Page 13 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

Alek

Once again, Weltner’s campus is quiet on this Saturday night. An eerie silence hangs over the quad, punctuated only by my footsteps on the sidewalk.

Most professors are already in bed, and the students are either studying in the library or are off-campus exploring the nightlife in Zurich.

Before I left the apartment, I made it clear to Willow that she was not to leave the penthouse, not even to hang out with Josie.

Especially not Josie. I don’t need Willow wandering the streets drunk without me there to watch out for her.

But I can’t keep her locked up in the apartment for the next three years.

Willow Baker is a restless soul who craves excitement, and if this secret society bullshit keeps me preoccupied every weekend, I’ll be furious.

So furious I might be driven to murder, and I’ll add the skulls of my victims to the collection gathering in that underground chamber.

I don’t want any part of this idiocy, but here I am, fifteen minutes early like Mikhail begged me to be. Only one person is waiting on a bench near the disguised cellar door, and he glances up from his shoes when I approach.

He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I know him.

When he stands up to greet me, the top of his head barely reaches my chin, and his lanky figure gives him a fragile appearance.

His brown eyes are the same color as his dull hair.

The thick-rimmed glasses are the only distinguishing feature on his unremarkable face, and when he widens his eyes, they’re magnified by his lenses in a way that reminds me of a bug.

Everyone invited tonight passed the first trial, from what I’m to understand. How this goon came out as the champion in a fistfight, I have no idea.

He even has a sweater vest over his collared shirt. I almost feel sorry for him.

“Hi, I’m Henri. Henri Rooman.” He extends his hand to shake mine, and it feels brittle, as if I could crush his bones without trying. When I don’t respond, he says, “Uh, I was next to you at the ritual last weekend.”

I drop his hand and stare at him for a moment. “Oh, that’s right.” The guy in nothing but his boxers. “I’m Aleksandr Kurochkin.”

“Yeah, I know.” Henri gives me a weak smile. “I’ve seen your face on the news. You were really impressive last weekend, by the way. Maybe you could give me some pointers on how to fight? I have a feeling I’ll need all the help I can get.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “You seem to have made it out without a scratch.”

“Yeah, but only because my opponent had an asthma attack and fainted before he could punch me.” Henri lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my sports coat. “You said your name was Rooman, right? Any relation to the Rooman Belgian Chocolatiers?”

He perks up. “Yeah! How’d you know?”

“I don’t know many other Roomans.”

During the last ritual, they mentioned we were chosen from the most elite families in the world, and Rooman Belgian Chocolates is a major corporation. This lanky little boy must be the heir to his father’s empire.

I glance behind me and see a pair of guys—identical twins who look like they belong in a K-pop boy band—approaching from across the quad.

“How many people made it out of the first ritual, do you think?” I ask Henri.

“I went last, and I was the twelfth to walk out of there.”

“Did anyone die?”

Henri recoils. “What? No, of course not.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “That would be ridiculous.”

That’s what I thought. These shrouded figures are all bark, no bite. Mikhail probably exaggerated the consequences in a poor attempt to frighten me, although I must admit he had me fooled after his performance in the restroom. All a part of my initiation, no doubt.

By the time the clock tower strikes midnight, our party has grown to eleven male students.

The chimes echo against the stone buildings with an ominous reverberation, and on the final ring, the cellar door opens with a slow creak.

A figure emerges slowly from the cellar, wearing the same hood and mask as before, and reaches out his arm toward us.

He beckons us forward with a motion of his hand, then steps aside to let us pass.

Perhaps it’s the effect of the cloak-and-dagger theatrics, but stirrings of dread form in my gut, putting me on high alert. The others must have the same apprehension, because no one dares to take the first step forward.

So I volunteer.

I wade through the thick bushes and beneath a large oak tree to reach the entrance, and soon, the others follow. Twigs snap beneath our shoes and bushes rustle as we make our way toward the secret entrance, and the candidates form a single-file line behind me to climb down the steep staircase.

I glance at the hooded figure as I pass him, wondering if it could be Mikhail behind the mask, but his irises are dark, unlike Mikhail’s gray eyes. The figure stares me down, saying nothing as I shuffle past him and descend into the dark, damp tunnel.

