A Deal With the Devil

by Angel Lawson

  Mostly I can feel the warmth of Reyn’s fingers, curled sweetly around my wrist.

  My lips tug into a smile as the wind whips my hair around my arms, fluttering about me like an excited puppy who’s missed its owner.

  I have too much time to think and feel as we buzz across the water. I wonder how much I’m going to be able to video chat with Reyn while I’m at the facility. I wonder if my parents are freaking out as badly as Emory is about me leaving for three weeks. I wonder if the other Devils and Playthings are excited, and I wonder if we’ll get to finally see these Powers That Be.

  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 before Reyn laces our fingers together, standing. A low, velvety voice rushes against my ear, “I’ve got you.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. “I know.”

  The bunker doesn’t look the same. It’s been draped in black cloth, shrouding the boundaries of the walls. Dozens of flickering candles cast an eerie, shadowy glow. If they’re going for gothic creepiness, it’s working.

  We stand in a line—Emory included—each holding an unlit candle. No one speaks, although Elana’s foot bounces anxiously next to mine and Sebastian has sighed dramatically twice. All eyes shift to the main door when five cloaked figures walk in, standing across from us. Their faces are veiled by their hoods, only the barest sliver of a profile visible at times. Everyone but the person in the center holds something in their hands. They each carry something different. A lit candle. An ornate box. A gold chalice. And a leather book.

  The person in the middle steps forward, and I have to admit that the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  “Pledges,” the voice, deep and male and older, says, “welcome to the final night of your initiation. Up to this point you’ve been working toward the status of Devil, and tonight we find out if you truly deserve the title.”

  He drones on a little bit, talking of legacy and loyalty. But that’s old Devil fare. Us—the new Devils? I look around and know that none of us really care about that stuff. It sounds nice, sure. But we’re connected in other ways. In deeper ways. In ways that are going to make the Devils better.

  The man eventually reveals, “Each of you fulfilled the requirements for membership. Each of you were successful in all the rites—both individually and jointly. We didn’t expect that,” he admits, turning slightly to the other Devils. “Too often, arrogance supersedes duty and kinship. To be made a Devil is to make a pact. To break that pact is to fail your brothers.”

  Elana coughs a delicate, “Ahem.”

  The Devil inclines his head toward her, and after a beat adds, “To fail your brothers and sisters.”

  All the Playthings lock eyes, grinning.

  He goes on, “Rejecting any one of you will compromise the group. We can see the chain formed here. Remove one link and the others will fall.” There’s a long, suspenseful pause before he announces, “So it's fortunate that you’ll all be given membership.”

  I exhale, the nerves rushing through me.

  “It’s time for the initiation,” the leader says. “When your name is called, you’ll approach the first member.” He nods for Emory to step forward and directs him to the first cloaked person on the end.

  This Devil is the one holding the candle. “The Devil’s light represents our undying flame. May it guide you through hell.”

  The elders all repeat, “May it guide you.”

  Emory holds out his candle and the flame passes from one to another.

  The Devil with the box opens the lid. He pulls out a small, silver object. I squint my eyes and see that it’s a small, slim stickpin. A pitchfork. “The pitchfork represents the forked paths of our brothers and sisters. Wear it always. Keep it hidden. May it guide you through hell.”

  They all repeat, “May it guide you.”

  The main Devil places the pin on Emory’s black shirt and gestures for him to move forward to the chalice. “The cup represents our combined potential and willingness to share it. Drink for luck and wealth—two important tenets of this society. May it guide you through hell.”

  “May it guide you.”

  The cloaked figure holds it out and my brother takes a nervous swallow, licking his lips after.

  The next person holds out the book. In the crease there’s a pen. “The book represents our history and legacy. Sign your name and make your vow. May it guide you through hell.”

  “May it guide you.”

  Emory does as he’s asked, scribbling his name on the fresh sheet of paper.

  “Emory Hall,” the leader says, “you are a Devil, for now and for always. Elvatio Infernum.”

