by Riley London
I look at Serena, quirking an eyebrow. Right now, what I feel is fucking tired, and I’m already exhausted by whatever games she’s playing. But she’s looking at me with genuine curiosity, so I do her the courtesy of an honest reply.
“Tired, hungry, and ready for a fight.”
That earns me a small laugh, and she nods to the duffle I dropped at my feet. “Come on, Max. Let’s get you inside and get you settled.”
We walk through a dramatic stone and iron archway that’s a pathway to another world, and then up a long walkway leading up to a sprawling gothic mansion. Spires, towers, black stone, and huge windows, all encased by a wraparound porch that snakes around the ground floor. Serena leads the way up the steps and pauses in front of a dark oak door. The very top is inlaid with a tiny stained-glass panel.
I squint, and there’s what looks like a tiny figure of…. what is that? The grim reaper?
Lovely.
Serena slides an iron skeleton key into the front door lock. But she hasn’t managed to turn it when it opens from the inside and swings wide to reveal a figure standing there.
A man that would be striking, if not for the ugly sneer on his face, looks me up and down with apparent disgust. He’s about my age, early twenties, and well over six feet with dark red hair and wide green eyes. The tailored lines of his crisp white shirt and dark pants do nothing to hide to the lean muscles beneath.
In spite of myself, I swallow hard but then give myself a shake.
He might be good looking, but everything about him screams spoiled rich kid.
I’ve got no time for that.
“Good morning, Serena,” he says curtly, before his eyes come back to me. “Bringing home strays?”
I snort. It’s not that his words don’t burn. They do. You try growing up as an orphan in Goodwill clothes and spend most of your waking hours around old bachelor exorcists. It’s hell on the social life. I don’t care how lethal you are, some part of you still shrivels up when you’re faced with some entitled asshole bully that’s ready to go after you.
Let ‘em see you sweat? Never.
“You always so charming first thing in the morning, Harvard?” I ask coolly. “What’s the matter? Charm not on sale at Brooks Brothers this week?”
His eyes snap up to mine, flashing with anger. I give him my best ‘fuck you’ smirk.
Serena gives an exasperated sigh. “Well, that went exactly as well as I expected. Noah Brewster-Crane, Maximiliana Ryder.”
As soon as he hears my name, his nostrils flare. His electric green eyes go straight to blazing and he physically moves to block my way. Serena puts a warning hand on his chest, and he backs off reluctantly.
“Noah, we’ll speak later,” Serena says shortly. “Max, would you like to come with me? I can show you your room and then give you the tour.”
“Lock up the silverware,” Noah says snidely.
That’s it. I’ve had it. I don’t know what I’ve stumbled into, but my patience is only taking me so far tonight. And the meter’s up.
“Let’s cut to the chase. I’m not looking for a tour or to meet your friends.” I throw as much venom as I can behind the word friends with a derisive look toward Noah.
“Either tell me how we’re getting Father Gabriel back or I’m heading back to Boston.” Cryptic notes, scarred exorcists and everything else be damned. Either these people can actually help me or I’m out. Enough wasting time.
“Follow me to my office please,” Serena sounds resigned as she crosses the room. Expensive carpets, dark wood, and what look like antiques are everywhere, but my eyes are on her as I heft my duffle and follow in her wake.
But not before throwing a look over my shoulder and saying in a low voice, “Hey Noah?”
He stares hard at me.
“Quit checking out my ass.”
Serena stands impatiently inside her office, watching me with intelligent eyes. When I finally make it in, she gives me a raised eyebrow but shuts the wide, sliding doors behind me without comment.
Behave.
I am trying.
The place is huge, and it’s more like a fancy living room than an office with plush couches, built in bookshelves and even a window seat overlooking the view back down the hill over Salem.
I drop my bag unceremoniously and almost collapse into one of the chairs.
“You know, this endeavor will be a lot easier if you don’t taunt the people you’re supposed to work with.” The tiny woman crosses the room and looks at some volumes on a bookshelf. She speaks over her shoulder and doesn’t turn around.
My face burns. I hate that he baited me into it. I hate relying on other people. I hate the fact that I have to be here at all. He’s lucky I didn’t kick him in the nuts with the last remark.
Sliding a volume off the shelf, Serena glides behind her desk and ensconces herself in the executive leather chair that’s at least one size too big for her.
“Max, let’s back up. Salem Academy isn’t a school, at least not in the traditional sense. Are you familiar with the name Asher Wan?”
Vaguely. He’s some sort of reclusive billionaire; actually, I feel like Father Gabriel said his name at some point and while I wish I’d paid more attention. I just hadn’t.
Sometimes you don’t notice what matters in the moment. Today’s been a masterclass in that lesson.
“You’ve worked side by side with one of the Catholic Church’s most talented exorcists. Your experience alone should be enough to confirm that there’s more to the world than meets the eye.” She leans back in the chair. “Let’s say that threats aren’t necessarily limited to demons. Mr. Wan has dedicated an immense portion of his fortune to defending against those supernatural threats. Property, talent, other investments. He acquired the Salem Academy property when the family that had operated the school here for decades wanted to shutter it, and it’s been our New England headquarters ever since.”
