Page 50 of The Reaper's Vice

“When was the Sanctum founded?”

“1803,” I whisper, praying the other girls are of sound mind to answer. She’ll start with easy questions, but I’m sure they will only get more difficult from here on out. My heartbeat slows with each question I get right—with each time those horrid spikes stay right where they are—and for a moment, I think I’ll pass this trial unscathed.

“What was myoriginalname?”

Wait. What?My mind reels as I try to recall this piece of information—but for the life of me, I can’t remember a single time the Madam actually told us her real name.

“Calathea Crel.” I whisper the name the Sanctum gave her, praying the question was a trick and this is the way she wanted us to answer.

The spikes lower, and panic twists my gut.No. No, no, no.

My own panic is cut short as a piercing scream punctuates the silence, the pitch of it loud and clear enough to pierce the noise-canceling headphones. And I know that scream—I know it well.

Arabella.

I jerk my head to the side as much as I can, horror gripping my chest at the sight that greets me. Arabella is strapped to her table like me, but those horrible glinting spikes have actually punctured her eyes—a result of answering too many questions incorrectly.

Her body convulses on the table, and the spikes dig farther into the pulverized organs, causing blood to pool down her face in fat red tears in one of the most horrifying sights I’ve witnessed. I want to reach out—to hold her and calm her down.

But the next question is starting.

“Stop,” I whisper, missing the beginning of the question as my mind fractures. “Stop! Stop it! Please, you have to STOP!”

But no one listens. No onecares.

“...wastes the most resources?” Madam’s voice rings out strong and true, and I know poor Arabella is doomed. I don’t even bother trying to answer the question—I just keep staring at my sister and —watch the spikes lower one last time.

“NO!” I scream. “NO, NO, NO! Arabella, you have to calm down! You have to answer the next question!”

The spikes drop. Her body jerks, falls limp—and I know Arabella is gone.

“No-o-o-o,” I wail, the sound interrupted by great, heaving sobs. “Noo. Please, no. It’s not real. None of this is real.”

Not real, not real, not real.

But it is, and Arabella refuses to rise. And I know—I know, against all my efforts, wishes, and prayers—that we’ve lost another.

“Well done!” Madam cheers through my headset, her voice much too cheery for the circumstances. “Those of you living have passed the first of the winter trials. You should be proud of yourselves.”

As the Masks come around, unshackling our restraints, I can’t help but think hownotproud I feel. There’s a hollow pit in my abdomen where my stomach used to be, and it takes everything in me not to retch as I finally sit up.

“So you see, girls… Being a madam is not only about being intelligent. You have to have some guts, as well. Otherwise, you end up like Arabella.”

Maggie vomits onto the floor, and the Madam tuts in disgust. “Too much guts, girl.”

She turns to the rest of us, her expression proud, but severe. “All of you get cleaned up and ready for dinner in the main hall. We’re having a celebration.”

As we all trudge silently back to our quarters, the bells high above the Sanctum begin tolling.Bells of death.

I make eye contact with Maggie, neither of us willing to voice what they mean. Tonight, we will have a celebration—of life, and of death—and at the end of it all, we will stand around a bonfire, watching as Madam burns Arabella’s body and all of her remains. It’s just the design of the Sanctum.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

22

ORION

“DASTARDLY PLANS”

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