Emory stepped aside and allowed the initiate into the circle. The boy expelled a shallow breath and removed his black shirt. Emory stared at the kid, who squirmed beneath the scrutiny. Mirabelle called it soul scrying. Emory called it sussing out rats.
After a few quiet moments, he gave a slight nod and the initiate stood before Pete.
The boy spoke the oath on a timorous breath. “Sanguine inter fratres dedicato.”
Blood and brotherhood.Goosebumps blanketed Emory’s skin. Jack stirred next to him and Liam shuffled forward.
Pete repeated the oath and drew the blade across the initiate’s chest, leaving behind a ribbon of red. He passed the knife to the captain on his left.
On it went, the blade traveling the circle. The initiate spoke his oath to every captain, his voice rising with each iteration and chin tipping higher. His pained grunts dampened to a wince with each slice of the blade, and he reached Jack with blood coating his chest and biceps.
“Sanguine inter fratres dedicato.”
The kid’s teeth clamped on his bottom lip as Jack delivered a deep cut. Blood oozed thick and dark from the wound. With a smirk, Jack passed Emory the blade.
The boy stood at full height in front of Emory. He looked different. Hardened, less petrified. He stared at Emory with empty eyes, a blank slate they’d mold however they pleased, and puffed out his chest, even if it meant peeling open the cuts. He still looked like a scrawny, bloodied ferret to Emory as he spoke his final oath.
A chilly wind rolled across the desert, and the flames responded, kicking up embers that swirled in the breeze.
“Sanguine inter fratres dedicato,” Emory repeated and drew a cut deeper than Jack’s.
The kid’s nose wrinkled and lip snarled with a grimace. When he was through, Emory plunged the bloodied blade into the ground. From his pocket, he retrieved the white handkerchief.
Blood already marred the ritual cloth, and Emory thumbed the dark red splotch.Amelia.He didn’t know—and didn’t rightly care—if it mattered in some symbolic way.
In a black baptism of sorts, the initiate cleansed his cuts with the handkerchief and a bucket of water. The circle watched his rebirth into brotherhood as he washed away the blood and, with it, his former self. When he was through, he upended the bloody water over the fire.
With the flames doused, the men exploded in an uproar, breaking both the circle and their solemn visage. One by one, each captain clapped the boy on the back, shook his hand, or offered someother gesture of camaraderie. Emory wrangled the kid toward him.
“Remember what I told you,” he said for only the boy to hear. The others had already received the same message from him. “Death is your only exit, but you’re family now, and we take care of our own.”
They headed for the mansion with the boy leading the way and the captains following in clusters.
Liam set a slow pace between Jack and Emory. “Can’t help yourselves, can you?”
Emory exchanged a look with Jack. He flashed a smile, lit up a cigarette, and offered one to Emory. He took it and tucked it behind his ear.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” Emory said.
Jack tossed the knife in the air. Hilt over blade, the gaudy thing went spinning. He caught it by the hilt and winked at Liam, who glanced at the fire rendered to ash and smoke behind them.
“One of these days, the pissing contest between you two is going to leave an initiate bleeding like a stuck pig and needing stitches.”
Jack shrugged. “Worse things could happen.”
Emory agreed with a nod. Worse things had already happened. He let that thought go for the moment and admired the full moon riding high.
He never appreciated the light it put off until he moved to the desert. He grew up in a predominantly Latin neighborhood outside of Sacramento, and the moon there never shined that bright.
“Our folk look out for each other,”his father always said.
True enough, the ties that bound ran strong and proud and well beyond bloodlines.
Jack’s family moved to the neighborhood one summer and were welcomed into the fold with cookouts every other weekend. Emory made fast friends with the crazy fucker, Jack, who livednext door and knew more about baseball than anyone Emory had ever met.
That first summer went by in a haze of racing bikes around until the street lamps kicked on, wading through the creek behind their neighborhood, and pissing off Old Man Martinez, who was all bark and no bite. It was a rare respite from the living hell at home.
As a kid, Emory took his brother Ivan’s blows and said nothing about it. When school started again, he showed up one day with a black eye other kids teased him about.