“What does any of this have to do with Father Gabriel?”
Serena clears her throat and slides a book across the desk. I don’t reach for it immediately, because something about it looks wrong.
“It’s our belief that Father Gabriel’s abduction is just the first step in a much grander plan.”
My eyes track up from the book to her face, and those blood red lips are pressed into a tight line.
“We think he’s the siren.”
I don’t know what the hell that means. But I don’t get out a question before she points at the book. “Before you ask, we don’t really know much more than the fact that the prophecies in this book foretell that a warrior of God being absconded to Hell is the first sign that we could be facing an onslaught of demonic activity.”
She looks uncomfortable as her eyes trace the book’s strangely textured cover. “This book is one of the acquisitions that we’ve made in recent years, in our quest to understand the scale and scope of potential threats. Very little is known about the origin. I can tell you that yes, it’s bound in human skin, so be mindful of that if you touch it.”
A wave of revulsion goes through me, even though I shove it down.
“It’s written in a language that’s so ancient, it’s unnamed. It’s possible that it’s an ancient variant of demonic languages, but that’s still being investigated. And the truth is that even utilizing a variety of cutting-edge strategies to decode it, and we’ve been partially successful, doesn’t really help. One theory is that it decodes pieces of itself as needed. Beyond that, it’s garbled. But we believe, based on what we have uncovered in the book and through other intelligence sources, that the plot against Gabriel is the first step in a demonic plan to take over Earth.”
The thought of it leaves me cold.
I know the wreckage those underworld fuckers leave behind when they possess just one person. Most people are never really the same, even after the exorcism works. Some lose their jobs. Others find that their spouses or kids or friends are always afraid of them, always afraid that it was some
crack or some unseen spiritual deficit that made that vulnerable in the first place – and could leave them vulnerable again. Some just can’t get past the reality that evil’s out there and they’ve experienced it firsthand.
It’s bullshit.
But it’s scary to realize you’re vulnerable to forces beyond your control. That your loved ones are vulnerable, and you can do nothing to protect them.
Deliberately, I reach out and touch the book, ignoring the sickly translucent leather crinkling beneath my fingers. I flip open the cover and watch as pages flash by. They’re not in any language that I recognize, and the letters almost seem to dance and rearrange themselves on the page. I blink hard and let the cover fall shut.
Maybe it’s just been a long freaking day.
“Max, we agree with you that Father Gabriel must be extracted from Hell immediately,” she says.
Finally. “When can we go?”
“It’s not that easy. Nor is it just because we want Father Gabriel safe back with us, which we absolutely do. There’s more at stake here, much more at stake.”
That urge is rising again, the one that usually ends with me putting my fist through something. Count to ten. Envision fat puppies chasing tennis balls. Take a deep breath. Whatever it takes to get things under control. Finally, I scrub hands over my face, ignoring the way my eyes feel gritty and dry from exhaustion.
“Look, just point me in the right direction, lady. I have to do something.” There’s a desperate edge to my voice that fills me with shame.
It’s like I’m ten again, and Brother Dominic is growling at Father Gabriel in the next room. “She’s got a bad temper and impulse control problems. She’s undisciplined and emotional and she’s prone to violence, Gabriel.”
“She’s just a kid,” Father Gabriel shoots back. “She’s been through a lot.”
“They’ve all been through a lot,” snaps Brother Dominic. “But they’re not facing juvie charges on willful destruction of property.”
They didn’t understand. They didn’t know what I’d seen in that woman’s face. I had to throw the vase at her. Something wasn’t right. It was like there was a monster inside her.
I didn’t know it was a Ming vase, whatever that is.
And once whatever dwelled in her saw I could see it, I’d had to defend myself. It’s not like there’s anyone else that would do it.
“You don’t know what she saw,” Father Gabriel sounds tired.
My head snaps up. Did he know what I saw?
There’s a keener interest in Brother Dominic’s voice. “Saw? Are you telling me that girl has the sight?”
But I’m not ten, hiding outside the rectory kitchen eavesdropping to see if I’m being sent away, again. I’m flopped in some expensive armchair next to a woman who looks like the Real Housewives of Salem as we chat about the end of the world over top of some unnamed, ancient prophetic books that are bound in human skin.
Great. I try again.
“Serena.” I make every effort to keep my voice level, competent, not just an inch from the edge of insanity. “If you can just tell me how to get to Hell in practical terms, I can probably take it from there.”
She leans forward in her seat, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her. It makes her look tiny, almost tiny enough to make me forget her display of really impressive magical force back at the Saporetti place.
Almost.
“Without more training, you will go to Hell and at best, you will die. At worst, you will face an eternity of torment. Fighting demons on the surface of the earth is not even a remote comparison to what it’s like to fight them in the depths of Hell,” she says.
“Oh, and you’d know?” I demand, pointedly taking in her perfect hair and perfect nails and fancy outfit.
She looks away for a long second, like she’s steeling herself, and when she looks back our eyes meet. “Unfortunately, I do know Max. But for right now, let’s talk about you. When Father Gabriel was here, he said that you are immensely talented. He spoke very highly about your fighting skills, your natural abilities to track and defeat demons here on the surface, about your judgment and support during exorcisms. I’ve known Gabriel for a long time, and I’ve never seen him speak more highly of someone.”
