by Angel Lawson
I sneak out the garage door, because it’s the farthest from the den and any visible windows. As soon as I hit the night air, something inside me all at once loosens and clenches, like a bird finally fluttering free of its cage. I start toward the boat ramp two blocks from my house. Everything in the area is connected to the lake. The houses, the town, even the Academy. The night is thick and humid, filled with a symphony of cicada, and the impulse to run is so intense that I’m buzzing with it, this need to get away, to go toward something. Thankfully there’s no sign of Jerry, who’s either nodding off in the gate shack or sitting outside Reyn’s house to ensure he’s not causing trouble.
Speaking of Reyn…
He’s not on the boat ramp when I get to the top of the hill and look down at the water. No one is. I stand there for a suspended moment, panting more from exhilaration than exertion, and wonder why he isn’t here, too.
I pull out the black envelope and squint at the card inside for the millionth time.
Meet at the Cedar Shoals boat ramp, 10pm.
Come alone.
“No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man's hour is come, be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when he has once been born.”
Elevatio Infernum
I run my thumb over the embossed pitchfork stamped at the bottom. Because I’d searched online earlier, I know the quote is from the Iliad, and although the context is steeped in the grim fate of war, I also know what it means here; that there’s no turning back. I’d googled the Latin, too.
Raising hell.
Ominous much?
I’m sweating by the time I get to the weathered floating dock, both from nerves and the humidity. There’s a deep, tugging ache in my lower back, and as I gaze out over the dark water, I begin wishing I’d taken a dose before I left.
No.
No, it’s better like this, sober and clear-headed, able to take in every detail. I gulp in the heavy air and feel it—that same exhilaration I’d felt on the steps of Cresswell after the football game. Even the tight ball of anxiety wedged beneath my ribs is something bright and swooping and so unapologetically alive that it makes my ears hum with the spastic pressure of it.
It’s embarrassing how long it takes me to realize that I’m not the one humming.
I hear the motorboat entire minutes before I see the dark shape of it gliding across the glassy surface. Running lights reflect off the water the closer it comes, and when it’s near enough to make out the driver of the boat, my stomach drops.
The person is dressed from head-to-toe in black, including the ski mask covering his face. It’s a guy, I can tell that much from the broad shoulders and height. He literally looks like he’s playing the part of a kidnapper in a thriller movie. He looks like a criminal. A goon. A Devil.
In conclusion, he looks scary as hell.
He docks the boat and cuts the motor, looping the tie around the post to keep it in place. He does this all in an easy, casual display of competence. I stare at that mask, the clothes, and am suddenly overcome by the insanity of this moment.
This is crazy. Crazy! I’m out here past curfew getting picked up on a boat by some large guy wearing a ski mask, and no one knows where I am. God, I can see my mom delivering the story in complete clarity. Seventeen-year-old Vandy Hall was last seen in her own home on the night of September 15th. My hands are shaking so badly that I’m almost positive Masked Goon Dude can see it, even in the dark. Why did I think this was a good idea?
I don’t do things like this. Impulsive, brash, scary behavior isn’t me. I stay home. I read books. I binge-watch ridiculous teen dramas on Netflix. I get stoned, but I don’t do this—whatever the hell this is.
But…
That electric thrum of exhilaration keeps ratcheting up and up, and it’s not the same—it’s not the dullness and numbness of the pills—but I know a high when I feel it, and if this doesn’t qualify as one, then nothing does.
The guy steps easily off the boat, takes a few paces in my direction, and extends a large, gloved hand. “Let me see your envelope.” The tremors in my hands are all the more apparent when I reluctantly comply, handing it over to him. If he notices, he at least does me the courtesy of ignoring it. He skims the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.
Note to self: take photographic evidence of everything.
“Before we go anywhere, you need to know that there’s no turning back. Once you step on that boat, you’re in.” I strain to recognize the voice, deep and gruff, but I can’t. It isn’t Emory or Reyn, of that much I’m sure. “You can’t tell anyone what’s about to happen. If you do—”
“I won’t,” I finally speak up, dusting my hands on my thighs. “Whatever this is, I’m in.”
