Page 25 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

“Where would you like your dinner tonight,” Graves asks from my bedroom doorway, “here or in the dining room?”

“The dining room?” I repeat. The question comes as a surprise. Or really, the option. I’ve never been to the dining room. Or anywhere else in the house that isn’t underground. “Will the King be there?”

“Unfortunately, the King will not be attending dinner. He has an important meeting elsewhere.”

I inhale, sucking past the pinprick of hurt that comes from the realization my King isn’t interested in me. “What about my Barons?”

“They’re participating in a brN meeting tonight, so no, they won’t be there either.”

That information delivers less of a blow. At least I can hope to get through dinner without being pierced, prodded and covered with bodily fluids.

“I think I’d like to eat in the dining room,” I declare.

He nods curtly and says, “Then follow me.”

We take the same hallway as I did this morning when I left for school, but instead of turning left when the hallway ends, Graves turns right, deeper into the chapel.

He moves quickly, our footsteps echoing off the stone floors.

I try to absorb it all. The woven tapestry hanging on an empty wall, embroidered at the top, in thick yellow thread, are the Greek words Beta Rho Zeta.

Below that is the pentagram, identical to the mark on my chest. Throughout the house are other symbologies of the Barons.

There’s a glass case filled with animal skulls, mottled gray and white with age.

On the center shelf, spotlit, is the bone chalice and knife from my initiation.

I pause, looking for remnants of my blood and flesh on the tip.

“Ahem,” Graves says, urging me along. I drag my eyes from it and follow him past a wall decorated with dozens of masks.

Horns and fangs, tusks and teeth. I close my eyes and try to remember the beast but the imagery is gone, more of a whisper now than a threat, lost in the trauma between now and then.

“This way,” Graves says, taking one quick turn and then another, until he enters a set of arched double doors.

He steps aside and gestures for me to come in.

There is a plate already on the table, covered by a silver dome.

I don’t need to see the meal to know it’s there, I can smell it.

Savory sauces, roasted meat, grilled vegetables.

A basket of rolls sits to the side, and a small plate with a flower-shaped pat of butter.

To the top right is a small plate with a piece of chocolate cake, a dollop of cream on top as well as a raspberry.

My mouth waters and my belly grumbles, signaling how long it’s been since I had the coffee in the student union.

There’s only one place setting, and Graves pulls out the chair. “Sit, Baroness. Enjoy your meal. If you need anything feel free to ring the bell by the door.”

He removes the dome, revealing the plate of food.

The instant he’s gone, I reach for the rolls, stuffing one in my mouth before grabbing another.

The beef is tender–so soft there’s no knife supplied other than the short blunt one next to the butter.

I taste a bite of bitter asparagus and snatch another roll, this time using the little knife to shave off a curl of butter.

As I slather it on, something catches my eye on the wall to my left.

It’s a floor-to-ceiling mural, at least twelve feet tall, and divided into four panels.

When I finally recognize what it depicts, a tremor runs down my spine.

Bread still in hand, I inch closer. The imagery is dark; feral.

The first panel displays the vivid imagery of the Baron King on his throne, horned mask covering his face.

At his feet are three hooded barons, kneeling to take their oath.

I feel the flicker of the torchlight. The scent of the burning fire.

My eyes dart to the next panel and instantly I’m taken back to the pitch black of the forest. Crickets chirp, creating a cacophony only drowned out by the beating of my heart.

I smell the dirt, the blood. Taste the salt on my tongue.

A figure cowers among the trees in fear.

I’m her. She’s me. While cloaked hunters follow steps behind.

I drag my eyes away from that scene, from that night, to where the Barons make their move, catching the girl, dragging her back through the woods, to the final scene.

The Claiming.

The painting spares no details of the ritual, starting in a series of smaller panels, top to bottom.

She’s stripped, then splayed on the altar where she’s marked, blood oozing down her pale skin into dark red pools.

I obsess over where our stories diverge, this woman is taken by each of the masked men.

Their members on painted display, phallic and engorged.

They don’t take their turns, filling the new Baroness in every orifice.

Her mouth, her pussy, her ass. Her eyes are half-lidded and lazy.

This… this is a claiming.

That dull fire throbs between my legs, the one Damon stokes into a frenzy and so quickly takes away.

I step to the right, centering myself in front of the final panel.

Just beyond the trees the streaks of pink and purple indicate the sunrise and the Baroness and Barons kneel before the King.

I run my finger down her spine, feeling the ridges of every bone, knowing what it’s like to be this woman, to be a part of this ritual, yet also understanding that I am different.