That last bit catches me off guard, and something’s stuck in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. Fucking feelings.
I jam my hand into my hair again, and cross and uncross my legs.
“However, he also said that you’re young, impulsive, and need help refining your natural ability,” she smiled. “After meeting you, it’s clear he knows you well.”
She reaches up and lifts the pillbox hat off her head, setting it carefully to one side of her desk. She slowly starts pulling pins from her hair, long glossy tendrils tumbling down one by one as she sets them free.
“Tell me, Max, what do you know about your family prior to when you met Father Gabriel at the orphanage?”
Anger blooms in my gut. I hate that she knows my story, knows my private details. She has no right. But I force myself to answer, “Some, not much. Why?”
With no idea where she’s leading, I’m back to doing the calculus of how each minute we’re wasting on chit-chat is another minute Father Gabriel is suffering the fires of Hell.
“Let me give you an abbreviated version. Gabriel hoped to share this with you himself. But for all the reasons that are apparent, I’m going to have to give you some insights. You were born right here in Salem, Massachusetts,” she’s hardly finished with the words before I sense it. That familiar sensation that I’m not alone in a space, that someone is dwelling unseen. I keep my eyes plastered to her face.
“Your mother was Cassandra Ryder. Her first husband, Nicholas Mathews, was the father of her elder child, a boy named Micah.”
Micah. A name that I didn’t allow myself to think about much. Not after Father Gabriel had adopted me. Not after it was clear that Micah wasn’t coming to rescue me, like I’d spent years hoping. An older brother. Flashes of the one person who had been kind to me in my young life. Playing games with me. Letting me follow around him and his friends. One friend, a pale haired big kid with blue eyes. Micah: always around, until he wasn’t.
“Nicholas died suddenly in a tragic car accident. It’s unclear whether it was an accident or something more sinister. But eventually, Cassandra fell in love again and this time she had you, a daughter Maximiliana. But Cassandra’s mother, Loretta Stancroft Ryder, had high hopes for her daughter. She wanted to make a marriage that would solidify her family’s place as one of the top magical families in Salem,” she said softly.
My eyes snap up to her face, at the very words pertaining to magic. “Your grandmother, Loretta Stancroft Ryder, is widely regarded as one of Salem’s most talented witches, Max. Your mother was even more powerful than she. According to what Father Gabriel said yesterday, you have tremendous untapped potential.”
As a witch?
I know that witches exist. That Salem is a magical place. I’d just never imagined that those facts as relevant to my own life.
“Max, I agree with Father Gabriel that you have untapped gifts and that you have skills you already bring to the table. But without more training, you won’t be able to defeat the demons you’ll face. You won’t even be able to open the door to Hell. Let us train you, let us get you ready, and let us make sure you live long enough to bring him back,” Serena finishes.
For the second time in as many days, I make a decision. Images of Father Gabriel flash through my mind: making me laugh when I was a weird little kid no one would talk to. Stopping off at a weird roadside attraction he didn’t want to see because I read about it. His face when he’d shoved me out of the door right after the exorcism.
Every fiber of my being fights against it. I don’t work on a team. I don’t need help. I don’t need training. What I need to do is get Father Gabriel.
But this looks like it might be my best chance.
I clear my
throat and grit out: “I’ll do it. Stay here I mean, and train. But only if it’s a crash course. We find the shortest path from where I am to what I need to be to make this work. And I’m not talking expert. I’m talking bare minimum viable skills to stay alive in the conditions you describe. Are we clear?”
Holding my eyes for a long second, Serena considers and then gives me a sharp nod. “Then welcome to Salem Academy, Max. Grab your stuff. I’ll take you to your room so you can get a few hours of sleep before we start your training this afternoon.”
My body aches, but my brain rejoices.
No more wasted time.
I’m on my feet and at the door when Serena clears her throat behind me. “Oh, and Max? Please do try to get along with your colleagues, won’t you?”
4
I’m following Serena’s head-to-toe red silhouette along a dark hallway when a door silently swings open. It doesn’t move until I’m parallel with it and it’s more the displacement of air, the shifting of space, that cues me in.
Danger.
By instinct, I shove Serena forward and out of the way – it takes me a minute to realize that she doesn’t actually move even with the force of my hard push – and then I spin to fight.
My weapons might be shoved in my duffle, but my fists fly up and my body moves instinctively to a fighting stance.
Bring it.
I’ve been itching for a fight and you better bet that I have no compunctions about taking anyone in this place down. I’m still not convinced that they have the best of intentions, after all.
And even if they do. What’s the old saying about good intentions?
Well, maybe if I’m lucky they’ll pave a road to Hell I can actually follow.
Somewhere behind me, Serena snorts.
Part of me wants to turn around. But I won’t take my eyes off that door.
A form moves into it – a masculine form. It takes me a few minutes to register what I’m seeing.
You know how occasionally you see an actor or model whose face is so symmetrical, whose body is so perfect, that you’re immediately wondering if it’s computerized or a statue come to life?