It’s too dark to see the eyes of the boy standing in front of me, but I can tell he’s assessing me closely, silently. Whoever he is, I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell Vandy Hall is doing here. Who would invite this poor, broken, goody-goody girl to be a part of whatever this is?
He must come to some conclusion, because he pulls out another mask. This mask isn’t like his. It’s more like a bag—no eye holes—obviously meant to keep me blindfolded. He spreads it with both hands and holds it aloft, waiting. Every nerve in my body is screaming like an alarm, but I step forward, letting him slip the bag over my head anyway.
It’s scratchy and a little too big, and if I thought the lake at night was dark, then I was sorely mistaken. This is pitch-blackness, and I’m unable to make out anything but the sound of his feet against the weathered wood beneath us. His hand closes around my elbow, guiding me to the boat, but with the lack of any visibility and my dumb foot catching on an uneven board, I stumble, having to hop a bit to keep my balance. I don’t miss my kidnapper’s deep sigh at this, his hand tightening on my arm as he escorts me forward. I jerk away, determined to make it on my own. He lets me walk with only a hand on my shoulder to guide me, until I reach the edge of the dock. With surprisingly gentle hands, he helps me over the edge of the boat and into a seat.
A moment later, the motor cranks. He pushes the throttle so that the boat flies over the water, gliding over the smooth surface. I hold onto my hood with one hand and my seat with the other, and it doesn’t matter that I can’t see anything, because I can feel it all. The crickets as they wake. The wind across my face, damp and ripe. The tree limbs waving as we pass, leaves rustling in grim celebration. I can’t see the moon overhead, but I can feel the pull of it, loud in its magnetism.
You are alive, it’s screaming. You are free.
If I thought standing on a dark dock was exhilarating, then zooming over the onyx lake, blindfolded, in the dead of night, is on another level entirely.
I have too much time to think and feel as we buzz across the water. I wonder if my parents have discovered I’m gone yet. If they found my phone tucked under the pillow in my bedroom. I wonder what my brother’s involvement in all this is. I wonder how desperate Reyn must be to agree to this arrangement, and if whatever is happening is worth the information I’m hoping to get. Both Emory and Reyn have a history filled with bad decisions and epic fuck-ups. Yet here I am, once again, willingly following them into the fray.
Yes, I’m an idiot.
My lips curl into a smile as the wind whips my hair around my arms, fluttering about me like an excited puppy who’s missed its owner.
Well. At least I’m an idiot who’s having fun.
There’s more of that ratcheting thrill when the boat begins slowing, the sound of the motor decreasing to a hum before cutting off altogether. After the roar of the motor, the sudden silence is jarring in its loudness.
It doesn’t last long.
“Get up,” my captor says, and now that I’m listening more than looking at him, I can tell he’s chewing gum—a subtle smack punctuating his words. I can also hear his feet as he exits the boat, so I struggle to follow, holding onto the back of the seat for balance.
Suddenly, a hand clenche
s around my upper arm. A low, velvety voice rushes against my ear, “I’ve got you.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
I was wrong. I do know who’s hiding under that mask. There’s no doubt who that voice belongs to; Reyn.
My body should relax, knowing who’s actually helping me off the boat and onto the dock, but it doesn’t. I’m caught in a twist of emotions. Excitement, nerves, confusion, frustration. It’s not like I didn’t know he was involved. I mean, I’d even been looking for him at the boat ramp.
I guess it’s the fact that he has the upper hand—again.
I look weak—again.
Reyn’s hands clutch either side of my waist, and when he lifts me over the side of the boat, he doesn’t even grunt. With his strong grip, he sets me down on the dock, hands lingering to make sure I’ve found my footing.
Before I can even think to feel embarrassed about this, someone speaks.
