27. Piper

27

PIPER

JANUARY 2, 10:10 P.M.

I know Vivian's recognized him at the exact moment I do.

Detective Rutherford, the man who's supposed to be finding Lily, is here, calling himself the Lieutenant and leading this… whatever this is. I don't have a name for it, the way the men in the crowd are staring at him, enraptured by his speech like he's a preacher at the pulpit and they're his loyal congregation. Is that what this is to them? A church? It has all the makings of the cults I've heard about in documentaries and podcasts, the kind I always think I'd never be dumb or desperate enough to join—only this cult is made up of people I'm supposed to trust.

Glancing around the room, I try to put names to the masked faces, but it's impossible in the dim light. Even the boys, some of whom look young enough to go to Beaumont, are hard to pin down. This room could be full of Dad's friends, or the other Maids' fathers, even our classmates—men who are supposed to be good and smart and capable. Men who are looking at us like we're animals, something to shake bells at.

Men who turned my father in.

I clench my fists, wanting so badly to rush forward and con nect them with every face, stomach, or nether region they can find. But we can't give up our cover. We have to play the Maids they want us to be.

I breathe in, out. Lift my chin.

"Today has been a difficult day for our Krewe," Marty says. "We were forced to sacrifice one of our own for the good of the brotherhood."

Dad. He's talking about Dad. I close my fists even tighter, squeezing until my fingers hurt so I don't scream.

"But gentlemen, tonight is not about loss. What Deus takes, He gives. And tonight is a night of celebration. Tonight, we welcome our newest members into the fold."

Marty's focus shifts to the younger faces in the room, and a sick feeling spreads through me. Milford said the sons of Deus members can be initiated once they're eighteen. How many of these boys do I know?

Has Wyatt done this already?

"These young men represent the best and brightest of what our city has to offer. They truly understand what makes a Deus man great: respect, strength, and devotion to their families, to their women, and most importantly, to our Krewe. They herald the coming of our future. A new Deus, stronger and greater than before. Tonight, we welcome them!"

The older men in the room erupt into the kind of cheering they do at football games, breaking from their quiet reverence into raucous masculinity. Marty lets it go on for a while before raising his hands to quiet the congregation.

"And tonight, we have another special cause for celebration. Our very own prodigal son, once fallen from our brotherhood, has returned to our ranks. I invite him to come forward so that we may officially welcome him."

Marty extends an arm to a cluster of men. They part like the Red Sea as one of them takes an uncertain step toward us: a tall man, his face hidden by a wolf mask.

Not a wolf, I think. A Rougarou. Just like April said—the man on the balcony, the one who brought Margot here. The one who killed her.

"Come on, now." Marty grins. "Don't be shy."

There are a few whoops and claps as the Rougarou comes closer, until he's face-to-face with Marty.

"We welcome you back tonight as a reminder that for all Deus takes, He has infinitely more to give. May all of our sins be washed away." Marty bows his head. "And as a sign of His mighty forgiveness, we have another gift for you."

Marty gestures to another man, who comes forward with a crown perched on a golden cushion. I recognize it. The Deus crown, the one the King wears every year on Mardi Gras. With a bow, the man hands the crown to Marty, who lifts it like it's made of real gold and diamonds instead of brass and moissanite.

"Tonight," Marty tells the Rougarou, "you wear this crown. But remember, gentlemen, that no matter who serves as Deus, this crown belongs to us all. Omnes nos reges. All of us kings."

He sets the crown on the Rougarou's head.

"But lest we forget, no king is complete without a queen to rule. As a final gift, your Majesty, we invite you to select your own from tonight's crop of beautiful mistresses." Marty turns toward us, the women in the center, with a wolflike glint in his eyes. "Though we have welcomed them as guests into our circle, all of our mistresses understand their place: to stand at the side of a king. To share their beauty so that we may protect it. To honor and obey us, and to always be grateful that we have chosen them."

Another grin snakes across Marty's face, and disgust churns low in my stomach. It's exactly what Aiden suspected: these men want to go back to a time when they were in charge, when everything was theirs to own, women included, even as they hide it under the guise of protecting us. Celebrating us. Only it's worse—because it's not just the old guard clinging to their ways. They're initiating the next generation. Indoctrinating them.

