Page 9 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

A quick headcount down the row gives me at least two dozen captives, including myself.

However, we’re surrounded by a circle of shrouded figures, all wearing identical black cloaks and masks.

In fact, the costume is eerily similar to the one I wore the night I terrorized Willow in the mirror maze and made her mine.

What the fuck is this? Am I to be slaughtered on an altar to some pagan god as a ritualistic sacrifice by delusional religious zealots?

The damp cobblestone runs up the walls and arches over us, but there are no windows, and the only light comes from the lit torches affixed to the walls with iron. If I had to guess, we’re in an underground chamber built centuries ago beneath the city.

That is, if we’re still in Zurich. I have no idea how long I was out.

When the last guy in our row is brought back to consciousness, the hooded figure with the smelling salts stands up and joins the circle.

I can’t get a full count of how many of them there are, but we’re outnumbered.

Another figure steps forward from the circle, and when he holds his hands in the air, the chanting stops, the final note reverberating against the arched ceiling until the chamber falls into silence.

The only sounds remaining are the crackle of the flaming torches and a slow, steady drip of water from the ceiling.

The figure lowers his hands. “Welcome, candidates. You are in the presence of the gods.”

Every person in the circle lifts their fists and thumps their chest in unison. “In death, we become gods! We are gods among men!” Their words echo around us until they fade into a ringing quiet.

Fuck, they are delusional zealots. I glance around the chamber, looking for an exit, but I cannot see past the hoods surrounding us.

The head figure, who I presume is their leader, continues.

“Each of you comes from the most elite families in the world. Many of your fathers, and your father’s fathers, are a part of our society, which spans the globe at the world’s most elite institutions.

Our brotherhood transcends borders and politics, and it is their immortal legacy that carries on with you. ”

Surely not my father. The thought of Grigor Kurochkin donning a hood and mask to join a secret fraternity is ludicrous.

Is that what this is? A college fraternity? I thought that was mainly an American custom, but I could be wrong. Or Freemasonry, perhaps?

“Each of you will be given the opportunity to join our ancient brotherhood and become a god,” the leader says.

“But first, you must prove yourselves worthy in a series of trials, much like the labors of Heracles. Completing these trials will grant you immortality, but should you fail, your souls will remain here, in the Underworld.”

He steps aside and gestures toward the back wall behind him.

The circle of figures parts, revealing a stone altar at the top of a short set of stairs.

Gasps erupt on either side of me, and the naked, redheaded guy falls backward, trying to scramble away despite his wrists being bound behind his back.

The lanky guy beside me leans in and whispers, “Are those skulls? I don’t have my glasses.” He tips his chin at the altar.

I follow the line of his gaze to the wall behind the altar, and that’s when I realize it isn’t built from cobblestone.

It’s built from human skulls, stacked one on top of the other like grotesque, uneven bricks.

“Surely, they’re fake,” I mutter back.

The leader chuckles and steps forward, approaching me with slow steps until he’s towering over my kneeling form. “Trust me, Kurochkin, they are very, very real.”

I crane my neck to look at him, and I stare into the holes of his mask where dark eyes stare back at me, barely visible in the shadow of his hood. But I meet his gaze and hold it.

He knows me, but do I know him?

Those who are kneeling grow agitated, and a few more scramble backward to put distance between them and the wall of skulls.

“Let us go,” someone begs. “Please, I’ll pay you whatever you want!” A few more chime in with similar sentiments.

The figure continues to stare down at me, but I refuse to blink. At last, he glances away and approaches the guy who spoke. “Your money won’t save you. Only your fists.”

Another hooded figure breaks from the circle and produces a knife from inside his cloak. The guy on the floor trembles and tries to scoot away, but the shrouded leader blocks his path while his accomplice cuts the ropes behind his back.

“You’ll be the first to enter the trial, along with Kurochkin.” The leader glances at me, and although I can’t see his face, I sense he’s throwing me a smug look.

Someone steps behind me and starts cutting at my ropes. As soon as he saws through them, my arms fall at my sides, and I can’t help but groan in relief. My left arm is numb from the prior nerve damage in my bicep, and I shake it out to bring some feeling back into it.

“Welcome to your first trial,” the leader announces, spreading his arms wide.

“The Trial of Strength. These trials are designed to weed out the weak. They will bring you to your breaking point, and only the strongest among you will survive. But each trial you complete successfully brings you one step closer to immortality.”

The person behind me hauls me to my feet, and I’m ushered forward to stand next to the other victim who was singled out.

The hooded figure in charge claps us both on the shoulders.

“In this trial, there are no rules. The victor is named when his opponent can no longer stand, so you must do anything and everything to win. This is the only trial where the loser can leave this chamber with his life, but if you die in battle, it is the will of the gods.”

Once again, the hooded figures thump their chests. “In death, we become gods! We are gods among men!”

“But no one shall speak of what they see here tonight. If you do, we will know.” The leader retreats to the circle, leaving me and my so-called opponent standing by ourselves. “Now... fight!”

Hooded figures stand vigil around us, and the row of bound captives divides the circle in half, closing us in with no escape. I stare at the guy facing me, who stares back with a confused expression that must match my own.

He’s about my height and weight, so without knowing anything about his athletic ability, I’d say I could take him if I had to.

But I don’t want to. I’m not going to degrade myself by being tonight’s entertainment for a fraternity of bored fuckboys with powerful daddies and too much money.

The skulls are for show, the threat of death is symbolic, and the hoods and masks are pure theater.

It’s all smoke and mirrors to create the illusion of a secret society.

I turn to face the leader. “I don’t want any part of this. Let me go.”

