“That would be a mistake.”
“He can’t make me.”
“He can and he will.”
“I’ll only tell him if he lets me go home.”
That was a lie, of course. She wasn’t telling him anything, but Mirabelle ignored her and started for the door. The finality fire-started something in Amelia. That woman didn’t call the shots. What could she possibly do? Amelia tried anyhow, frenzied in her desperation.
“My mom, my dad, they need me. Please. I have to go home. Ihaveto.”
Somber tranquility washed over Mirabelle. Only bad news was delivered that way. It wasn’t news to Amelia, though, just the brutal truth that Mirabelle breathed to life.
“You can’t. There’s nowhere for you to go back to, nowhere that’s safe. Only here.”
Amelia unraveled with a gasping cry.Don’t let them see you this way,her dignity warned, but grief battered the walls she’d built. They came tumbling down and so too did Amelia as she fell to her knees. Mirabelle followed her to the floor and pointed to the suitcases in the corner.
“I have a life too, a place where I belong outside of this.” She gestured to the bedroom that apparently wasn’t her own. “So do Emory and Jack. We’re only here because something is happening that we don’t understand, something that will tear us apart if we let it. We can’t let it.”
Cross-legged, Mirabelle sat like a mirror in front of Amelia with enormous sorrow in her eyes. Whatever her past was, she bared a bit of it on the floor, a peek behind her mask of painted smiles.
“It scares me,” she admitted and nervously glanced at the door. “The men—Emory, Jack, Liam—they’ll never admit it, but it scares them too.”
Amelia nodded sympathetically, and her heavy heart slowed its beat. The shadow lifted from Mirabelle, the light in her eyes no longer dim.
“I need to finish dinner before they’re back. Rest. I’ll bring you food in a bit.”
Mirabelle pushed from the floor with a sudden call to duty. What exactly was her duty? Make their meals, tend to menial tasks? Amelia didn’t ask about that or what the mothers, sisters, and wives did, or if mouthing off was their only “treat.”
On her way out, Mirabelle stopped at the door. “Amelia, you’re not as alone as you think.”
TWELVE
EMORY
The shadow walk commenced beneath a blanket of stars. With dull flashlight beams guiding the way, Emory and Jack walked in step, their boots colliding in unison against cracked desert. Emory’s grip tightened around the hilt of a blade.
Behind them, the twelve Moriarty captains followed in two columns with Liam taking up the rear. At the very end, the initiate walked with his back to the wild unknown.
He couldn’t be more than twenty, if Emory had to guess. It was hard to tell these days, and initiates came to him the same—full of piss and vinegar and with some perceived chip on their shoulder.
By the time they shadow walked—the Moriartys’ arcane initiation ritual—something broke in them. That vigor was tamed and self-possessed discipline filled the void. They lost something of themselves and severed ties with their old lives.
That was the sacrifice for brotherhood and a small price to pay. Orphaned and ostracized in one way or another, most didn’t have families to forsake.
When they were well away from the mansion, a few captains made quick work of building a fire. The initiation struck Emory as a spiritual cleansing more than anything else, but some men swore it possessed supernatural qualities.
Those men claimed something else joined the circle on shadow walk nights, something dark that delighted in their collective sins.
Emory never felt shit, just the night’s chill at his back and the fire’s warmth on his face. The flames were sacred, though, even he had to admit, and they cast strange shadows as the men circled the fire.
Liam settled behind Emory. These days, he preferred to observe the esoteric rite rather than participate. He stood watch over his legacy, though, and advised where he could, and tonight looked something of his old self—proud of the empire he helped create and less tired too.
Emory unsheathed the ritual blade, all pewter and patina and intricately carved, and handed it to the captain on his left, Pete, who cracked a smile.
All Moriarty men bore a collection of fourteen scars from the blade, one delivered by each captain plus the Moriarty deputy and chief. The scars were a reminder of duty and loyalty. The Moriartys didn’t garb themselves in colors or symbols to signify their affiliation. They moved with the shadows and espoused individual obscurity because the organization had an identity all its own.
Some men couldn’t handle that obscurity. They wanted to don the prestige and incite fear through the Moriarty name. Those men didn’t last long. As Liam always said, “Glory and tragedy belong to the organization, not the man.”
