Page 14 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

HENDRIX

“ Y eah, got it,” I grumble over my shoulder, feeling two sets of piercing eyes on my back from the doorway of my bedroom.

It’s been another two hours of Mom and Auntie Pop’s fruitless attempts to pry information from me about what happened to Stevenson three nights ago.

You’d think after days of trying these two would realize they won’t be opening this vault.

Or at least that they’d have a better shot with Archer.

“I don’t know, Hen…” Auntie Pop trails off. “If your friend is getting into fights, maybe it’s best to keep your distance for now.”

Mom purses her lips. “I agree. Especially since you’ve kept such a tight lip about him.”

Oh, she’s one to talk about tight lipping “friends”.

She still thinks I’m oblivious to her secret one.

“There’s nothing to know, okay? We’ve just been…hanging out.”

“For months?”

“Yes for months,” I snap, pulling black leggings out of the drawer.

“Are you sure nothing else is going on? You won’t even tell me who the other boy is.”

It’s been a very long three days, and I fully intend to blame what I do next on each of them.

“Would you both fucking stop?!” I shout, whirling around to face my mom and auntie, who to my surprise, don’t look surprised at my outburst. “I already told you everything you need to know. One high schooler got into an argument with another high schooler and it turned physical. Fucking shocker.”

Literally.

Mom’s mean muggin’ me but remains calm for the sake of getting reassurance. “So, it wasn’t a fight over you?”

An incredulous laugh escapes me as I pull on my pants. “You must be having my high school experience mistaken with your high school experience.”

Auntie Pop’s eyes drift down my body, then she pins me with a look. “Insecurity is not something we’ll tolerate…so knock it off.”

A little word of advice, nothing pisses a fat girl off more than when people assume every self-dig is in regard to her weight.

I love my body, it’s a fucking temple.

But I can also be a brat.

Auntie senses her mistake by the way my teeth clench before I speak. “I was referring to my cheery disposition.”

“I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s fine,” I cut her off...not because I’m mad, but because I’m tired and need to save my energy for tonight.

I’ve been fighting the voices in my head screaming at me to march over to Saint’s dorm and shove his precious Halo up his ass. I was in no way contemplating forgiveness—fuck the high road.

I just had to prioritize my friend—ish?

With benefits?

Honestly, I don’t know what to call Stevenson and I other than what I’ve spent months making sure not to.

And Stevenson agreed.

To the casual, not casualty.

So I refused to leave his side for three days until I knew he was okay.

Well…now he is.

Which is great news for Stevenson.

But not so much for Saint.

My mother’s arched brow speaks volumes as she watches me shove my arms into a cropped hoodie. “Since when do you prefer spending the weekends at school?”

Oh, for fucks sake.

These women are relentless in their efforts to torture me.

Reaching for my pack of cigarettes off the bed, I focus on shoving them into my bag along with some more clothes.

“Bex is off seeing Crayton this weekend, so figured I would hang back with Archer.” When catching sight of my interrogators again, I find them standing together in true twin fashion.

Arms crossed and fluffy beige slippers tapping against the floor.

I cross my arms to mock them, but it isn’t until my foot is tapping away like Peter Rabbit that they realize they’ve been caught with twin telepathy.

Mom and Auntie Pop play it off as they drop their arms.

“Can you guys chill with the third degree, please? All is fine and dandy in the world of stuck up assholes.”

Something seems to be altering Mom’s outlook on her new lavish life: could be the stress of trying to maintain the simplicity of just being a mom, sister, and some random mobster’s ex.

Okay, maybe not the last part, because even the smallest affiliation with the mafia has its complications .

We’re just lucky enough to have ended our danger affiliations with a small amount.

Unlike now.

Living in a world where PTA meetings consist of buy-ins, blackmail, and violence for kicks, my mother once again expected to find sheep in a lion’s den and has spent every day worried I’ll get eaten alive like one.

But I am no sheep.

And fear won’t stop me from challenging the lions.

Especially not this one. Especially not tonight .

You know what they say about best laid plans.

They love to fail.

In retrospect, I should’ve known Saint’s dorm room is the last place the dipshit would be found at midnight on a Friday.

Most students, or “Riversideans” as the faculty calls us, spend their weekends partying in the famous “Pit” underneath the school.

And by pit, I literally mean a pit.

Except this one has tunnels leading to train stations and other creepy corners.

Some say it used to be part of the transit system, others say it was built as a bomb shelter.