The hooded figure shakes his head. No.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, scanning the room for the exit. The entrance to a tunnel is on the far left of the chamber, separated from me by the wall of hooded figures. I approach. “Let me pass.”

They don’t move or utter a word. They’re nothing more than living statues.

“Fine, suit yourself.” I rush forward to break through the circle, but the hooded figures catch me and push me backward, making me stumble.

But before I can find my balance, a heavy kick lands squarely on my back, and I fall face-first to the ground. I manage to throw my hands out and catch myself before my nose collides with the cobblestone, but before I can roll over, another kick lands into my side.

All the wind is knocked out of me, and I curl up to clutch and protect my side. I manage to roll onto my back. Standing above me is my attacker, staring down at me with a twisted expression.

“I’m not walking out of here a loser,” he says.

He lifts his leg to deliver another kick, but I manage to catch his ankle and knock him off-balance. My opponent falls to the floor beside me, yelping when he hits the ground.

I crawl on top of him, pin him beneath me, and trap his wrists above his head. As much as I’d prefer Willow in this position, this is about survival.

“Don’t you see?” I ask. “This is what they want, for us to fight each other as some sick form of entertainment. It’s beneath us.”

He struggles beneath me. “Don’t you get it? They aren’t letting us go until one of us is knocked out!”

I glance up at the wall of hooded figures, which proves to be a mistake. The brief moment of distraction allows my opponent to break his arms free from my hold, and he swings upward until his fist collides with my jaw. The force of it knocks me sideways.

A metallic taste blooms on my tongue as another blow lands across my face, followed by another. My ears ring as I lift my arms to shield myself.

If I have to claw my way out of this chamber, so be it.

When he throws another punch toward my face, I block it by knocking his arm to the side. It catches him off-guard, and I manage to push him off me so I can roll away.

I scramble to a standing position, heaving for breath as adrenaline electrifies my veins. Sweat drips from my brow down my face, and when I brush the back of my hand across my lips, blood smears on my skin.

I spit out the blood pooling in my mouth and take a defensive posture, planting my feet on the floor and clenching my hands into fists.

My opponent stands up and copies my posture with his fists in front of his face, ready to block or punch.

The two of us lock eyes as we move in a circle, keeping an equal distance from each other, but I wait for him to make the first move.

Several tense seconds tick by as we size each other up.

My opponent is the first to act. He rushes forward, drawing his arm back for a swing.

Before he can punch my face in, I duck low and swing upward. When my fist rams into his stomach, he grunts and stumbles, and I swing my leg to knock his feet out from under him. With a cry, he crashes to the floor, writhing in pain.

“Finish him, Kurochkin.”

Even though he’s behind me, I know it’s the voice of the group’s leader. His eyes bore into the back of my skull.

With a deep breath, I grab my opponent’s hair, fisting it in my grasp, and slam his head against the ground. He struggles against me, so I force his head down again, and at last, he falls unconscious. Not enough force to kill him, but enough to knock him out for a while.

When I let him go, his head lolls to the side.

My blood pounds in my ears as I heave for breath on the cold floor. I haul myself to my feet, although my legs are unsteady, and I brush my forearm across my forehead to wipe the sweat away.

The shrouded figures remain silent, but a few of them break the circle, leaving a path between me and the exit. Their footsteps shuffle against the cobblestone before coming to a stop in the silent chamber.

I remain still, unsure if I should trust this reprieve. But the exit is in sight, and I hesitantly make my way forward, scanning the group for any sign of movement. I won’t be caught off-guard again.

But no one lunges at me. Their masked faces turn slowly, homed in on me as I cross the chamber. When I pass through the circle, I turn around to walk backward, keeping my eyes on them until I reach the tunnel.

No one follows. They just... let me go.

Once I’m out of their sight, I turn around and sprint forward, eager to find my way out of here before they change their minds. Lit torches secured to the walls light the way, and when I reach a fork in the tunnel, the torches continue down the left path.

My breath comes in heaving gasps, echoing off the walls of the silent corridor as my bare feet patter on the damp cobblestone.

The air hangs heavy with a stale, musky odor as I make my way through the maze of underground tunnels.

I imagine this lengthy trek is by design; if anyone went to the school administrators to report this, they would get lost before finding the chamber.

And by then, the figures would be long gone.

At last, I reach a staircase leading up to a cellar door above my head. My neck prickles as I go on high alert, and I make my way up until I reach the exit. The wooden door creaks as I push it upward, but I only open it enough to check my surroundings.

The sky is still dark, but a full moon casts a luminous glow over the earth. Thick foliage covers the exit, so I lift the door farther and peek my head out.

I emerge in an empty courtyard surrounded by Renaissance-style buildings with stone columns and facades.

In the center is a fountain, and the water trickles in the silent night.

Interspersed between the dim lampposts stand multiple trees, and their branches cast strange shadows on the sidewalk paths.

A familiar building across the quad rises above the others with a domed rotunda. It’s the administrative building for Weltner College; it’s plastered all over their website and brochures.

I let out a long exhale. Now that I know where I am, I can navigate my way back to the apartment, which isn’t far.

Once I emerge from the tunnel, I close the cellar door behind me and wade through the thick brush toward the sidewalk, but the scraggly branches scrape my legs and dig into my feet. One catches on my sweatpants and rips a hole in the fabric.

Although I’m used to the cold, I don’t make a habit of walking around barefoot in the middle of the night in nothing but a pair of pants. Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my nipples grow so hard I could chip ice on them.

The past hour feels like a hellish fever dream—so surreal it makes me question if it truly happened at all. And all I have to show for it is a busted lip and an aching rib cage that’s sure to bruise by morning.

I groan. “Fuck this.”

Clutching my side, I hobble down the sidewalk and begin the lonely trek home.