The anger is so strong that for a moment, I forget my fear. But then the Rougarou comes closer, and I feel us all instinctively press closer together, like a pack protecting its own. I reach for Vivian's hand. She squeezes back, her palm slick.

The Rougarou's gaze skates over the group, lingering, for a moment, on me. My heart nearly stops. His stare isn't predatory—it's vacant. Like he's just moving through choreography, almost outside of his body. His eyes shift from me to Vivian, and then the next girl, before landing on Renee.

He steps toward her, extending his hand like a marionette, and I feel a brief flash of relief that it isn't me before dread fills up my chest.

"An excellent choice. Wouldn't you say?" Marty elbows the man in the raven mask—the one Renee was standing with before—who lifts his hands in playful surrender.

Some of the other men chuckle, but Renee doesn't make a sound as the Rougarou takes her hand, pulling her out of the center.

Vivian's fingers dig into my palm. We have to do something, but it's like my entire body is made of stone. All I can do is watch as the Rougarou leads Renee up to the throne, where they stand side by side. I try to catch her eyes, but she's staring out into the dark room.

"And now," Marty continues, "we invite the rest of our new initiates to come forward and select a mistress of their own."

No. I want to cry out, but any voice I might have had dies in my throat as the other young men approach us. Some are more tentative, like the Rougarou was at first, but others reach for their choice the way they'd pull a T-shirt from a hanger, rough and decisive, expressionless.

There's a tug at my arm, and when I turn to face the boy in front of me, I instantly recognize his muddy eyes. But they don't look dangerous or violent—only regretful.

"I tried to tell you," Milford mutters under his breath.

A small gasp pulls my attention to Vivian, who's just been picked by another familiar boy. It takes me a second to recognize the thick, scruffy neck and football physique, since he looks so uncharacteristically ashamed.

Jason Broussard.

"I'm sorry," I hear him whisper.

Two of the Beaumont Dukes, both getting initiated to this terrible place. Rage burns away at me. It's almost worse, somehow, that they both seem sorry—because they didn't have to come here. Maybe their fathers brought them into it, but they could have resisted. They had a choice.

And so did Dad.

The thought deflates me enough that I don't struggle as Milford loops his arm through mine. We're all paired off now, each girl with an initiate, and I find myself scanning for Wyatt. I don't see him anywhere. That, at least, is a relief.

But it doesn't last long. Marty steps to the bottom of the throne, facing us all with a look of twisted pride.

"Tonight, gentlemen, these mistresses are yours. They are a reminder of the power you hold as a member of our Krewe: the power to protect and honor, but also"—another slimy smirk—"the freedom to enjoy. For everything we desire is ours by birthright. Don't forget it, no matter how hard some may try to convince us otherwise." He gestures to another man, who hands him a golden goblet. Marty holds it up. "Sons of Deus, do you accept your position in this Krewe and promise to uphold its values, observe its duties, and always, above all, protect its brotherhood?"

"We do," the young men say in unison. Milford's voice is weak in my ear.

Marty drinks whatever's in the goblet and then raises it high.

"Hail, Deus!" he calls.

"Hail, Deus!" the room echoes.

"On your knees," Marty orders, and when none of the men move, I realize he means us. The women. The mistresses. "On your knees!"

The command ripples through us like a shock wave, and suddenly, we're all obeying, dropping to the ground. My hands start to shake as I press my palms to the bloodred carpet, like I can't support my own weight. The weight of this.

"Hail, Deus!" Marty shouts again.

This time, the echo is a harsh bark. "Hail, Deus!"

All at once, the cowbells start to clang again, so sharply it makes me cower, getting closer and closer as the men close in on us, shaking the bells right in our ears. My blood pounds, heating my face, and just when I think I can't bear it anymore, I feel another pair of eyes on me, and I look up.

Marty gives me a smile that says, The jig is up, that he's seen through my disguise all along. That he wanted me to watch this. My mouth opens, the terror and rage rushing up into something—maybe a sob, maybe a scream—but it never gets the chance to decide what it wants to be.

Because that's when the camera flashes.

There's a moment of confusion as everyone turns to find the source, but Marty's stare has snapped directly toward it.

"You." He sneers at April, standing just a few steps into the main room, her camera pointed directly at the throne.

And then a new figure materializes from the darkness.

The Jester, looking like he's been hiding there in the shadows all along, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.