I step back, taking in the entirety of the mural, and can’t help but wonder: who am I in this house of darkness and night?

Feeling unnerved by the mural, I pick up the plate holding the cake and the small spoon next to it, and head back to my room.

I pass the masks, trying to ignore the feeling that there are eyes behind them watching my every move.

I turn at the cabinet filled with bone, fingers twisting at the bronze knob. Locked.

When the hallway splits again, I make a right, plucking the raspberry off the top of the cake. Sweet flavor covers my tongue, and I take a bite of cake.

Ugh. So good.

Sweets were few and far between at Strong Manor.

I try not to shovel it in, taking small bites, which is why I think I don’t realize until I’ve taken another turn that there’s no tapestry down here, nothing familiar at all, just black frames hanging on the charcoal-colored walls.

Each has rows of men, their names underneath.

At the bottom it says, Beta Rho Zeta and a year.

Shadows.

Coming to the end of a hallway and another set of double doors, I try the knob.

It turns easily, and I peek into the room beyond.

The walls are painted a deep green, reminiscent of the forest. I’m drawn inside, looking up to the ceiling, which is still green but almost black.

To my right I see a cloak hanging on a hook.

I run my hands down the thick fabric, lifting the sleeve to my nose, catching the scent of earth and pine.

It’s not until I see the mask next to it that I comprehend where I am.

The King’s room.

Leaving would be smart, but this is the room of the man I’m arranged to marry.

A man I know little about, and the pull is strong.

I step in farther and absorb all I can: the windows that overlook the forest with rows of candles perched on the sill, a soft rug under my feet, the stone fireplace set at an angle.

Trinkets on top of a dresser catch my eye.

A wooden dish holds a few coins and a silver ring.

I set the cake plate and spoon on the windowsill and pick up the simple band–slipping the ring easily over my thumb.

I touch everything, the bottle of cologne, a melted candle, a pair of cufflinks, until I get to a picture frame.

I lift it to look closer and see a woman and a fair-haired little boy.

Setting it back down, I curl my fingers around the handles in the drawer. I’m inching it open slowly when I hear the echo of footsteps down the hall, and a voice.

A man’s voice.

My King’s voice.

No, no, no, no … he can’t find me here. No one can.

That much I know for sure. Spinning around, I run forward, slamming into the footboard of the bed.

The bed is huge, carved black wood–definitely big enough to hide something underneath.

I duck down, shoving my hands under the edge of the comforter, feeling around for space to hide, but it’s blocked.

Bolting up, my eyes ping between two doors.

One has to be a closet. I make a choice, grabbing the knob and stepping into the dark space.

I inhale the scent of leather and wool. Definitely a closet.

I slowly close the door–almost close the door.

Whoever is coming has already entered the room and I don’t want to risk the click of the latch falling into place.

“Any idea if Trudie knows what’s coming?”

That comes from Graves. Who’s Trudie?

“Doubtful or she would have been on the doorstep by now.”

My heart skitters at the sound of the King’s voice, thrumming so loud I’m terrified he’ll hear it.

“The offer to notify her myself is still on the table, Timmy.”

I hear the sound of drawers opening, and footsteps near the bed. I line my eye up with the slight gap, but can only see the vague outline of movement.

“Unfortunately,” the King says, “telling a mother her son was killed during brN initiation falls to one person and one person alone.”

The context of their conversation snaps into place. He’s speaking of Armand, and Trudie must be his mother.

Graves' voice moves closer, too close, and I instinctively take a step back into the folds of the clothing. “What are you planning on telling her? The truth?”

“According to the coroner, Armand died from a slit throat, made by the blade that I gave him for the hunt.” Outside the door, I hear the rustle of fabric and quietly shift in an attempt to see.

I catch a swath of flesh, the hard lines of his back.

“That could be collateral damage,” the King moves, pulling on a black shirt, “a stupid mistake or petty squabble between the men as they fight over their prey.”

“That could be…” Graves repeats, the sentence left unfinished.

“Yes, it could be, until you explain that the angle of the cut identifies that whoever did it was shorter than him.” He pauses. “ Much shorter and there were zero hesitation marks. A clean cut, through and through.”

He knows, I realize. He knows I killed Armand.

“That is a problem,” Graves notes.

A shadow falls over the closet door, filling the small gap. I wait for the door to open, to be exposed, for all of this to be over once and for all. Instead, the gap vanishes with a hard click, as it latches into place.

Softer now, muffled from the closed door between us, I strain to hear him add, “A problem that could destroy everything I’m working toward.”