And those in touch with reality know exactly what an underground railroad built by rich white men was used for in the nineteenth century.

Mass transit, yes. But not from fucking Broadway.

I guess it makes sense for the bloodlines of fascists to party like it’s eighteen-fifty-nine in the same torture chambers their forefathers built on the blood and sweat of innocent people.

Bet you won’t find that wholesome detail in one of Archer’s fancy Riverside pamphlets.

The sound of cheers and music vibrates off the walls as I make my way down the steps—growing louder the closer I get to the bottom. The second my feet hit the ground I’m blinded by the lights, so I spend the entire journey in the tunnel to The Pit with a hand shielding my eyes.

There are people everywhere—dancing, drinking, snorting, hooking up—and I’m stuck fishing through each of them, shoving anyone who dares to step on my Doc Martens. By the time I pass the threshold of The Pit, my heart is banging like a drum and my breaths are heavy with anticipation.

Along with everyone else, my attention is drawn to the fight taking place in the center of the room between Tyler Baxton and Wayland Castle, who are both in my illustration class. They’re sporting matching black eyes, bloody faces, and ferocious glares as they dance around each other.

Yikes.

Based on the screams from the crowd and wads of cash bets in the fight runner’s hand, I’d say I just walked in on one of Riverside’s notorious Fight Nights.

The nosey bitch in me considers pausing the goose chase to see what happens, but the glimpse of brass around Wayland’s knuckles has three days worth of pent up rage flooding my system again. I use their distraction to my advantage and look for any sign of the Royal Heathens.

Their Lettermans. Hats.

False sense of superiority.

I come up empty on all three, that is, until a familiar cackle erupts to my right, and I don’t need the volume down to know who it is.

My gaze shoots to Riggs, sitting on the backrest of a stone bench, surrounded by a group of feral cheerleaders—one of them snorting something special off the tiny spoon from the stash necklace he’s constantly wearing.

“Yo!” I belt out, pushing past one of the bitches to get to him.

Riggs’ eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Well, lookie who we got here! The Hendrix Montgomery.”

The cheerleaders are not as cheery as I stop in front of them. “I don’t have time for your shit, Riggs.”

“Of course you don’t!” He laughs again and leans forward, arm swaying as he points a finger at me. “You’re on a mad mission.”

There is no intoxication level high enough to misread my bitch face, so the idiot gets zero credit for knowing this.

“And you’re gonna help me.”

Riggs leans back and pulls at his necklace, twisting it open to hold out the spoon. “With one for the road?”

I contemplate a bump, I could use the adrenaline, but decide against it for the sake of avoiding a bad high.

“Not with that, you dumb ass.”

Riggs helps himself to my share, then twists the cap back on and curls his lips. “You wanna know where my boy is.”

I slap the side of my head as a “duh.”

He pinches his nose. “I really shouldn’t tell you…”

“And you really shouldn’t piss me off.”

Riggs chuckles and shoves the shoulder of a girl next to him, wanting her to join in on the laugh at my expense. When all she offers is an eye roll my way, he cuts his losses and jumps off the bench to stand in front of me.

Well, tower over me.

“What kind of friend would I be if I give up my boy?”

One who values the use of his dick.

“A smart one.”

“I’m already smart.”

“A useful one.”

He boops my nose with his pointer. “To who?”

I slap his hand. “Me, you idiot.”

Kissing the spot where I hit him, Riggs says, “I love it when you’re stabby.”

“Bishop!”

“ Montgomery! ”

“Are you gonna tell me where Saint is or not?”

He throws an arm over my shoulder. “That depends…you here to fight with him?”

This guy thrives on drama almost as much as Archer, so I’m hoping this question is self-serving.

Before I get the chance to find out, Riggs sways on his feet, and I use all my might to keep him from hitting the floor.

Fuck my life. I don’t need this shit. I didn’t come here to play captain save a druggie.

I came to play vigilante.

Grunting, I maneuver Riggs onto the bench, and when his arms stretch on the back of it I ask a not so nice, “You gonna tell me where Saint is or what?”

With a jut of his chin, Riggs gestures in the direction of a wooden door a few feet away.

A millisecond is all it takes for me to whip around and march over to it like the madwoman I was accused of being.

“Give ’em hell, pretty lady!” Riggs shouts behind me, but the fire building in my throat prevents me from responding.

When I reach the door I pull the handle, and of course it’s locked, so I resort to furiously pounding against the wood.

No response, so I start kicking.

And kicking some more.