Page 56 of Vying Girls

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 readingOrdo 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 showFina 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.’

The incense scratches my throat. I try to clear it, but it fogs me up. Have they laced it? My head buzzes with sudden dizziness. My eyes burn from not blinking. I’m barely breathing, every fibre of me straining to hear the figure on the stage. To hear that I’m wrong.

But I’m not. Of course I’m not. That’s not how life rolls for me. Tilda’s here, so why wouldn’t he be? I knew it was a possibility applying for the place. He loved it. Just like his mother, and her mother before that.

But it has to be more than that. He wouldn’t be here just to give some speech to a bunch of barely-adults. Not out of any kindness. He’s not the king around here anymore. Fina’s taken that throne; it was always going to be hers. He would hate this—some unfrocked has-been, just a churner for the good old days.

No, if Damien’s here, it’s for a reason.