“Don’t take off your masks yet.” I instantly recognize Emory’s voice. It’s firm and assured, loud in the stillness around us. “You’ve all been hand-selected as the best of the best at Preston to pledge in an exclusive club.” I feel more than see Reyn turning to look at me. Emory’s voice turns mocking. “This isn’t your garden variety Preston Prep spirit club. There aren’t going to be any bake sales or dances. This will be physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. This will probably be perverse. This will, in all likelihood, be illegal as hell. So if you can’t handle that, then raise your hand now, and we’ll cart your ass off.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder who’s raising their hand. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel my own twitch of apprehension.
Emory says, “Some of you might not make it, anyway,” I can hear his voice travel, like he’s pacing the line of us, but at this, it seems closer, fixed toward me. “Just because you think you can handle it doesn’t mean you can.” His voice starts moving again. “If you have what it takes, then you’re about to be a part of something that can’t be dismantled. This is about leadership. Loyalty. Legacy. By pledging to this, you’re swearing an unbreakable bond that transcends shitty little high school cliques.”
“Last chance,” another guy says. I don’t know who. “Does anyone want to bail?” When no one makes a sound he says, “Well, alright then. Let the games begin.”
It’s a lot of dramatic fanfare, but my brother joined the Devils for a reason. Elitism, popularity, social dominance. That’s why, when we’re told we can take off our masks, I’m not surprised to see two other former Devils, Carlton Wade and Ben Shackleford, standing next to him. And of course, Reyn is no surprise, either.
He’s still standing close enough that I lose myself in a suspended moment of drinking in his features. I seem to have this issue—this thing, bordering on fixation—with his silhouette. Like the times before, outside our houses, the night seems to cut his bone structure into something mysterious and sharp. In the daytime, at school, his eyes are guarded, and he still has that tense stillness about him. But like this, in the dark? The intensity is enough to make my insides flutter. It’s like he’s someone else—someone unreachable, hard like stone.
It’s like a physical hurt to pull my eyes away, but I am surprised by the two non-Devils, Tyson Riggins and Sebastian Wilcox. And I’m downright shocked to see five other girls. Afton Cross and Elana Maxwell are the two seniors, then Georgia Haynes, Caroline Richmond, Aubrey Willis, and myself are juniors.
Their shocked and annoyed expressions make me feel a little more at ease. At least I’m not the only one who has no idea what’s going on. Nevertheless, I’m clearly the odd one out. It’s like one of those grade-school worksheets. One of these things is not like the others. All of these people are beautiful and talented, athletic and smart, popular and fun and skilled.
Sebastian, like me, had an older brother in the Devils. Heston was popular, good looking, and horribly mean. Unlike his brother, Sebastian plays lacrosse, which has the reputation for the absolute douchiest of the jocks. I don’t know if he has the same mean streak, but there’s no doubt he’s intimidating.
As everyone looks around, sizing each other up, I feel the sweat beading on the small of my clammy back. It’s impossible to ignore the reality of it all. I’m not here because of any of those things. I’m here because I used the leverage of knowing a secret to get an invitation.
God, I really am a loser.
We’re on an old dock of some kind, the metal rusted from age. Thick tree branches hang over our heads, and although we’re obviously on the lake, I have no idea exactly where we are. Emory holds up a camping lantern and spins on his heel, heading down the boardwalk toward shore. Once he gets there, he pushes aside heavy vines of ivy and reveals a door that looks like it leads straight underground.
I remind myself, as I follow my brother and the others into a dark tunnel, that I have a goal—a cause—and whatever risk I’m about to take will be worth it if it means that Emory doesn’t get himself in too deep.
Reynolds doesn’t speak.
“I swear to god, Emory! If I see a rat, feel a rat, or hear a rat, I am going to lose my shit.”
The flashlight swings around, momentarily blinding my eyes before once again focusing ahead. “There aren’t any rats,” my brother tells Afton. In a lower voice, he adds, “Well, I haven’t seen any.”
“It smells in here,” Aubrey adds, voice surly. “Like a coffin.”
“Seriously, how much longer?” Sebastian asks.
