Page 18 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

Nic

It’s a rush to get to the tunnels. The dash across campus is so fiercely windy, the weather seems sentient. It pushes me back with angry hands, helping to dry my hair from my much-needed gym shower.

Fucking hockey. Coach has got us training like dogs, like our lives depend on winning Varsity. After the fuck up of last year, kind of feels like mine does.

But it doesn’t do good to be late to these meets. Doesn’t help that I’ve forgotten my mask either. Wouldn’t fly in first year, but I’m established now. I’ve got Blakely’s respect, and in turn Fina’s. Helps to have friends in high places. Even corrupt ones.

I couldn’t give a shit if I was late. If I even attended at all. Just made a good excuse to get the hell away from Tilda.

I can’t bear those eyes. Even across the pitch, following every move I make.

Trying to spot a hint of who I used to be.

She’s got it all wrong. That girl’s not in me anymore.

We might have been separated in body, but Tilda took with her my essence.

My entire fucking soul. She should be looking at herself for the answers.

I know I can’t avoid her forever. She’s not the type to let sleeping dogs lie.

She’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide.

At least she did. Suppose I don’t know the woman anymore, just the half-feral, assertive kid she once was.

Strange, because she was only like that with me.

Put her in a room of adults and she was meek as anything. Never truer than with my dad.

He’s been on my mind just as much lately.

Sitting on that cliff, watching the seething ocean.

It reminds me of him. He had a temper. Like mine, it was the quiet kind.

The air would crackle and that’s how you knew you’d pissed him off.

He didn’t have to shout. It was rare he did.

Even rarer that he raised a hand. I used to think I’d prefer that.

Easier to understand. Certainly easier to anticipate.

Getting praise out of him became my soul purpose.

It was like getting blood from a stone, except the blood was mine and the stone was one he threw.

Then I met Tilda and that need for validation transferred to her.

I wonder if he was ever jealous of that.

Didn’t act like it if he was. On the contrary, he seemed just as taken with Tilda as me.

A thought that disquiets me.

Sometimes, when dusk is falling and my thoughts feel more secret, I wonder if he did the things she said he did. If I’ve got this whole thing wrong and I should be on my knees at her feet, begging for her forgiveness, rather than her being at mine.

Then the wind blows and I smell his tobacco. Those cigars he used to let me puff on when his mood was high. His gravelly laugh when I coughed. The hand he’d smack my back with before slowing it to an affectionate caress.

I feel him all around me, the grief coalescing, and the outrage returns.

There was a documentary she used to be obsessed with. About the Pendle witch trials and that snivelly little kid who accused her whole family and got them killed.

Got accused herself in the end. Probably never made it out of prison. Can see Tilda going the same way if she’s not careful.

This entrance has to be the worst. Practically suicidal in these winds. It’s cut from the cliff, the jagged drop indicative of recent collapse. Now you have to toe along the edge like a mountain goat, making use of conveniently placed metal holds.

I squeeze my eyes closed when the wind hits me like a tonne of bricks. Fucking meeting should have been cancelled. I risk a quick glance down. The water’s more grey than blue. It’s dark on this side. The sun, paltry as it was today, is setting over in the west.

Storm will be here soon; lockdown starts this weekend.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Blakely stands like a boulder. Our faithful bouncer, ready to clip stragglers like me around the ears. Keeps the Debarred away too. People are fucking obsessed with secret societies. They’ll do anything for a glimpse.

Not like I’m any better. Held onto Damien’s every word when he was home for holidays.

Bastard never knew the meaning of secret. Could barely keep ours.

Blakely watches me toss my hockey bag against the cliff. On my knees, I rummage in my pack for my cloak. Too windy to put it on out here.

I approach the entrance, dying to get out of this wind. With my wet hair, it feels like winter again.

‘Do I need to do the secret handshake?’ I say when Blakely continues blocking my way.

She quirks an eyebrow but steps aside. ‘Follow you in. You were the last.’

Away from the wind, I drag on my cloak, hooking the buttons on the front to cover my hockey clothes.

‘Not got your mask?’

‘No.’ I pull the hood down, adjusting it around my face. ‘Dark as fuck in there anyway.’

‘Got a decent shiner. You don’t wanna hide it.’

