I ignore her and pick out a pair of heels for my bride, much to my sister’s annoyance.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you actually want to marry this woman,” she accuses.
I glance at her so there can be no misunderstandings between us. “What I want is to destroy her. Make no mistake about it. It will be done.”
“Then tell me how?” she begs, her voice betraying a raw grief she rarely displays. “Tell me how you will kill her.”
I have only one answer for her.
“Slowly.”
3
Ivy
At a little after two in the morning, we turn onto the cul-de-sac where our home sits. Well, home is a stretch. It’s the house I grew up in. I know Hazel felt the same way, and I suspect Evangeline does too.
At least I’ll get to see her. My little sister is just thirteen years old. I’d been thirteen when things changed for me. That was the year The Society stepped into our lives in a way they hadn’t before.
The Moreno family is pretty low in the hierarchy as far as desirability in what I’ve always considered as being about a step away from a cult. There’s almost a sort of caste system, one upon which my father’s side of the family didn’t rank well.
My mother is a different story.
My father had a wife before her. He never mentioned her when we were growing up. I don’t even know her name. In fact, I’ve only ever seen a photo of her once. That was when I was late one morning on the way to school and needed to grab lunch money, and Dad’s wallet was the only one around.
I missed the bus that day because when the small thumbnail-sized photo had slipped out along with the dollar bills, I’d been surprised. My father had a picture of a stranger in his wallet. He didn’t even carry photos of his kids.
She was beautiful, I remember, in a very different way than my mother. She had the same dark eyes my brother does, except that hers shone bright. Hers held a warm smile inside them. His? His are dead. Have been for as long as I can remember.
I’d quickly shoved the photo back into the flap of the wallet when I’d heard my mother’s high heels rushing toward the kitchen as she yelled at me that I’d missed the bus. She’d made me walk the six miles to school in the pouring rain.
I hate my mother.
As we pull onto the long driveway of our house, the single light that’s on in Evangeline’s room goes out.
Abel mutters something about her not listening under his breath but drops it.
I look up at the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in half a year. It’s a sprawling, once beautiful home in a cul-de-sac on a quiet street just outside of the French Quarter. And as I stare up at it, all those feelings I had growing up come churning back, leaving my stomach in knots and my hands growing clammy.
“Home sweet home,” Abel says as he kills the engine of the Rolls Royce.
“Why didn’t you have Joseph drive you?” I ask when he opens his door. I find it curious he drove himself since my brother is all about appearances and climbing that social ladder of a society that doesn’t want him.
He has one leg out the door but stops and turns to me. “I’ll hire my own driver. I don’t need Dad’s leftovers.”
“He’s not a leftover. He’s a human being. What is he, seventy years old? Did you fire him?”
“Joseph isn’t your problem, Ivy. Let’s go. I’m tired, and we have a big day ahead of us.”
He climbs out, and I follow, reaching into the back seat to grab my duffel and messenger bags. I brought some schoolbooks, as much as I could fit into the bags, as well as a few changes of clothes. Just a few. I guess some part of me is holding onto the dream that it wouldn’t be as bad as Abel made it out to be with my dad, and I might even return to school.
But then his words play back. You’ve been chosen. And I know I’m not going back to school.
I follow my half brother to the front door and wait for him to unlock and open it, then step inside even as my legs grow leaden. It’s like they know once I enter, it will be that much harder to get out.
The smell of the place washes over me, overwhelming my senses. My mother’s candles. Vanilla and cinnamon. I know how much she pays for those candles. It’s a ridiculous price for wax that will melt and disappear. It’s not a bad smell, but it carries memories, and I set my hand on the table beside the door to steady myself as I take it in.
Was the dizzying nausea always this bad? Or is it worse now that I’ve been gone, free for more than half a year?
“I thought Dad said you had that under control,” Abel says.
I take a deep breath in and turn my head to look at him as the fog around the edges of my vision clears even as sweat dampens my forehead.
“I’m just anxious. It’s worse then.” I have vestibular balance disorder. It’s usually manageable, and I know how to keep it in check, but when I’m out of my element or stressed, it comes back with a vengeance.
I’m not complaining. So many people have it much worse than me. People who don’t know me just think I’m clumsy. And a disorder where I lose my balance or knock into things is the least of my problems, considering.
“Well, get your shit together. Let’s go,” he says, grabbing hold of my arm and taking my bags with his free hand.
“That’s almost gentlemanly of you,” I say as he marches me toward the stairs. “At least it would be if you weren’t leaving a mark on my arm.” I don’t mention the tightness in my face where he slapped me. I’m pretty sure that’s bruised, too. He’s never hit me before. He’s come close, but he’s always known Dad wouldn’t allow it. But now, I guess Dad’s rules don’t apply.
“Fuck you, Ivy,” he says but lets go of my arm. I didn’t expect him to, and again, like when he slapped me, I wonder if he’s nervous about leaving a mark. Nervous the man who “chose” me will be pissed off. Because although technically, as head of household, Abel could choose to beat me to within an inch of my life, at least as far as The Society is concerned, he is mindful of leaving a mark.
