Page 39 of Monsters
However, as I look around, I realize there’s only one place I want to be. Even if I don’t see him, I still want to go. He won’t know I’m there. I quickly pull on black jeans, a black shirt, and grab a black beanie on my way out, taking nothing but my credit card, keys, and a phone. I throw the black cloak over my arm. And of course, the mask—stuffing it into the pocket of my black denim jacket. I laugh as I lock up. I must look like a bank robber in my dark attire and hat, but I suppose that’s the whole point.
After the fifty-minute train into London, I find my way to 67 Rose Street quicker than I thought. By the time I enter the old playhouse, my palms are sweating and I’m slightly shaky. Damn these nerves—I’m not technically doing anything wrong. Checking my watch, I can see that it’s five minutes to nine. The door to the office opens.
“Well, well, well,” Hayes drawls. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, marching past him.
“Where are you going?” he asks, grabbing my arm.
“Benedict said I could be here.”
Hayes smiles at me, his lopsided grin both eerie and beguiling. “I’m surprised you asked. You don’t seem like the type.” He looks behind him, toward the door, and then back at me. “You’re going the wrong way. You’re a member now. There’s a secret entrance.” He gestures to the ticketing office.
“Where?” I ask, scanning the small room.
He lets me go, giving me a hard shove forward. “Figure it out.” I glare at him as he ambles backward, toward the office. “Where’s your little friend tonight, by the way?”
I stand up straighter. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”
He nods approvingly. “That’s too bad. Tell her I say, Auf Wiedersehen…” he purrs, and then he turns, sauntering into the office. The door slams shut.
I glance at the small ticket office, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to figure it out. I walk around the wooden exterior, but there’s nothing. There’s not even a door—just a window above the wood, where the ticketing agent used to sit. I put my face against the glass and peer inside, but nothing in there clues me in. I’m about to stomp back to the office and demand that Hayes let me in when I see it—the tiniest ‘V’ right in the middle of the box office paneling. I hold my hand out, placing my palm against it. I hear a faint click, and then part of the paneling slides away, revealing a rectangle big enough to climb through—nearly as tall as me, and about eighteen inches wide. I walk through and it closes behind me, the tracks jerky. I wonder how old this place is, and how long the Brotherhood has used it.
Standing inside of the box office, I see a door that presumably leads to the amphitheater. I set my jacket and hat inside the box office, stuffing the items of importance into my back pockets. I throw the cloak and mask on, pushing the door open.
A dark tunnel awaits me, and I sigh loudly. I take a step into the darkness, and as I reach for my phone, a warm hand grabs my arm.
“Come with me.”
Benedict.
“I thought you were making yourself scarce,” I bite as he drags me through the darkness.
“I changed my mind.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, the resoluteness chilling yet enticing. My stomach flips and I swallow nervously.
“You can leave me alone. I’ll be fine without you.”
He chuckles, the sound low and grating. “No, you won’t.”
He leads us to a room—this one much darker than the entrance or the office. I realize with a start that we must be backstage. His coat hangs over a chair, and a vanity sits unused on the other side of the room. There’s a couch, a bathroom, and drooping, dead flowers in dusty vases scattered around on various surfaces. The low lighting gives everything a ghostly, dream-like ambiance.
“I told you. I can take care of myself,” I say, tugging my arm free.
He reaches out and pulls me closer. “Not tonight, you can’t. It’s the ceremonies.”
I swallow, standing up straighter to show him I’m not afraid. Because I’m not—not in the slightest.
“I know what it is,” I respond defiantly. He stiffens, not expecting that, and I continue, “I found a book in the Bodleian about it.”
His jaw clenches. “By B. Natalie?”
I nod. “But I didn’t finish that section. I only know it consists of…” I trail off, thinking of the group, ritualistic sex. The chants. The candles. My cheeks flame, realizing what I’m about to walk into.
He looks at me, a glint of darkness peeking through the eye holes of his mask.
“It’s better if you see it firsthand.”
