The Last Housewife (55)

In the fireplace, the flames crackled. And I understood.

Laurel hadn’t been tattooed. She’d been branded, like cattle. And now this man wanted to do it to me.

A cold wave of fear washed through me. Instinctively, I took a step back, nearly tripping over my tangled dress. “No. There has to be another way.”

“Submit,” the Lieutenant said. “Or leave, and never come back.”

I couldn’t do either. If I let him brand me, I’d wear their mark for the rest of my life. There’d be no escaping. But if I didn’t, how would I ever know the truth about how Laurel died, or who was pulling the strings behind the Pater Society, whether Don was masquerading as the Philosopher? If Laurel had been killed, how would I avenge her? The urge to protect myself warred against the possibility of losing Laurel all over again. In the end, which was the more unbearable pain?

“Open your mouth and say yes,” the Lieutenant demanded.

The command tugged at a long-buried instinct. I spoke around the recording device, whispering, “Yes.”

The Lieutenant pointed to the floor in front of the fireplace. “Kneel.”

Laurel did this, I told myself. If she could do it, so can you.

I dropped to my knees, feeling the heat of the fire on my side searing my skin.

“Call us traditionalists.” The Lieutenant’s voice was light, almost lazy. He stuck the iron in the flames and rotated it like a spit. “Men and women who believe in the old ways. People come to us when they’re lost, when they can’t understand why they feel alienated and alone. We teach them, give them the meaning they long for, connection without artifice. We’re a refuge. Here, people become their truest selves. All you need to do is to listen to your Paters.”

He pulled the iron from the fire. The temple glowed red-hot. I bit down on my tongue so hard I reopened the wound from the night I’d dreamed of Laurel and tasted coppery blood.

“Lift your arm.”

I did, feeling dizzy, even down here on my knees. Once, I’d abandoned Laurel and Clem when they’d needed me. What would I do to make up for my past?

The answer was anything.

He gripped my wrist and pressed the brand to my arm. Vicious, seething pain knifed through me, the worst I’d ever felt. I screamed and jerked, but the Lieutenant held me tight.

“Daughters practice radical humility in order to ascend,” he said, voice low and calm against my choking. “When a Pater tells you to do something, you say, ‘Yes, Pater,’ and you do it. You’ll attend every gathering and do exactly as you’re told. If you’re lucky, and a Pater wants to take you under his wing, he’ll honor you by asking for your personal service. Nicole is often honored, aren’t you?”

Through my tears, I saw Nicole nod. Her face was starkly pale.

“And I will warn you,” the Lieutenant said, his voice turning low and flat. “We’re everywhere. Where you least expect us. We’re a dangerous enemy. If you tell someone about us, we’ll know. Do you understand? No whispers to family or friends. No doctors. No matter what.”

I was in agony. He removed the iron from my arm, and the sudden stench of burning flesh made bile rise in my throat. It was the smell of my skin dying. The temple blazed a bright, raw red. There was no going back.

He walked to the table and laid down the iron. “You’ll stay quiet. And if you don’t, what will happen, Nicole?”

“She’ll come for you,” Nicole said softly.

My head lifted. “She?” I forced the word through the pain. “Who?”

The Lieutenant lunged and seized me by the hair so hard I tumbled, hands catching the floor, the recording device almost falling out of my mouth. He gripped me tight enough for new tears to sting my eyes.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

I gritted my teeth and lifted my eyes to meet his.

“You don’t ask questions anymore. Nod if you understand.”

I nodded, blinking back tears.

“Good.” He swept a hand at me. “See her home.”

Nicole bent to me. “Put on your clothes.”

With shaking hands, I pulled them on, barely able to think beyond the throbbing in my arm. Nicole tugged me out of the room, shutting the door behind us. To my surprise, we didn’t turn in the direction of the door. Instead, she moved me swiftly down the hall, deeper into the house.

“Give it a week,” she said, tightening her grip on my elbow. “The burning will fade, and then it will be something you’re proud of.”

I couldn’t imagine it would ever fade. My arm burned so white-hot it was as if the iron was still pressed against my skin. I had a sudden vision of Cal seizing my wrist and shouting, red-faced, What the hell is this?

I turned my head from Nicole and cupped my hand to my mouth, spitting out the recording device, sliding it back into my bra. “Where are we going?” It took everything to push the words out.

Her gaze stayed locked ahead. “You deserve something for enduring that. No one will notice if we stick to the outskirts.”

I held my arm gingerly, struggling to keep pace with her.

Nicole gave me a knowing look. “That night at Tongue-Cut Sparrow, I knew you weren’t lying about what you wanted. I could see it in your eyes. The Paters are going to change your life.”

We came to a sweeping staircase, and she started climbing. “It’s up here.” She hopped up the stairs, a flash of pale skin and red hair, and I had the sudden delirious thought that Laurel wasn’t my White Rabbit—Nicole was. Pulling me deeper into this dark wonderland, where up was down and everyone was mad.