My mind goes back to Santiago De La Rosa. My husband-to-be.
I know him. I even met him once. Actually, I’ve seen him on a few occasions. I only spoke with him once, though. I’m not sure he noticed me apart from the day in my father’s study.
But that was before the accident.
No, not accident. Incident.
I wonder why a founding family member would choose me for his bride. Is it because his options have diminished, considering? I’m not privy to many details. All I know is he’s become a sort of recluse and has remained holed up in his estate ever since that night.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs. The De La Rosa family is one of the original families who founded The Society. Imperium Valens Invictum. Strong unconquered power. It’s a little arrogant if you ask me. Obnoxious even. But it’s an organization that spans the world over, a secret society. Exclusive. Elusive. And dangerous.
The families that make up The Society are powerful. Heads of state, leaders in every sector of government. Medical experts. Scientists. Professors. Church leaders. And, of course, the lower castes, like my own family, who do their bidding.
The De La Rosa family is at the very top of the food chain. They’re like royalty within The Society.
There are thirteen founding families. I remember it because when I’d studied the history, I’d thought how fitting the number thirteen. An unlucky number that seems to play again and again in my life.
I was thirteen when Hazel disappeared.
Thirteen when the society intervened, and I was forced to attend one of their schools.
Thirteen when I first met Santiago De La Rosa.
I remember that day. It was during my first week at the all-girls Catholic school I’d been forced to attend. It’s not like I’d had a lot of friends at the public school I went to before, but at the new school, I was treated like the lowest of the low. All it took was one girl to spread the word of who I was. How and why I’d eve
n been accepted into the exclusive school only daughters of the higher echelon attended.
I still wince at the memories of how mean the girls had been. At least at first. They’d taunted me about my eye. I’d had to wear my hair pulled back from my face, whereas before I used my bangs to hide it as much as possible, but the nuns had rules, and if you broke them, you were punished.
It’s ironic how cruel nuns can be to the children of Christ whom they’re supposed to protect. To cherish. Or maybe I’m reading too much into the teachings of the Bible.
I’d met Santiago after a particularly ugly day at school. The girls had been taunting me for days, and as much as I tried to act like I didn’t care, the things they said about me, about my family, about my deformity, as they called it, hurt. I was lonely enough without needing to be singled out and it was like they felt that vulnerability, and one, in particular, Maria Chambers, went in for the kill.
That was the day I’d endured both their hate and Sister Mary Anthony’s punishment at my response to the girls, and when I’d gotten home, I’d burst into my dad’s study to tell him I was finished. I didn’t care what he said. I wasn’t ever going back to that place.
I hadn’t realized he’d had company. In fact, I’d been so focused I hadn’t seen Santiago sitting there until my dad pushed me away—something he did in front of others even though when it was just the two of us, he could be warm. I remember the look on his face. Like he’d been embarrassed by me. Ashamed of me.
And I remember how I’d pulled my hair out of its required bun to hide my eye before Santiago saw it.
That was the first time I’d seen the man who had stolen all my dad’s attention and sometimes his affection too. I understood why, even at thirteen. The De La Rosa family could elevate us. And as much as it hurt, I knew even then this was the most important thing to my father, even over his children.
“Why would Santiago De La Rosa choose me? What aren’t you telling me, Abel?”
Abel studies me. “Why would he lower himself, you mean? A high and mighty Sovereign Son taking a peasant for a wife?”
“You know that’s a form of classism, don’t you? This whole caste system you’ve got going. And if I’m a peasant in their eyes, then what does that make y—”
His hand wraps around my throat, and he has my back to the wall before I can finish my sentence. Rage burns inside his eyes as he cuts off my windpipe.
I clutch at his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh.
“Abel!”
My brother’s head snaps to the top of the stairs. He loosens his hold enough that I can turn my head to look to where my mother is standing, tying her cream-colored silk robe around herself.
Her gaze flicks to me, then back to him. “She’s not yours to punish. If you leave a mark, you don’t know what he’ll do.”
Not don’t hurt her. Only fear of the consequences of being found out.
I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact she is intervening or the fact Abel seems to listen to her. He hates her. And even as she hides it, I know some part of her is afraid of him.
Abel returns his gaze to me. He squeezes his hand again and brings his face to within an inch of mine.
“You think you can get a rise out of me?” He releases me, then steps back just enough to look me over. “You’ll be put in your place tomorrow. And I’ll not only deliver you, but I’ll happily stand by and watch.”
I swallow hard, my hand around my throat. He hates me. I know this. But his tone, the look in his eyes, terrifies me.
Abel turns and climbs the stairs, leaving my bags where they are. He passes my mother without a word and disappears into his room.
I remain where I am and look up at her. Still beautiful, even being woken up in the middle of the night. Still as cold as ever.
“You’ve been here two minutes, and already, you’re causing trouble,” she says.
“It’s good to see you, too, Mom,” I say, bending to pick up my bags. I’m anxious to get to my room now and away from her. I clutch the railing and climb the stairs as I try to steady my heart and the trembling of my hands.
