“Everyone got it?” the man went on. Most of the girls murmured in agreement. “Good. Positions, everyone.”
I drifted toward the edge of the chamber with the others, my eyes darting across the enormous space. From up here, the center platform looked like a stage, or maybe an altar. Inlaid symbols wound across the stone floor in intricate spirals, their grooves filled with some dark, glossy substance that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
The sound of a deep, resonant gong split the heavy air. The low vibration rolled through the vast chamber like a heartbeat, and all around me, the other girls straightened where they stood along the perimeter.
Then came the drumbeats. Slow. Primal.
From a wide arched doorway at the far end of the chamber, the first figures began to appear. Men in black robes, their faces hidden behind stark white masks. The initiates, presumably.
They filed in two by two, their movements disciplined but uncertain, as if they’d practiced but were still scared of doing something wrong. They gathered in a half-circle near the center of the room, just outside the ring of symbols inlaid on the floor.
The drumbeats grew louder.
A second group entered; men wearing the same black robes, but with half-masks the color of midnight. I couldn’t be sure of their position in the society, but they clearly weren’t new. They carried themselves like men who knew they owned the world, their heads high, their strides unhurried.
Then, finally, the last group appeared.
They moved with quiet authority, and the air in the chamber seemed to shift around them. Their masks were gold, catching the flicker of candlelight and throwing it back in molten ribbons. A few of the girls beside me drew in audible breaths as the gilded figures approached the altar at the center.
At their head was a tall man with a commanding presence, his golden mask shaped into the face of a serene god. When he lifted his hand, the entire chamber fell silent.
“Brothers,” he began, his deep voice echoing from the stone walls. “Welcome to the feast of Dionysus.”
The red candles in the chamber flickered, as if stirred by an invisible breath in response to his words.
“We gather tonight to honor those who have proven themselves worthy of initiation,” he continued. “Our newest brothers stand at the threshold of transformation. To those brothers… you will begin your training soon. And when you return next year, by your sophomore season, you will wear the black masks of the Reapers. You will serve the society and pay your dues in full. Three years of service… for a lifetime of privilege.”
Murmurs rippled through the ranks of masked men. I frowned as I watched them, wondering what a Reaper was, and what they did to ‘serve’ the Club.
The leader paused, his gaze sweeping over them. Even from this distance, I could sense the pride radiating from him; the confidence of a man who truly believed he ruled an empire.
“Of course,” he went on, a wry note threading his voice, “not all of our brothers could attend tonight’s ceremony. Many of them have… pressing engagements. They are scattered across the globe, carrying the mark of Dionysus into the highest echelons of power.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the gathered men.
“One of them is busy running the United States,” the leader said dryly. “Another is somewhere in the Middle East, closing an oil deal worth billions. And one, I suspect, is still nursing his hangover from last week’s yacht party in Monaco.”
Laughter again; low, knowing, self-satisfied.
“But regardless of where our brothers dwell,” he said, his tone sharpening, “they all remember what it means to wear the mask. To serve. To take what is offered and to sacrifice what is required. Dionysus gives freely to those who prove themselves… and takes everything from those who fail.”
The last line hung in the air like smoke. Even from my corner of the chamber, I could feel the importance of it.
The initiates stood completely still, their white masks catching the flicker of the candles, while the gold-masked men began to chant, softly at first, then louder. The sound rose and fell in rhythmic waves, echoing through the stone vaults above. It wasn’t English. It sounded ancient. Greek, I guessed, based on the Dionysus name.
I swallowed hard behind my mask.
“Before you take your first step into the brotherhood,” the leader continued, “you must prove your dedication.”
He extended a hand, and one of the other gold-masked men approached with a polished silver tray. Upon it lay a ceremonial dagger. Beside it was a large silver goblet that appeared to be filled with red wine.
The leader took the dagger and raised it high. “Step forward, Daniel Northmont.”
I froze as the name hit me like a slap.Daniel Northmont.Jeremiah’s stepbrother.
One of the white-masked initiates detached himself from the line and approached the dais.
“Your hand,” the leader said.