Yeah, it’s alright now my vision’s finally unblurred.

It’s a long way down to the cavern where these meets are held. There are very few wall sconces, another deterrent. Blakely takes one and leads me down the unnaturally straight tunnel. My nose twitches with the scent of incense. Orange candlelight flickers in the distance.

The vast sea of anonymous black cloaks is always jarring. With the opening ceremony underway, I’m able to slip in unnoticed.

Like the club at the Vaults, this cavern is tall as well as deep, so deep you can’t see the other end of it in this minimal lighting. Never feels like you’re underground far enough for a cavern of this size. Just the magic of Hazelhurst.

First time I attended one of these, my invitation found beneath my pillow from an unknown source, I was enchanted by the drumming, the chanting, the scents. That binding feeling of belonging. That approval hunting again. Gets me in more scrapes than I care to admit.

More than a year on, I see it’s nothing more than ceremonial pomp, something to keep the elites and legacies happy. Fina runs the show now, someone else before her, and Damien before that.

There’s a huge stone altar where she stands, masked up and cloaked. I’ve come to recognise her by her build. Blakely’s hard to miss. As for everyone else, they could be anyone.

Fina’s got Mora with her tonight, the once-black wolf sitting regally, her jaw silver with age. No matter how many times I’ve seen that beast, I can never take my eyes off her.

Behind them, arcing over the cavern, is an etched inscription reading Ordo Quattuor.

The Order of Four.

They should cross it out and put three. I’m not well versed on the society’s beginnings.

Only that it was founded by Wolves, with Witches later added to the mix.

I’m sure there’re some Alchemists dotted around here too.

They’re pretty neutral, bottom rung. Only Crows are forbidden, save the biennial Cremation of the Crow where one lucky bitch gets selected for a symbolic sacrifice.

Symbolic or not, I thought I was witnessing a murder during last year’s. The girl didn’t stop screaming.

I think of Skylar, not enjoying the thought of her going through that. It’s not voluntary. Knowing she’s on Violet’s radar, and undoubtedly Fina’s, I hope she stays far away from that lot.

By the inscription, it’s safe to assume the Crows haven’t always been barred. One day I’ll ask Blakely for the details. She’s got to know why the Wolves hate the Crows so much. Nothing that happened in our lifetime anyway.

All at once, the cacophony stops. Silence rings in the air, as piercing as a screaming Crow. The candles flicker though there’s no wind, no movement at all from the waiting, hooded bodies.

I breathe in incense, feeling like I’m in a church.

It’s that same kind of reverence. Nothing religious going on here though.

Even the Latin is all messed up. Blakely ranted about it one time at the Vaults.

Despite how she speaks, she’s a stickler for proper grammar.

She rewrote the whole fucking thing to show Fina once.

Clearly Fina disregarded her suggestions. Big fans of tradition down here.

The society’s not made too much difference to my life at Hazelhurst, but maybe that’s a privileged position.

I’m respected by default given who Damien is to me.

It’s probably different for someone of another background.

They’ll get protection at the very least, a leg-up where others can’t.

For the rest, it’s just an excuse to get fucked up at the Vaults and pretend they’re above the law.

With the opening done, Blakely slips back out to guard us for the rest of the meet.

My eyes are drawn back to the altar at the sight of Mora prowling, faithfully following her human.

Raised her from a pup apparently. Can’t lie and say I’m not jealous.

Owning a wolf is just so fucking cool. At least the roaming ones seek me out now.

Took me months to achieve that level of trust—and many nights going hungry when I chose to feed them instead. Totally worth it.

There’s someone else up on the stage with them. Taller than Fina. Male if I had to guess, hard to tell with their mask and hood up. They stand with their hands behind their back, gaze forward. Don’t suppose it’s much more than illusion that they seem to be staring straight at me.

Fina introduces him as an honoured guest. Last time we had one of those, it was some ex-crime mogul, here to lecture us on the dangers of getting mixed up in that world. Think Fina was duped. Most were hoping for tips, not a warding off. I’m surprised she’s attempting the same tonight.

She stands aside, Mora at her heels like her shadow. The guest clears his throat before uttering the Latin welcome. At the sound of his voice, something tingles in my awareness.

‘An honour,’ he says, ‘and a pleasure, to be inside these hallowed walls again.’