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“No one is going anywhere.” I avert my gaze and dial the phone again.
Max answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me. I need you to come to Saint Mary’s right away.” I feel sick to my stomach, but I continue. “Bring a squad car. You’ll be taking a suspect with you.”
“A suspect?”
“I’ll explain more when you arrive.”
I hang up, saying nothing else. Graves and I know each other like brothers, and he says it before I do.
“You think I’m involved in this?” He looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. The feeling is mutual. “You think I’m working with Amber?”
“I think that you’re the only person who had unfettered access to the blueprints and to the restricted literature in my library. The kind of books that touch on the dark rituals being used in these murders.”
“Timothy,” he looks aghast, “you can’t really believe that.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I admit, my voice cracking slightly. “My instincts are failing me. I didn’t think William would betray me by harming the Princess, or that his brothers would consort with evil.” I look around the tidy room. Remy stands over her small oak dresser, staring at a framed photograph. It’s of him as a child–white-haired and all eyes. Clear and untroubled. “This I should have seen. It makes sense. The way we found the bodies, the implication of paganism and ritual. I knew that someone wanted it to lead back to us,” I cut a hard look at Graves, “but I didn’t ever think it would go back to her. I’ve had her in a secure facility for twenty years. You were one of the few people that even knew she was back in Forsyth. That knew about the tunnels. Why wouldn’t I think you had something to do with it? Why wouldn’t you betray me like everyone else?”
The rage I should feel is engulfed by a myriad of other emotions, but the biggest one is failure.
“I would never betray you or Beta Nu!” Graves says, voice rising with genuine hurt. “I’ve given everything to this frat at the expense of my own life.”
He’s right, of course. Graves has a partner, but he’s devoted to the Barons. Why? To what end? Has he always been a part of this betrayal?
“My father is right,” Remy cuts in. “You’ve had too much access to not be considered an accomplice.” He looks at Graves, skepticism etched on his face. “Maybe you’re not, but no one gave Ballsack the benefit of the doubt. Not when there was the chance someone else could die. Right now we have to do everything we can to stop her.”
Our eyes meet, and I’m grateful he’s here. Grateful he’s backing me up, even after everything.
A security guard stands by the door. I direct him to keep Graves in custody until Max arrives. “Timothy,” he says again. “You can’t be serious. You know me.”
“I hope I’m wrong,” I tell him, “but until I’m sure, I have to do what’s right to keep the people of Forsyth safe.”
I step back into the room, and once Remy and I are alone again, he says, “I’ll contact the guys.” He’s back at the dresser, opening each drawer. “And we’ll handle Saint Mary’s.”
“Are you sure? I can—”
“I’ve got this,” he says, bending to fuss with the back of the top drawer. “We’ll figure out where she’s gaining entrance to the tunnels. We’ll need to contact Payne and the Ashbys, and make sure any entrances in their territories are secure.” He tilts his head in my direction. “If what you told me is true, she may go after JJ next.”
Justice James. Whitaker’s child. A true legacy, just like his father.
“We’ll warn them,” I say, “immediately.”
I hear a small click from the dresser and step closer. “False backing,” Remy says. He pulls out a small wooden box. Inside are containers. I open the first one, and the waft of herbs hits me.
“What the hell?” Remy asks, pushing aside a dried, black dahlia blossom. His nose wrinkles as he opens another. This one is filled with bleached chicken bones.
“It’s for making spell bags.” It’s just more confirmation that Amber has actively been practicing while she’s been at Saint Mary’s.
I straighten, having seen enough. I want to get back home. Back to check on Arianette. But most of all, I’m ready to take back my Kingdom.
32
Arianette
The dress rehearsal for Rite of Spring is in full swing; Stravinsky’s music pounds through the auditorium like a living, primal heartbeat. The stage is alive with movement–dancers swirling, leaping, and stomping in raw, ancient rhythms that echo the ballet’s chaotic energy. I’m in the center of it all for the final scene, the Chosen One, the one who must dance herself to death to bring spring back to the tribe.
I have the steps down. The movements are precise, my body responding exactly as Madame Duval has drilled into us for weeks. My arms sweep, my legs extend, my turns are sharp and controlled. Everything is technically right. But something still feels off. The final act–the Sacrificial Dance–doesn’t sit right in my bones. It feels hollow, like I’m performing the motions without truly understanding the why behind them.