Another hooded figure waits at the bottom of the stairs, holding a flaming torch in his grasp. When I reach him, the figure turns wordlessly and heads deeper into the underground tunnel, and I imagine his intention is for us to follow.

When the cellar door closes above us with a loud thud, I spin around and find Henri behind me with wide, fearful eyes. The reflection of the torch flickers in his thick glasses and casts his face in shadow.

None of us say a word as we meander through the tunnels, our footsteps shuffling against the rough cobblestones. The way we’re taking is unfamiliar, and I’m unsure if this is a new path or if I didn’t memorize the way out correctly last week. Every tunnel looks the same.

Time stretches until the entrance to the chamber comes into view at last. When we enter the hall, the echoes of our footsteps change as they ricochet against the high, arched ceilings.

Dozens of hooded figures turn toward us, watching us silently as we file inside, and they break their circle to let us pass into the center.

Plain, wooden coffins are arranged in a tidy row at the center of the circle on the floor. I count twelve, one for each of us, even though only eleven showed up tonight.

The intention is clear—each one of us is meant to stand in front of a casket.

The two individuals who led us into the chamber rejoin the circle, blocking the exit and trapping us. Another figure steps forward, and when he speaks, I recognize the voice as the leader who called me by my name last time.

“Welcome, candidates. We are pleased you have heeded our call. You have successfully completed the Trial of Strength and emerged victorious. But tonight, you will learn the secrets of our divine order in the Trial of Mortality.” The figure approaches us and walks between me and Henri, where he runs his gloved hand over my casket with a reverent touch.

“Tonight, you will enter the casket, and when you emerge, you will be reborn a demigod, and you will formally begin your journey to divinity.”

This performance of declaring oneself a god is juvenile and utterly ridiculous. I already regret letting Mikhail convince me to come here tonight.

I eye the coffin with a wary gaze. Mikhail mentioned the next trial would be easy, and lying in a casket for a brief time seems like a simple enough task.

I sweep my gaze around the circle and wonder which of them is Mikhail.

He has a distinct bulk to his frame, but it’s difficult to make it out beneath the baggy cloaks.

I’ll play along for now, but I’m annoyed. This is a complete waste of my time when I could be spending my Saturday night balls-deep inside Willow instead. A much better use of my time indeed.

“Candidates, please enter the coffins.” The leader gestures to my casket while pinning me with an intense stare, his dark eyes glinting in the torchlight from behind his mask.

Coward. I refuse to hide behind a costume, and I refuse to back down from his challenge.

The other candidates hesitate but not me. I lift the wooden lid, hinges groaning, and step inside, then lie down on the floor. There’s no padding in here, just hard, unforgiving wood against my back, but I refuse to let the discomfort show on my face.

Moments later, the other coffins creak open, and shoes come down against wood as the others climb in.

“Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,” the leader’s voice rings out. A quote from Richard II , which is a little on the nose, but I can appreciate a well-timed Shakespeare reference.

A cloaked figure steps beside my coffin with a velvet drawstring tote bag in his hand.

Whatever is in there makes the fabric bulge, and it appears rather wieldy by the way he carries it in his arms. He loosens the strings and upends the bag over my body, letting its contents spill out.

The revolting stench of fertilizer hits my nose, and I squeeze my mouth and eyes shut before it lands on me.

Shouts of revulsion and disgust erupt in a frenzied raucous, and the lids of the coffins slam closed with violent crashes, creating a cacophony that reverberates around the chamber. I open my eyes to pitch-black darkness.

“You may be wealthy heirs and princes where you come from,” the leader continues, “but in the end, everyone dies the same. Your bodies will decay and be fed to the worms just like any other mortal. Only the extraordinary will be reborn.”

“In death, we become gods!” the room chants in unison. “We are gods among men!” The hollow sound of thumping chests penetrates the wood encasing me.

I reach up to wipe the dirt off my coat, but my fingers brush against more than just fertilizer. Something slimy wriggles against my hand, and without my eyesight, it takes me a moment to realize it’s an earthworm.

And not just one. Dozens.

“Ugh!” I jerk so violently the casket thuds against the floor. My head and elbows hit the wood like a drum as I scramble to get them off me, and bile rises in my throat.