  They all welcome him in with a chanted, “Elvatio Infernum.”

  Ben goes next, and then Afton.

  When Sebastian steps up, he takes a sip from the chalice and pulls a face. “Just wine,” he mutters, sounding disappointed.

  Caroline is next, and then Aubrey. Tyson sticks himself with the pin and spends his whole initiation rubbing grumpily at his chest. Carlton goes, and then Elana. Reyn brushes my hand when he steps up to get his candle lit, and I find myself mouthing along to each iteration of, “May it guide you.”

  When it’s my turn, Emory sends me a grin, looking excited and important with his dumb candle and pin. I smile back, because this is definitely going down as the most crazy and absurd experience of my life, but at least I’m sharing it with these people—these amazing, kind, ridiculous, beautiful people—who are all ready and willing to call me a sister.

  That’s one thing I certainly know how to be.

  Carlton thrusts his beer into the air, shouting, “Elvatio Infernum, motherfuckers!”

  Ben and Tyson raise their beers, whooping obnoxiously.

  “I’m not driving you all home,” Elana says, sounding bored. “Last time we did this, Tyson threw up in my back seat and I had to get the whole car detailed.”

  Tyson pouts. “Sorry, El. If it makes you feel any better, I spent the next morning praying for the sweet release of death.”

  We’re back at the lake, celebrating. There’s a bright fire roaring in front of us. It’s chilly and late, but I feel pleasantly warm. Reyn’s sitting on the ground and I’m between his legs, his arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.

  Sebastian, just returning from a munchie run, tosses Emory a bag of chips and snorts a laugh when it just falls limply at his feet. “Captain of our football team, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “I’m the receiver,” Reyn says. “Em just throws shit and hopes someone catches it.”

  Emory points an arm at Reyn, looking anything but offended. “And he usually does!”

  From out of nowhere, Aubrey says, “We should go skinny dipping,” and all the guys—the Devils—turn to stare at her.

  “That water is freezing!” I say, gaping at her.

  “Eh.” She flaps a hand. “We’ve got a fire going, we can warm up.”

  Emory instantly jumps up. “I’m in!”

  And with that, “I’m out. No way I’m skinny dipping with my brother and his girlfriend.”

  Something must have been in that chalice besides wine, because all these idiots are somehow down to get naked and jump in the cold water. I stay right where I am and Reyn squeezes me tight.

  I guess he’s missed out on the chalice-induced insanity, too.

  Luckily for me, everyone goes out to the waterfront before the nakedness ensues. I like all these guys. I really do. But I don’t want to see their dicks.

  There’s a long stretch of silence before the sound of a loud yelp comes from the distance.

  “Was that Caroline?”

  Reyn buries a laugh into my neck. “Pretty sure that was Carlton.”

  “These people are crazy,” I say, amazed as more yelps begin sounding out. “We might be the only smart ones.
This whole secret society is doomed.”

  “Maybe leave that out of your article,” Reyn suggests.

  I stare into the fire, head shaking. “There is no article.”

  He doesn’t sound surprised. “I figured.”

  To punctuate this point, I reach into my pocket and extract the flash drive I brought along. I hold it up, inspecting it. “This is the only copy left of all the evidence and files.” This flash drive is a betrayal of everyone—not just Emory and Reyn. There isn’t a lot about the Devil stuff I can take seriously, but the vow of loyalty to all my friends?

  That’s as real to me as the feel of Reyn’s warm kiss on my neck.

  It’s easy to throw the flash drive into the fire.

  Reyn and I watch it burn, the distant sounds of our friends fluttering up the shore to us.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Reyn says.

  I hook a hand around the forearm that’s pinning me to his chest. “Me, too. Especially because you’ll be gone when I get back.” I swallow thickly.

  “Hey,” he says, nosing my ear. “It’s only a seven-minute drive to the new place.”

  “It won’t be the same,” I worry.

