Page 91 of Crown of Thorns
I think of Granddad’s letter. Of its implications.
Maybe the rumours were true after all. Whispers of wealth, land, and a name once held in high regard. He had owned property, perhaps even businesses, and lost them all somewhere along the line. Maybe that loss is what drove him to drink. The fall from influence to obscurity. The weight of a name he couldn’t carry alone.
Inside the shed, I light a few candles and head straight to the desk. My hand grazes the edge, fingers landing on the wedding photo. Mom and Dad on the church steps, young and radiant. It’s one of the few I didn’t take to the office. I slide it into my bag gently, as if that can protect it from whatever storm is coming. Most of the other photos have been moved already, but a few still linger on the walls. Ghosts of a life I’ve only just begun to understand.
That’s when I feel it—movement, curling at the edge of the trees. A flicker of red and gold. Childlike laughter cuts through the quiet. Shadows slip between trunks like serpents, cloaked figures blinking into view.
My blood goes cold.
I grab the cloak. Fumble with the fabric, heart pounding. It smells of wax and old wool, of something ancient. I pull it around my shoulders. The moment it settles, I vanish into shadow.
A twig snaps.
Laughter again. Low. Strange.
Panic flares. I knock over the candle snuffer, wax splashing onto the floor. Blow out the flames too fast. Darkness swallows the room.
“Out past curfew,” someone whispers.
I duck low. Yank the hood up.
They don’t see me. Not yet. But they’re here.
The Alpha Fraternarii.
SoI bolt. Out the shed, air sharp in my throat. Trees blur past. My boots slip on moss and roots. The wet ground pulls at my steps, slick and unforgiving. I don’t risk a glance behind. I just run.
Cloaks. Masks. Firelight. A silent court in the woods.
I wasn’t meant to find them tonight.
But somehow remembering turned into becoming.
Is that a horse?
There’s no time to properly freak out. Instead, I make my way inside and go straight to my office. It’s too late to be there now, but my mind is too turbulent to head for my room and into the space I share with Louis.
The door is unlocked, and for the weirdest of seconds, I expect that mute cleaner inside, sweeping my floors, or my little devil lounging in my chair.
No one’s there.
I eye the punching bag but don’t swing. I’m too wired and too hollow. I’m still carrying the cloak but place the mask on my desk. The mini-fridge stares at me. Should I open a bottle of champagne and sit the night out while lounging on my chair?
A knock on the door startles me.
There’s a swishing sound, as if someone’s wiping off the wood, and the fact that I already know who it is…The Brotherhood, closing in.
Did I lock my door?
The thought makes my heart nearly jump out of my ribcage.
I reach for my phone, switch it on. Louis left me tons of messages. I don’t open any of them. My thoughts are spiraling too fast, and right now, I don’t want comfort. I want clarity.
I’m not a coward. Not anymore. I’ve faced worse things than fear. Cold streets, empty nights, hands that only knew howto take. I survived those. But this? This is different. This is personal. And it’s closing in.
“Who’s there?” I bark at the sound. It stops instantly, followed by another knock that has my heart leap to my throat.
I should have opened that bottle of champagne.