“Jesus,” a voice mutters behind me, “complain much?”
I turn and see Tyson Riggins’ cute face in the dim light. His blond hair is fried from chlorine, skin a warm brown. He and I are the last two in the line and I know I’m holding him up with my slow gait.
“You can go ahead if you want,” I tell him, stepping to the side while also trying not to touch the damp walls.
“It’s fine.” He grins. “I figure if I’m back here, there’s less chance of running into rats or cobwebs. At least they’ll warn us if they do.”
When I turn back around, a bright light shines from the end of the tunnel. Emory stands in an open doorway, allowing everyone to pass. I pause at the threshold, shifting to navigate a step. Tyson offers me his hand.
“Oh, thanks,” I start, but my brother’s palm pushes into Tyson’s chest. “Emory!”
“What?” he says, shooting Tyson a glare before clutching my elbow to steady me. “I was already here.”
Jesus Christ.
When I turn to the room, Reyn is standing there, his dark eyes watching the exchange. He instantly looks away. I try to give Tyson an apologetic look, but he’s already joined the others in a makeshift circle, situating himself between Caroline and Elana.
That leaves me between Emory and Reyn.
How appropriate.
The room is small, musty, and old. There are no windows, but the arched ceiling makes it a little less claustrophobic. Candles are scattered around the room, giving everything a hazy glow. I don’t miss the Preston Prep memorabilia on the walls, some faded with time. There’s little doubt that we’re in some kind of Devils time capsule. As I take in the room and the people in the circle with me, my eyes meet Reyn’s for a blink before he looks away.
Emory addresses the room. “As you know, the Devils at Preston Prep have been a long-standing tradition. But you may not realize that it started as something very different than the group it was when it was disbanded last year. Originally, it was a club for both guys and girls, and we’ve been invited by an anonymous alumni to restart the group under the original doctrine. There’s an initiation process, rituals and rites. The four of us who were already Devils will still have to go through these with you, so this is even-footing, got it?”
“Headmaster Collins shut you down,” Afton pipes in. “What makes you think he won’t do it again?”
“Because he’ll never find out,” Reyn replies, and if his tone is dark with warning, then the way his eyes pass over each person is da
rk with threat.
It’s a threat he looks like he could definitely deliver on.
Emory holds up a leather book—the one I saw in his hands the other night with Reyn. “There are six guys, six girls, and six rituals. When we complete the rituals, we’ll be full members, bonded by sacrifice, experience, and legacy. There are other Devils out there, other societies—it’s far-reaching—and when we finish, all of their access and influence will extend to us.”
Slowly, the treasure trove of what Reyn is giving me starts to unfold. Preston Prep may seem like it’s doing better, like they’ve taken a stand, but underneath it all—literally underground—nothing has changed. I don’t miss what Emory isn’t saying, that we’re re-creating Devils and their Playthings.
Holy shit.
I’m about to become a Plaything.
What does that mean? He said perverted, right?
“What will keep someone from telling?” Tyson asks, unaware that I’m panicking. “You know how easy it is for shit to get around.”
“Insurance,” my brother says, holding up his iPhone. “The first ritual starts tonight.”
“What is it?” Ben Shackleford asks, revealing that even the incumbent Devils are in the dark about this.
Emory’s grin transforms into something wicked. “Each of us confessing our biggest sin on video, of course.”
“What?” Aubrey says, eyes wide as saucers. “No way.”
“Yeah-way, Aubrey. All of us.”
Georgia might be the younger like me, but might also be the wisest. “That’s stupid, Hall. Phones and clouds can be hacked. How are you even going to keep that safe?”
Carlton adds, “And how are we supposed to know that others are actually telling their biggest sin?”
Caroline agrees, “We could just make something up.”
Emory only looks mildly annoyed. “First of all, this isn’t connected to a cloud. Even the FBI can’t get into one of these things. Secondly, you’re right. You could make something up. I wouldn’t know any better. But you know who would?” He levels everyone with a hard look. “The people in charge of this have eyes and ears.”