Page 57 of Pretty Lethal
A bell goes off somewhere in the distance, and immediately, everyone starts moving toward a door.
“Meeting is about to begin,” Robbie explains as we follow the crowd into a large room lacking any furniture and containing a low platform. Everyone forms a semi-circle around it, conversation ceasing as a reverent silence falls and we, presumably, wait forhis royal highness.
In a blatant power move, the King makes us wait several long minutes before striding into the room. Unlike everyone else, his hood is pulled up over his head, obscuring him from view. I wonder if anyone knows his true identity?
He moves to stand in the center of the platform, his arms held out at his sides as he peers out at us all from beneath his hood. All I can see are shadows where his face should be, making me question if this psycho is even human. Perhaps he’s a wraith or some sort of paranormal shit.
A notion that seems only more plausible when he says, “Welcome, Elites.Novus ordo seclorum.”
Without the tall ceilings and stone walls of the large ceremonial chamber for the voice to project off, I hear the robotic quality that I hadn’t noticed before, and it takes me a second to realize, whoever this guy is, he’s using a voice changer to alter it.
Talk about taking anonymity to the extreme.
How important can this man be that he has to alter his voice? Is he, like, the President or a celebrity of some sort? Oh my god, is he J-Lo? Oh, or maybe he’s that actor who believes in the Church of Scientology? This whole crazy society would totally be his thing.
“Novus ordo seclorum,” everyone chants, and I make a mental note to Google what that means.
“Tonight, we welcome a new member to our ranks. Wilder Clearwater,” the King says in his creepy, robotic voice.
I stand rigid as eyes automatically land on me—guess everyone knows who I am already.Great.
As one, the people in front of me part, forming a space that runs directly to the platform. When I simply stare down it, not at all fussed about getting any closer to the egotistical maniac running this crazy-ass show, Robbie gives me a hard shove between my shoulder blades.
I stumble forward before righting myself, but now that I’ve moved I can’t very well just stop, so reluctantly, I keep going. With every step that brings me closer to the platform, I stare into the dark depths of the hood, conveying to thisKingthat I am not afraid of him. Clearwaters may be legacies of the Elite, but I can guarantee he has never met a fucking Wilder before, and if he messes with me or mine, I am more than happy to show him exactly what a wild card I can be.
The concerning thing is, I can sense the cunning malice slithering out from beneath the wraith’s hood. Despite not being able to see their eyes, I can tell they’re locked on me. They see the challenge in mine, recognizing and accepting it in an almost prideful way that makes me feel as if I’m somehow playing right into their hand.
He stands and watches as I step onto the platform beside him, before waving someone forward. “Wilder, have a seat.”
The unease rippling along my skin sinks its claws into my flesh, and I shrewdly scan my eyes over the gathered members before me and the room itself, noting the exits. Something in my gut tells me everything is about to go to hell in a handbasket, and I sure as fuck don’t wanna hang around to see the devil in the flesh.
A burly man who looks as though he’s only a year or two older than me steps forward with a chair held in his grip. His bicep muscles flex with the movement, looking barely contained as they strain against the fabric of his cloak, threatening to tear it as he holds the chair in front of him. I’m fairly certain even his flesh is one slight tense away from ripping open and allowing his tendons to finally spill free.
I immediately peg him as a steroid lover. But seriously, he looks like he belongs in a heavy-weight wrestling ring, or at the very least, he should be a bouncer at a nightclub.
Despite his size, he gently sets the chair on the platform before taking a step back, although he doesn’t return to his original spot at the side of the room, and I glance from him to the chair before reluctantly lowering myself into it.
“Elites,” the King calls out in his slightly robotic tone. “What is our cardinal rule?”
“The Elites come above all else,” everyone chants as one, and I instantly tense.
“That’s correct.” The King doesn’t look at me as he says, “It is my understanding that Wilder needs to be made aware of just how seriously we take that rule.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m not entirely sure what he means, but I can only assume this punishment is coming about because I didn’t show up for the last meeting.Note to self, being drugged and kidnapped by a psycho and ultimately hospitalized is not a good enough excuse for your absence with these people.
Of course, no one in this room knows that’s why I wasn’t there. At the time, I made some bullshit excuse to Robbie about getting caught up and losing track of time. He didn’t bring it up when we met to discuss the assignment he gave me before Thanksgiving break or when I gave him the photographic evidence of that girl, so I’d naively assumed it was a non-issue.
Scarily and silently, the Juice Master steps forward, his hands clamping down on my shoulders in a bruising grip.
“What the hell?” I bark, fighting against his restraint.
The whirring of a rotor catches my attention as a projector screen unfolds from the opposite wall, and the Elites all shift to the side as an image flicks to life on the screen and someone turns down the lights.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes bounce over the screen, and it takes far longer than it should for me to process the sight before me. The projector screen is split up into twelve smaller screens.
One of the center screens shows eleven men standing in a semicircle around the lens, jeering and chatting, while the other eleven show the same image from slightly different angles—a woman being held in place between two men, with a covering over her head.