  We’re quiet for a long stretch, watching the sparks from the fire. I feel mesmerized and so comfortable—so content—that I’m terrified of blinking, let alone leaving for three weeks. It’s my experience that feelings like this don’t last long.

  Reyn sighs, resting his chin on my temple. “Let’s make a deal. We’ll meet up every day after school.”

  I slide my eyes up, even though I can’t see him. “Every day?”

  “Every day,” he agrees. “We’ll go to The Nerd, or the treehouse, or go get coffee, or… here. We can come here, too. Or we can stay in, even. Wherever.”

  The sparks from the fire flutter into the sky, rising higher and higher. If I lower my eyelids just so, it’s almost like a perfect dream. A dream of me and Reyn, being on the dark, still lake, fireflies flickering around us. I feel the same way now that I’d felt in those dreams. Calm. Happy. Not alone.

  “Every day.” I test this out in my head, deciding, “It’s a deal.” And it’s an easy one to make.

  After all, the very best deals are the ones I make with my Devil.

  Afterword

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  Have you read Devil May Care? Book 1 in the Boys of Preston Prep Series? Each book is a standalone within the same world. Available in ebook, paperback and audio.

  Book 3 of the Boys of Preston Prep Series, Touched by the Devil, featuring Sebastian Wilcox, is available on preorder! Wanna sneak peek? Scroll down….

  Chapter 1

  Sebastian

  There’s something ironic about how the uber wealthy go to tiny, back wood, hick towns for vacation. God forbid we go to one of the five-star resorts that line pristine beaches, or the comforts of a modernized summer home in the mountains. Nope, every year the Wilcox family makes the trek to the little town of Briar Cliffs to stay in our hundred-year old, musty cabin, overlooking the lake that my father has been coming to since he was born, and his father came to since he was born. Apparently, it’s family tradition to bore the hell out of the Wilcox men, which is just a dangerous fucking move.

  It makes us restless, and if history has proven anything, it’s that there’s nothing worse than a restless Wilcox.

  Makes no damn sense. Even my dad hates it, holes up in the makeshift office drowning himself in whiskey and work. My step-mom spends most of her time with the other summer wives, gossiping and trying to show each other up. I pace around like a lion in a cage, trying to find something to do with my hands, going crazy with the ripple of unspent energy sparking beneath my skin. And Heston. Well, Heston is the worst of all. This has never been a quality family bonding experience, is what I’m saying.

  It’s my sense of restless, energy-rippling boredom that ejects me from the cabin one summer night on the hunt for weed, pussy, and maybe a fight. Three things a determined seventeen-year-old can find pretty easily, even here.

  “Yo, Wilcox.”

  I look up and see my friends Reid and Mitchell walking down the cracked sidewalk. I jerk a nod in greeting. “Thing One, Thing Two. What’s going on?”

  “In the Briar Cliffs?” Reid asks, bumping his fist with mine. “Jack and shit.”

  “Except,” Mitchell says quickly, “We heard there’s a party down at the dock. Wanna come?”

  “Let me check my schedule,” I joke, pulling out my phone, which predictably has no service. I’ve had shit-all to do for weeks now. “Yep, looks like I’m free.”

  We head off, passing the antique shops and pharmacy, taking the turn to the dirt road that heads down to the water. I know this place like the back of my hand, every nook and cranny. The steep cliffs overlooking the river. The seedy liquor stores. The mom and pops shops. The suburbs ten minutes north of here. Parents feel secure in letting their kids roam free around the Briar Cliffs from a young age—the wisdom being that there’s not much trouble to get into, and whatever trouble we do find, they’d done it all before.

  Reid reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a silver flask. It’s pretentious and a little douchey but when offered, I take a swig. The liquid burns like fire down the back of my throat, then warms my belly. I hand the flask back over and ask, “Is this a townie party or summer people?”