She folds her arms across her chest and watches me as I make my way down the hall to my old room. I open the door and am about to step inside when she calls my name.
“Ivy.”
Stopping, I turn with one hand on the doorknob.
“Do not shame us.”
4
Ivy
I drift in and out of sleep. My old bed feels foreign, too small tucked up against the wall, the deep pink gauze draping it too childish. I reach out a hand and touch it, remembering how I used to like it. Used to pretend I was a princess in a tower.
The wind whistles in from the window I opened to air out the room. The curtain billows, filtering the light coming in from the lamp in the garden. I watch the shadows that dance on the far wall and remember how I would do that when I was little too. I see ominous figures there, the branches of the tree outside making for an eerie gathering as my eyes close again.
I don’t know if I drift off for a minute or an hour, but when I wake again, rain is hammering the window. I need to close it, or Mom will be angry. Water damage. Like she cares about the house.
I rub my face and untangle myself from the blankets to sit up. I’m momentarily dizzy, but that’s always the case when I first sit up, so I just close my eyes until the wave passes. But then I hear an unfamiliar rustle, followed by the window giving way as it’s pushed closed.
Confused, I open my eyes and almost jump out of my skin at the sight that greets me.
There at the window is a figure. Tall and dark and wearing a robe like the Grim Reaper.
But the Grim Reaper wouldn’t be worried about a little rain getting into the house.
I almost scream as it—he—straightens and turns toward me. I push my back to the wall.
The figure is in a black cloak with a wide hood pulled up over his head so the little bit of light coming in from outside doesn’t illuminate his face. The cloak reaches the floor, and he’s tall. Well over six feet.
I want to scream. I want to open my mouth and scream for help, but when I do, nothing comes. No, a sound more pathetic than nothing.
Am I dreaming? Is this a dream, a nightmare I’m trapped in?
But some part of my brain remembers that it knows these robes. Ceremonial. My father had worn one once. I’d been terrified when I’d seen him too.
We remain like that—neither he nor I moving, me not even breathing. He has an advantage. He can see my face. See my terror. I can’t see his.
Him.
It’s a man. His height and build give that away. More reason to scream if only sound would come. Where is my brother now when I need him?
I stare wide-eyed as he takes a step toward me, and when he does, the light just touches his face. But it’s even more terrifying then because he’s wearing a black half-mask, and what I glimpse of his face is impossible.
“Wh…what—”
“Ivy Moreno.”
Cold, bony fingers seem to crawl along my spine at the deep tenor of his voice, and I visibly shudder. The devil's touch. It’s what Sister Mary Anthony used to say when that happened. I make the sign of the cross out of habit.
That makes him laugh. It’s an ugly laugh. Short and unamused and hard.
I rub my eyes, wanting to wake up, but he's still there when I open them again. Closer even.
“How do you know my name?”
“You don’t remember me, Ivy? I didn’t make an impression? I’m offended.”
“I...I don’t—”
“You’ll be my wife,” he continues as if I hadn’t stammered my feeble attempt at a response. “It would be strange if I didn’t know your name, don’t you think?”
His wife?
I peer closer. This is Santiago De La Rosa? Why is he wearing that cloak? The mask? It's for ceremonial purposes only. Worn by the male founding family members and only when tradition dictated it. They'd le
nt my father a similar cloak when he’d attended one such event. I still remember his excitement even when my sister and I had been terrified to see him in it.
But there’s a more pressing question. What the hell is Santiago De La Rosa doing in my room in the middle of the night?
Then I remember hearing Abel out in the hallway at some point tonight. I remember being irritated that he was making so much noise he’d woken me.
Did Abel let him in here?
“What do you want?” I ask.
I can just make out how his eyes roam over me, and I look down at myself. I’m wearing a T-shirt and panties, one foot up on the bed, the other dangling off it. I pull both in and gather up the blankets.
“No need for that,” he says, stepping closer still to take the edge of the blanket and tug it slightly off me. “I came to give you something.”
I press harder against the wall when he steps to the edge of the bed. He takes a moment to look at the ornate frame and all the pink.
“A bit childish, isn’t it?”
“What do you want with me?”
He looks down at me, and I don’t know if I see or imagine a grin. Don’t know if I imagine the skeleton that peers closer as I back into the corner.
“Oh, that’s no way to behave with your husband-to-be, sweet Ivy.” He sits on the edge of the bed, inching closer.
“What do you want?” I scream it, thinking surely, Abel will come. Surely someone will help me.
But nothing. No one comes. I am alone with this man.
He exhales like he’s disappointed, then reaches out, touching the tips of his fingers to my cheek before he slips them to my neck where my pulse beats wildly.
I keep the back of my head pressed to the wall.
I’m dreaming. I must be. But he feels so real.
“What do you want?” I ask, this time in a quieter voice, a frightened one.
“I already told you that,” he starts, voice low and deep.
He takes my hand, his fingers like a vise around it, and pulls it toward him. His touch is ice-cold. Maybe it is the Grim Reaper after all.
Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel Page 3