“Oops, didn’t mean it like that.” Kenji snickers at Knox, who stares at the buttons on the elevator.
“Get in,” Knox says. “I’m not allowed down in the Ritual room. Oh, and I need your weapons, Kenji.”
I step into the elevator with Kenji while Knox leans against the door to keep it open.
“Graves can pry these from my cold, dead hands himself. Move.”
Knox sighs and shakes his head. “Good to see you, Slade. Have fun, guys.”
The doors close, and Kenji groans. “I’d rather make a deal with the devil’s?—”
The elevator jerks as we descend from the top level of security past the main level and down into the Ritual Chamber.
Kenji runs a hand through his long hair, and he smolders at his reflection in the elevator doors. “Knox is just pissed Graves has him on bodyguard duty.”
“Hmm?” I ask, though the sound barely makes it out.
Kenji stills. “Did you not hear me earlier? Graves’s daughter is in town. You all right, Slade?”
I nod. Yeah, that’s right. I heard something about that a few weeks ago.
“Nervous about who they’re going to pick as Henry’s Offering?”
I nod. I have an idea of who it’ll be. Most likely Lena. A well-to-do businesswoman my grandfather has been in an on-again, off-again relationship with for the past several years. But there’s always the possibility …
No. Graves wouldn’t do that.
They couldn’t do that.
When we reach the bottom, the doors open into the hollow beneath the society. Kenji and I both key in with the biometric locks, and the door opens to the waiting area, which is just a room before the room withtheroom. The waiting area is modeled similarly to the Sovereign Chamber in that the walls are one-way mirrors into the Ritual room. They go dark when the rituals take place, but until then the room is on full display. Several members stand in broken groups, discussing business or sharing the last of their drinks from upstairs.
At the far ends of the waiting chamber, sleek, rectangular slabs of obsidian stone rise from the floor in each corner. Water spills down each face, the fountain silent, but beneath the trickle, the names of every member have been etched. Rows upon rows of past and current members illuminated under a perfectly angled light, casting a faint shimmer over the surface.
I shiver. The last time I was here, my name got carved into that panel and the society’s name was scarred on my chest.
“It’s cold in here,” Kenji says, pulling at his black suit.
I roll my eyes. However, he’s correct. It’s cold in here, but on purpose. The climate control is set to the perfect temperature and humidity to wick away sweat during every ritual. “It’s engineered to promote obedience,” my grandfather likes to say.
“Membership quota at thirty-five percent,” the robotic female voice announces, and Kenji sighs.
“They better get moving. I have things to do.”
I turn to him and raise my eyebrows. In another world, I’d love to know what Kenji does in his spare time, but I’m not sure I want to.
We hover close to one of the stone panels as more members trickle down from the club. I wish I had grabbed a drink for this.
My grandfather will be with the other seven, and I’m relieved I won’t be seeing him beforehand.
“Membership quota at forty-eight percent.”
Kenji’s hand hovers over his guns, and I move to block his ministrations. The man cannot keep his hands off his weapons, and part of me wonders what happened all those years ago in Boston to keep him wound so tight.
A few more politicians enter the room, and Senator Landers spots me. He’s practically orange with his fake spray tan. He tries to hide his age, but he’s not fooling anyone. His silver hair is combed tightly to one side.
“Ah, Slade. Looking forward to D.C. next week?”
No. I nod.
