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“How’s that anger feel, my little goddess…” His voice is low, husky, but the tone feels menacing. He finally turns to face me while taking the exit. “I can give you some pointers on how to channel that.” His eyes fall down my body. “All of which I’m almost certain you could not handle.”
My brain feels swollen, as if it’s pressing against the back of my eyeballs and they’re about to pop right out of my head. I want to swear at him. Spew all the profanities I learned while watching movies like The Wash, Baby Boy, and Friday, but when my mouth opens again, all that escapes is a heavy exhale of air. My shoulders drop. “Maybe you should show me how to spot liars.” I pin him with a stare. “I might need that skill more.”
Before we can get into another half-argument, half non-argument, we’re driving past a statue made of cobblestone, with the word Riverside carved into the front. Green vines twist and knot over the gray monument and misted fog spills over the pavement of the road from the trees on either side. Brantley turns the music off, and suddenly everything feels too quiet. Trees beyond trees, with fog so thick it feels as though we’re swimming under water.
“Fog in New York? Is that common?”
“It’s not common in general, but no. It’s just the lakes that are in the forest and the temperatures outside.”
I reach for my utility jacket with the fur-lined hood when lights break through the fog and it slowly dissipates. Seconds later, we’re in a small township. It reminds me of the town in Gilmore Girls. There are flowers blooming outside every store, a few people on the sidewalk. We pass the center of town, where the grass is so green it looks synthetic. There’s also an altar in the center, licked in black paint. The town feels as though it’s haunted by the previous residents, but the air smells of money.
Brantley continues to drive us through the town, until he turns right, and then takes a left. Shops morph into fields and there are small trees that look oddly similar to desert roses.
Or maybe I just want to see them because I feel so far away from my garden. My plants.
Finally, we’re at the front of a long driveway with high iron gates closing off public access.
“I never went to school. Maybe I could go to college here,” I muse aloud, taking in the slab of concrete outside the gates that reads Riverside Elite University and Preparatory Academy.
“Like fuck you’re going here. The front is the university, and the back is the high school.” He pushes his door open, and it’s not until I’m climbing out that I can truly appreciate the architecture of the building.
I lean on my door to close it gently. “Wow.”
The front of the school is made up of ancient cobblestone with moss growing between the cracks and around the windows that overlook the front of the entryway. There are prehistoric statues that line the front. Nine, to be precise. I don’t think much of them, but I find myself drawn to them, like a magnetic field. I step closer to the one that is closest to me: a man dressed in a suit, holding a cigar with a long beard. I read over the words that are at the base of the statue. Humphrey Hector Hayes 1687. I recognize the last name as Bishop’s. Gazing at the statue to his left, this one is different. He has a half-grin, but the other side of his face looks evil. Menacing. Squinting my eyes, I read the name at the base like I did with Hector. Gabriel Nathanial Malum. He too is in a suit. They’re all in suits, actually. Cars pull up behind me, but I’m too engrossed in the statues to care. I move to the other side of Malum and read. Maximillian Eli Rebelis. That’s the final statue on that side, so I shift to the other side of Hayes, the loose gravel crunching beneath the soles of my feet. Lucan Vitiosis. I pause. Step backward and crank my head up. That’s not the Lucan I knew. This one, like the others, is dressed in a suit, but his eyes are carved out. Chills break out over me, like ice cubes slipping down the base of my spine. I move to the one beside that. Johan Hunter Venari. Before I can move further through the statues, Bishop interferes. “They’re The First Nine Fathers.” I turn quickly, surprised to see so many people here. Bishop, Nate, Tillie, Eli, Hunter. They’re all here.
“The Nine Fathers of what?” I ask Bishop, and only Bishop. I’m not asking anyone else. I don’t realize this could be a test from me until I realize he’s failed.