I look weak—again.
Reyn’s hands clutch either side of my waist, and when he lifts me over the side of the boat, he doesn’t even grunt. With his strong grip, he sets me down on the dock, hands lingering to make sure I’ve found my footing.
Before I can even think to feel embarrassed about this, someone speaks.
“Don’t take off your masks yet.” I instantly recognize Emory’s voice. It’s firm and assured, loud in the stillness around us. “You’ve all been hand-selected as the best of the best at Preston to pledge in an exclusive club.” I feel more than see Reyn turning to look at me. Emory’s voice turns mocking. “This isn’t your garden variety Preston Prep spirit club. There aren’t going to be any bake sales or dances. This will be physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. This will probably be perverse. This will, in all likelihood, be illegal as hell. So if you can’t handle that, then raise your hand now, and we’ll cart your ass off.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder who’s raising their hand. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel my own twitch of apprehension.
Emory says, “Some of you might not make it, anyway,” I can hear his voice travel, like he’s pacing the line of us, but at this, it seems closer, fixed toward me. “Just because you think you can handle it doesn’t mean you can.” His voice starts moving again. “If you have what it takes, then you’re about to be a part of something that can’t be dismantled. This is about leadership. Loyalty. Legacy. By pledging to this, you’re swearing an unbreakable bond that transcends shitty little high school cliques.”
“Last chance,” another guy says. I don’t know who. “Does anyone want to bail?” When no one makes a sound he says, “Well, alright then. Let the games begin.”
It’s a lot of dramatic fanfare, but my brother joined the Devils for a reason. Elitism, popularity, social dominance. That’s why, when we’re told we can take off our masks, I’m not surprised to see two other former Devils, Carlton Wade and Ben Shackleford, standing next to him. And of course, Reyn is no surprise, either.
He’s still standing close enough that I lose myself in a suspended moment of drinking in his features. I seem to have this issue—this thing, bordering on fixation—with his silhouette. Like the times before, outside our houses, the night seems to cut his bone structure into something mysterious and sharp. In the daytime, at school, his eyes are guarded, and he still has that tense stillness about him. But like this, in the dark? The intensity is enough to make my insides flutter. It’s like he’s someone else—someone unreachable, hard like stone.
It’s like a physical hurt to pull my eyes away, but I am surprised by the two non-Devils, Tyson Riggins and Sebastian Wilcox. And I’m downright shocked to see five other girls. Afton Cross and Elana Maxwell are the two seniors, then Georgia Haynes, Caroline Richmond, Aubrey Willis, and myself are juniors.
Their shocked and annoyed expressions make me feel a little more at ease. At least I’m not the only one who has no idea what’s going on. Nevertheless, I’m clearly the odd one out. It’s like one of those grade-school worksheets. One of these things is not like the others. All of these people are beautiful and talented, athletic and smart, popular and fun and skilled.
Sebastian, like me, had an older brother in the Devils. Heston was popular, good looking, and horribly mean. Unlike his brother, Sebastian plays lacrosse, which has the reputation for the absolute douchiest of the jocks. I don’t know if he has the same mean streak, but there’s no doubt he’s intimidating.
As everyone looks around, sizing each other up, I feel the sweat beading on the small of my clammy back. It’s impossible to ignore the reality of it all. I’m not here because of any of those things. I’m here because I used the leverage of knowing a secret to get an invitation.
God, I really am a loser.
We’re on an old dock of some kind, the metal rusted from age. Thick tree branches hang over our heads, and although we’re obviously on the lake, I have no idea exactly where we are. Emory holds up a camping lantern and spins on his heel, heading down the boardwalk toward shore. Once he gets there, he pushes aside heavy vines of ivy and reveals a door that looks like it leads straight underground.
I remind myself, as I follow my brother and the others into a dark tunnel, that I have a goal—a cause—and whatever risk I’m about to take will be worth it if it means that Emory doesn’t get himself in too deep.
Reynolds doesn’t speak.
“I swear to god, Emory! If I see a rat, feel a rat, or hear a rat, I am going to lose my shit.”
The flashlight swings around, momentarily blinding my eyes before once again focusing ahead. “There aren’t any rats,” my brother tells Afton. In a lower voice, he adds, “Well, I haven’t seen any.”
“It smells in here,” Aubrey adds, voice surly. “Like a coffin.”
“Seriously, how much longer?” Sebastian asks.
“Jesus,” a voice mutters behind me, “complain much?”
I turn and see Tyson Riggins’ cute face in the dim light. His blond hair is fried from chlorine, skin a warm brown. He and I are the last two in the line and I know I’m holding him up with my slow gait.
“You can go ahead if you want,” I tell him, stepping to the side while also trying not to touch the damp walls.
“It’s fine.” He grins. “I figure if I’m back here, there’s less chance of running into rats or cobwebs. At least they’ll warn us if they do.”
When I turn back around, a bright light shines from the end of the tunnel. Emory stands in an open doorway, allowing everyone to pass. I pause at the threshold, shifting to navigate a step. Tyson offers me his hand.
“Oh, thanks,” I start, but my brother’s palm pushes into Tyson’s chest. “Emory!”
“What?” he says, shooting Tyson a glare before clutching my elbow to steady me. “I was already here.”
Jesus Christ.
When I turn to the room, Reyn is standing there, his dark eyes watching the exchange. He instantly looks away. I try to give Tyson an apologetic look, but he’s already joined the others in a makeshift circle, situating himself between Caroline and Elana.