivity and absolute discretion.
“And if it did exist, why would you want to join?”
Shot.
“To uphold the traditions of our brotherhood.”
A lie. Blatant and unabashed. When she’d come here from New York, with nothing but her one backpack of clothes and a few books stashed under her arm, Thomas, her brother, had given her false expectations of her life here. Thomas was warm and welcoming. Until she began her Animos pledge, he seemed hell-bent on making up for lost time with her, on making her part of the family she’d never had before.
But her father…he wasn’t as magnanimous or kind. The one man in the world she’d wanted love and respect from more than anything could barely deign to look at or speak to her. Joining Animos was the key to getting everything she’d ever wanted from her father. If she could prove her legitimacy, prove that she wasn’t just a mistake he made with some woman back in New York twenty-three years ago, then perhaps he’d open up and give her the family she always dreamed of having. Maybe, if she intertwined her legacy with his and wore the blue suits of Animos, she’d prove that she was his daughter, not just someone who lived in his house and ate his food and used his name and title to get into fancy nightclubs in London.
Just like these men didn’t give a damn about her, she didn’t give a damn about their club.
Only what it could get her.
All she wanted was a place to belong. She hadn’t belonged in her mother’s life because the woman didn’t want her. She hadn’t belonged in foster care becauseno onebelonged in foster care. She’d spent most of her life aching with loneliness, burning to connect with someone, anyone. But now, she had a chance to finally belong to people, to be part of something. And if she had to make a fool of herself in front of these Animos guys for the rest of her life to get it, she’d do it with a smile. So far, burning hundred-pound notes in front of homeless men or trashing small country pubs hadn’t stopped her. A little liquor and humiliation wouldn’t, either.
“And what are those traditions?”
Another shot. They were getting harder and harder to hold down, but she focused on enunciating every single syllable of every single word she spoke, in the hopes that maybe concentrating on that would distract her from the riot going on in the pit of her stomach. If she vomited, she would lose. Game over. No Animos. And she’d have to tell her father she’d failed.
No way could she do that. Swallowing the sensation back, she focused on the words, forcing them from between her teeth.
“To drink, to rage, to cause chaos wherever they’re stupid enough to let us roam wild.”
“And why are those our traditions?”
Shot.
“They’re our birthright as sons of England.”
“Your birthright? Who gave that to you?”
Shot. Her stomach revolted. Her mind blurred. She decided not to tell them she was a bastard. If anyone of them were smart enough to get into Oxford without the help of their daddy’s money, they’d probably already figured it out on their own.
“I am the daughter of Lord Dubarry, and twelfth-generation member of the Animos Society.”
As far as Sam could tell from living with the man for two years, her father cared about three things: antique cars, his future as the leader of the House of Lords, and the Animos Society. Every male of the Dubarry family had been a member since the club’s inception—apparently, her twelfth great-grandfather was in the founding portrait, alongside a prince and a future prime minister—and if Sam could become the first woman they ever allowed in, he’d have to see her.
He’d have to.
At the end of the table, the egg timer ticked louder and louder in her mind, no doubt a symptom of all the liquor coursing through her veins. It couldn’t possibly be going faster, but itfeltlike it was, as if any second now it would screech out that she’d taken too long and lost.
“Recite the Ancient Words of the Brotherhood.”
Another shot. She blinked, her eyes heavy but not as heavy as her breathing.
“Silence or death.”
Only one shot glass left and the room filled with the evidence of its own motto: silence.
There was nothing but the ticking of the egg timer and the pounding of her own heart. Nothing, that is, until Captain finished his own glass of wine and the timer screamed, shattering the quiet.
“Drink,” Captain commanded.
And no matter how much her stomach protested, she let the cool liquid slither like egg yolk down her throat. When she came up for air, slamming the glass down upon the table, it was as if a fog had lifted. Sure, her vision was starting to blur. Sure, she was incredibly grateful that she’d taken her brother’s advice and pounded nothing but water and carbs for the last four days. Sure, she wasn’t positive she’d ever be sober enough to walk straight again. But she’d done it.
“I did it,” she whispered, before she could help herself.
