Page 49 of Sinful Storms

Balling up the tissue, I gave it up as a lost cause. Tristan had seen me at my worst, anyway, not that I needed to impress him, and there was no one else here. I had no idea where Roman was, but it was just the two of us for now.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet Tristan’s gaze. He was seated on Roman’s bed, his posture seemingly relaxed, although the muscle ticking in his jaw gave him away. “Tristan. I need to speak to you.”

“About what? Look, I didn’t mean to punch Graham. It was just?—”

“What? No. I’m glad you punched him.” My mouth twisted as I remembered his clammy hand on my leg, his beer breath hot on my face… When Tristan had pulled him off me, I’d been preparing to knee him in the balls.

“Okay, then. In that case, the bastard got what was coming to him.” He flashed me a quick, slightly uncertain grin.

“He did.” I smiled back, and his grin widened. I cleared my throat, my smile disappearing as I thought about what I hadto tell him. “I wanted to talk to you about something Professor Watkins told me yesterday during our supervised study period.”

“What is it?”

As I went through everything that had happened, Tristan became visibly agitated, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. When I finished recounting the event, he got up and began pacing.

“I don’t understand. This makes no sense. My grandfather wouldn’t lie to me. Would he?” He stopped dead, his face paling beneath his tan. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” I sprang to my feet, rushing over to him and gripping his arms. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.” The anguish in his voice took me aback.

“Tell me. Please.”

“It just—fuck! It all adds up. That’s why he tried so hard to make sure John’s family was provided for. Not because he was his friend and wanted to make sure his family was taken care of. And—oh, shit. That was why he was so insistent that your grandmother didn’t find out about the money. He didn’t want her looking too deeply into it and finding out the real reason.”

Money? “Tristan, what money?”

“Fuckfuckfuck.” He tugged at his hair. “I don’t know how to say this. Please don’t shoot the messenger. I didn’t know anything about this until that night at the manor, and neither my parents nor your grandparents are aware, either. Unless he was lying about that, too.”

“Tristan.What money?”

His eyes met mine, and his expression chilled me. I sank down onto Roman’s bed, clasping my shaking hands together as I braced myself for whatever he was about to say.

“My grandfather is the one who has been paying your school fees.”

INTERLUDE

“Go. I will deal with the evidence.” The hooded figure swept his arm out. “Leave your robes.” When the room was empty, he slumped to the floor, allowing himself a moment to fall apart. How could it have gone so horribly wrong? He thought back to the beginning of the ritual…

The rumble of thunder was so loud it rattled the windows. The hooded figure’s palms were sweating as he adjusted the knot securing it to the iron ring embedded in the bell tower wall. His fingers slipped, and he readjusted it, loosening the rope just enough.

Above him, the bell began to toll.

One…two…three…four…all the way up to twelve. The final chime seemed to echo off the stones, accompanied by the howl of the wind. The figure could’ve sworn he still heard the cry of the eagle, whipped away by the wind.

The student who had been pulling the ropes that controlled the bell slumped against the wall, rubbing his palms together. “One of you can take a turn next time. My palms have been cutto shreds, doing this for the entire day. See?” He held up his blistered, bloodied hands, and the student closest to him shrank back at the sight.

“Enough,” the hooded figure instructed. Releasing the rope that snaked out of the window, all the way down the side of the tower to the ground outside, he moved to stand in the position he’d marked out on the floor in chalk earlier that day. “Come. Let us prepare.”

The members of the Brotherhood gathered around the chalk circle, each covering their heads with their hoods, as was the custom. Their leader held up an ornate knife, the blade glinting in the candlelight.

“In nomine iustitiae, omnia iustificata.”

As soon as he’d intoned the words, he sliced the blade across his palm in a shallow cut. Stretching his arm out into the centre of the circle, he let a drop of blood fall to the floor, then handed the knife to the person to his right. The ritual was repeated until every member of the Brotherhood had an identical slash of red on their palm, the floorboards beneath them stained with scattered droplets of blood.

“The initiation shall be recorded in the book.” The figure stepped towards the table, putting pen to parchment. When everything had been noted down, he raised his head. “When our initiate reaches the top of the tower, he will complete his part of the blood ritual and become a member of the Brotherhood.”

The members bowed their heads, chanting as one.

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