Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

I hadn't even told Ambrose I loved him. Something about that knowledge ate at my heart while Dr. Wilder shoved me through the narrow corridors of their underground network. I hoped he knew, or that he at least had an idea of the level of affection I felt for him. He was very simply everything to me in the end. And he would forever be worth the torture I had to endure at the hands of his father.

Dr. Wilder never loosened his grip. His broad, strong hands remained ever present on my wrists even as he shoved me into a massive domed room I could only assume was the infamous Chamber. Incense smoke greeted us and low bass drumming stopped as soon as we entered. The quiet swish of fabric and loud thwacks of my heels against the stone floor rung through the air.

I imagined this must be how people felt when their parachutes failed to open after jumping from a plane—a sort of acceptance. They watch the ground fly faster and faster toward them—an inevitable death they have but minutes to ruminate on .

Do they feel any regrets? Or is it quiet, still water just as this was, with nary a ripple to be felt?

In the midst of it all, I made a point to look at each of the hooded figures who filled the center of the room, made sure they saw the look in my eyes as I passed them. Was my father among them? I almost hoped he was, almost hoped he watched as they murdered me. The lights were dim, simple torches on the walls and candles hung from the ceiling, it made their faces shadowed behind their hoods, but I knew they could see me .

The dove who fought till the end. Who, for the first time in history nearly defied them all.

That is what kept my chin high. That is what kept my face composed. I hadn't submitted. I wouldn't submit to anyone of these corrupt bastards.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

The women on the dais were on their knees, each of them dressed in a fine satin dress just as the one I wore. Their eyes were cast downward, hands clasped behind their backs, and they looked…broken. Behind them stood the initiates—future graduates of powerful stature with their hoods up and their hands notably in front of them.

I took the steps onto the dais, allowed Dr. Wilder to steer me into place to the far left side where a shock of familiar blonde hair quivered with sobs.

"Here you are, Initiate Beaufort. May He be pleased with your sacrifice." Dr. Wilder intoned before he kicked my knees out from under me. I cried out with the cutting ache of my bones meeting the floor and glared up toward the hooded figure I knew to be Brian.

"Turn around," he ordered, kicking my thigh.

"Fuck you! Fuck your sick Rite!"

He snatched my hair before I could blink, twisting it so my neck was forced to follow, shockwaves of pain zapped through my skull and neck until I faced forward and he finally released me.

"I can't fucking wait," he growled.

I bit back my tears, squeezed my eyes shut while the fuckers started their hymn, a haunting melody comprised of male voices that would linger with me for the rest of my life if I ever made it out of here.

They wouldn't see me cry.

They wouldn't see me cry.

"Vivian?" Sam's voice came from beside me, thick with tears over their singing. I whipped around to find her—make up smeared and face puffy—mere feet away.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed, my panic raging with full force. It was enough for me to die, only me. Sam couldn't—it wasn't feasible. Her and Walt were supposed to remain at the party too, remain safe and within arm's reach!

Her lip quivered. "Oh, Viv." She sobbed, her entire body racked with the force of it.

"Stop talking!" Brian ordered, yanking my hair back with a quick, rough tugged.

"Where's Walt?" I asked, ignoring the ache in my spine.

Sam's mascara covered eyes glanced behind her before they fluttered shut.

My stomach dropped.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

Not Walt.

"No," I protested, those traitorous tears poured forth. "Walt, no."

The drumming and singing—both primal and adverse—ceased and much of the space fell quiet.

Dr. Wilder stood at a gilded podium accented by a dove in flight, facing the crowd of his men who held their candles close to their chests. I tried to look back at my brother, tried to find his face under the fucking hood but Brian slapped me, sending me forward with the force.

Iron rushed over my tongue.

"My dear, dear flock. Welcome to the Rite of this year's fine collection of initiates." Dr Wilder's voice boomed and a ruckus of cheers and hoots echoed through the chamber, spiking my pulse. "In this, our three hundred and twenty-fourth initiation, on the holiest night of our Dark Lord—the one who lends us His power, His gifts—we are reminded of the unbreakable bond we have as White Dove brothers. This is not some paltry gathering of boys in vain. No, this is a brotherhood, a sacred brotherhood of men. A perfect example of the secret to life: that luck plays no role in a man's success."

They all barked their agreement, fathers and brothers no doubt of the men behind us.

I cast a weary gaze to the women beside me, their pale faces screwed in terror and their arms fighting against the ropes over their wrists in subtle tugs.

Where was Ambrose?

Where was Dr. Greene? He promised us, he fucking promised!

My eyes scanned, searching, pleading to find one of them.

Ambrose wouldn't let me die, right? He couldn't. Not after everything…it was inconceivable he wouldn't put up a fight.

Not after he told me he loved me.

Dr. Wilder continued with his speech, though I could barely hear it over the roar in my ears, could barely focus on finding familiarity in the faces beneath the hoods as I fought to steady myself while sober reality sank further still into my consciousness.