  There’s a distinct difference between the two. Summer people like myself have the kind of parties you write home about. Great booze, big boats, and freaky bitches dying to be the center of some rich boy’s attention. Townie parties, though. Those are thrown hastily together on a wish and a prayer. The booze is cheap swill, the boats aren’t safe for occupancy, and the girls…

  The girls are dicey as fuck.

  Not always a bug, sometimes a feature.

  “Probably a mix,” Mitchell says, taking a drink and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got a text from Karen telling me to come.”

  Karen is a local girl who works down at the marina. She’s a sexy ginger that Mitchell had the pleasure of hooking up with last weekend on one of the docked boats. I spent last weekend bare-knuckling it with some douche from Rockport and won two-hundred bucks, a loose molar, and a bag of weed. For the Briar Cliffs, that’s a pretty great night.

  We reach the top of a rise, and down below is the public dock. During the day, little kids jump and dive off the end, and family’s picnic on the beach. At night, it’s an infestation of older kids and a few college students. This is the place to be if you’re looking for some trouble. I head down the hill toward the crowd that’s already gathering.

  “Hey, Bass,” a girl calls out. I look over and see Madison, a girl who’s spent summers here almost as long as I have. Mostly I see her tits pressed tight against the fabric of her tube top.

  “Hey, Mads, how are you?”

  She walks over, gait a little wobbly. She’s already drunk. “Fine, fine, fuckin’ peachy.”

  I slide my arm around her waist, peering down her top. “You sure look fine.”

  “So do you.” Her hand presses against my abs, feeling the muscle. Madison has never been shy, but we’ve only hooked up once. “I’ve been wondering something…”

  “Yeah?” I lick my lips, thinking I might be ready to raise that number to two. “What’s that?”

  “Where has your brother been this summer?”

  And scene.

  I drop my arm, but try to keep the easy expression on my face. “Heston didn’t come down with the family,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth over his name. “Busy getting ready for college.”

  “Oh,” she pouts, “too bad.”

  “Yeah.” I reach out to Reid and swipe the flask from his hands, taking another too-long swig. “Too, fucking, bad.”

  “Hey!” he complains, rightfully.

 
I swallow it down and shove it back at him. “Sorry.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a small bag of weed, tossing it to him. “Take it.”

  He nods appreciatively. “Come on, let’s light up.”

  But I’ve already started skimming the crowd, looking for something, someone, a reason to blow off a little steam. It doesn’t take long when I spot a few kids that I’d beefed with a week ago over a parking spot following my last fight. They’d parked too close to my car—my sweet Jasmine—and these motherfuckers showed her no respect. Downright rude, really.

  The biggest guy leans against the boathouse, cat-calling a group of clearly uninterested girls nearby. They all shift uncomfortably when he says, “Come on, sweet thing! Don’t be like that.”

  My hackles rise in a familiar way, shoulders going tight, face smoothing out.

  “Meet you in a few,” I say to Reid, and start toward the dock. I sweep past the huddle of girls—townie’s, I gather, from the accents and clothes. Back home, I’m used to conservative uniforms at school and trendy outfits at parties. But these girls have an edgy grittiness that Preston Prep girls can’t buy. Frayed, cut-off shorts. Worn boots. Stony expressions. Dark, sexy, eye makeup. I make eye contact with a pair of hard, hazel eyes and dart my gaze down to her lips. They’re pressed in a tight line. Whatever she sees in me, she’s not impressed.

  Well, sweetheart, I think, just wait until I’m done with these fuckwits.

  “Sugar,” the big guy pushes off the wall, leering at her, “you know, you’d be a lot prettier if you smiled every once in a while.”

  Hazel eyes scowls and cuts her eyes at him, jaw setting. She’s wearing a loose flannel shirt, which should be universal code for unsexy. Unfortunately, it just makes us really wonder what’s hiding underneath. Which is exactly what’s got this dumbass up her grill.

  She bites back, “You’d be a lot prettier if you fucked off and died, Derek,” and the other guys all laugh.