I supposed he finished his prattling when Dr. Wilder held above his head a white handled knife, its blade glinted in the light, and something lined the middle of it—an inscription of some sort I couldn't make out from a distance.

"Per columbae!" he shouted. The others echoed the sentiment with much enthusiasm.

Those who would be doing the sacrificing leaned around their doves, placing before us a golden cup encrusted with fine rubies, rubies which I had a sickening thought might not be precious gems at all.

The drums started again, low and even, winding their way under my skin. Where was my quiet acceptance now? Instinct kicked into high gear alongside adrenaline which slowed every action down to a crawl and allowed me to process it all in gross detail.

Dr. Wilder took the blade to the first initiate, handing it to him in some strange ritual all its own. I watched in denial as the young man wielded his knife with a surprisingly steady hand, using the dark curls of the woman crouched in fear to crane her head back as she screamed and thrashed until his brought the blade to her throat and slit it without any hesitation at all.

Blood gushed from the wound in a fountain of crimson. Dr. Wilder seized the cup from the floor, filling it with the woman's blood as she gaped, her eyes pleading him until they eventually fell, and so too did her body, limp on the floor.

Two different women vomited down the line as the others cried softly.

Dr. Wilder dipped his fingers into the goblet and smeared the contents over the initiate's forehead until the newly inducted member took the cup for himself, painting thick red all over his own face. Once he finished, he poured the remaining blood on top his head and mussed his hair to let out a barbaric yawp.

The onlookers cheered ceremoniously, "Per columbae!"

Dr. Wilder moved to the next.

And the next .

Over and over again the women screamed, gasped, and gurgled as they were murdered one by one. If anyone tried to run away, they were quickly apprehended and disposed of with a slice of the ceremonial knife. It was monsterous.

Sam sobbed quietly into her lap, the woman to my left prayed with fervor for her god to save her. And I…stared. Wholly, foolishly in denial—believing my brother or Ambrose would put a stop to it. Ambrose would burst in at any moment and bring Dr. Wilder to his knees for the rest of us to have our escape.

He had to.

I hoped, deep in my belly that he'd come.

That hope died as Dr. Wilder stood before Sam, his own robe splattered with glistening liquid and his hand covered in a slick coating of blood. He smiled, if one could even call it a smile, to the man behind Sam. "Walter Blackfield Jr."

My breath caught.

It truly was Walt.

God fucking dammit. It was Walt.

How could he?

"You do not know the joy it brings me to see you stood here with your dove, same as your father before you, and his father before him."

The tall, ominously ebony figure to my right pulled his hood down, exposing his sandy hair and taunt jaw.

My fucking brother.

"Walt," I breathed. His bulging eyes darted to me a moment before finding Dr. Wilder once more.

"Thank you for your patience and understanding, Father Wilder," Walt replied, voice tight. "It is an honor."

"Please, by all means. Join your rightful place. You were born for this, Walter." Dr. Wilder handed my brother the blood-soaked knife, which he spun in his hand a moment or two before grasping Sam's hair, staining the golden strands red .

She whimpered, her eyes still sealed shut as she neared hyperventilation.

I was going to be sick.

Sam merely looked at Walt, and all the air seemed to be sucked from the room. His jaw ticked and the grinding was practically audible.

"Walt, don't!" I begged. "Please, don't do this! You don't have to do this."

Sam gazed at me as Walt held the knife to her neck, determination etched over his features.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, over and over again, adjusting his grip on the ancient dagger. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I'm sorry."

"Breathe, young Walter. Allow Him to guide your hand, for you will be handsomely rewarded. They are not sacrifices because they are easy, are they, brothers?" Dr. Wilder asked those he had already helped commit murder. They answered their agreement in unison and my blood turned to ice.

"Don't do it, Walt," I urged once more, louder than before. "Fight with me and we'll get out of here."

"Will you ever just shut up!" Brian snapped, wrapping his hand around my neck as he pinned me to his legs.

I choked, clawing at him, fighting to pull away. "No! You sick fucks!"

He squeezed harder, crushing my windpipe.

"Make your sacrifice, Walter. Now," Dr. Wilder ordered, Walt's eyes darted from me, to Wilder, to Sam, and back again.

"I—" he sputtered. "I—I can't."

"You must!"

"Don't!" I gasped, fighting for air while Brian hauled me to my feet, keeping me locked against his chest with a grip of steel.

"Give me the damn knife!" Brian howled. He tore the blade from my brother and brought it to my throat .

Time slowed.

" What the fuck !" Walt drawled. He dropped Sam as the blade bit into my neck. Dr. Wilder held my gaze and the knife sliced, burning and dragging against my skin and deep into the layers of flesh. I wanted to scream, but it caught in my throat with shock. I couldn't move, couldn't fight, and for a moment acceptance found me once more.

They were all cheering for my death on the floor, each and every one of those cowards who hid behind their hood, they cheered for my death.

Me.

A girl who came from a loveless home.

Me.

A girl who fought to love herself, who tried her best in spite of it all.

Me.

They didn't know me and yet they still stood there and called for my death.

Did my father cheer for my death below?

And...I didn't get to tell Ambrose that I loved him.

It might have been some consolation to think I had shown him, but the regret of never having the opportunity to express it in so many words—that shattered my heart into a million pieces.

God, I hoped he knew that I loved him.

I closed my eyes as the blade neared the center of my throat and a blaze of agony erupted in its wake.

Thunder boomed through the Chamber, sharp and echoing. Everyone gasped, many ducked low in self-preservation, Brian included. His shock rendered his grip weak enough for me to snatch the knife from his hand and turn it on him.

"You cunt," he cursed, making for me until Walt came from behind and twisted Brian's neck in the most gruesome way.

He tumbled to the floor with a flop .

We locked eyes, unable to move.

Dr. Wilder screamed something but I was so far gone, so close to the void that the sound of his voice merely brought our attention to him.

He held a bloodied hand toward the Chamber doorway.

Someone's hand clasped around my throat, and I jerked away.

"Wha—"

"Just relax," Sam quavered. "I think he nicked your jugular. Walt, we have to stop the bleeding." The pressure was great as Sam attempted to slow the blood I hadn't yet noticed drenched down my neck and chest, staining the white satin the same crimson as the rubies.

"Vivian!" a voice called, frantic and desperate.

"How kind of you to join us, my son." Dr. Wilder pulled his hood down, a look of stern agitation over his otherwise stoic face.

Finally, finally, I caught sight of him dressed in a midnight robe. He shoved against the others and my shoulders sagged, the rush of adrenaline aptly running out. Exhaustion filled the space in its wake.

"Ambrose," I choked over the knot in my throat. His frantic eyes widened when he took me in, rushing to spring onto the dais with pantherlike reflexes.

His hands came over my cheeks and neck, my shoulders and arms and back up once more in assessment. "We need to get you to the hospital."

"We need something to slow the bleeding," Sam murmured, her hand was sticky against my neck.

"You'll take her nowhere." Dr. Wilder chimed. Fabric tore nearby, a careening sort of sound.

Ambrose replaced Sam's hand with a woolen cloth, applying excruciating pressure to my neck. "Vivian, and every other dove left in this room will be attending the hospital this evening."

"Like hell they will!" Dr. Wilder yanked his son back, shoving him off the dais.

"Ambrose!" I screamed, lunging toward him only to be caught in his father's arms. Ambrose landed on his feet with a lithe jolt, a storm of anger brewed in his eyes.

"Seize my son!" Dr. Wilder ordered. "Keep him well intact, he will atone!"

Several hands moved at once to hold Ambrose back, several hands who each released in due time as he fought their hold with such strength and determination I could be watch in amazement.

"You disgrace me, Ambrose. You should be honored ! Honored in the same way I was when your mother became my dove. Honored that her life goes to the continuation of our fair society! She ensures its future!"

Ambrose smirked, even as his father brought the blade to my throat once more.

"I love you," I said, fingers curled over his father's arm. "I do, I didn't get to say it earlier, but I?—"

"How touching," Dr. Wilder mocked. "It will be her blood you wear tonight, Ambrose. You will be re-initiated for your disgraceful actions."

Dr. Greene emerged from the crowd, assisting Ambrose in fighting back those who attempted to hold him hostage.

And Dr. Wilder's body came away from my own with a solid thud, rendering me off balance and gripping the air for something to steady myself. My fingers and toes had begun to tingle and the edges of the room twisted.

"Easy." Walt grabbed my forearms, allowing someone to clot my neck once more.

I sank gratefully against his chest .

They'd done it. Somehow they'd done it.

Dr. Wilder laid limp on the floor, his knife tucked into Walt's waistband.

"Alright, you pigs!" Ambrose boomed, climbing onto the dais. "This is the end. There will be no more White Dove, no more sacrifices. You can leave now, peacefully with the promise to keep the knowledge you hold to yourself, or you can die."

Chatter erupted throughout the space, from White Dove men and the few remaining women alike.

"You can't do that! You aren't Father Wilder!" someone shouted from the midst of the crowd.

Ambrose scoffed, his attention finally on his father who stirred at our feet. He gripped the gray hair of Dr. Wilder's head to lock eyes and it was clear the years of hurt threatened to spill to the surface.

I swallowed thickly.

"I want you to watch as I kill you. I want you to see my mother's face as I pull the trigger," Ambrose growled just low enough for his father's ears.

"You wouldn't dare," Dr. Wilder spat, tearing himself free of Ambrose's grip.

Ambrose pulled the gun from his robe, cocking it without hesitation. With a wicked, satisfied grin he pressed the muzzle against his father's forehead.

"‘Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.'"

He pulled the trigger.

My knees gave out from underneath as the world turned into a swirl of crimson chaos and shouts.