Good Girls Lie(92)

“I don’t disagree.”

“Swallows!”

Twin One and Twin Two, Miranda and Amanda, have appeared from the tunnel. They are dressed in cardinal red, like identical handmaidens, and stand by the door to the red staircase with manic grins on their faces.

“Follow,” one of them intones and pulls up her hood. Oh, great. Now they’re wearing spooky-ass hoods that scream ritual sacrifice. This is going to be a blast. Maybe I was better off alone in the woods.

The dirt tunnel path to the cabin has been trod often enough now that the cobwebs are gone. We dart through the tunnels in pairs for safety’s sake, so no one falls down, trailing after the spooky sisters as they lead us deep into campus. Jordan grips my hand so hard the bruises Becca left the night of Camille’s death flare up and I have to get her to switch sides.

We enter the cabin, which is dark except for candles lined up on the oak table and a fire in the fireplace, the first time I’ve seen one. It makes the damp space warm and cozy, and I’d relax if I weren’t so scared.

“Oh! This is it,” Jordan says, and the note of excitement in her voice steadies me a bit. “Whatever they have in store for us is going to happen tonight, early, because the police are roaming campus and they don’t want to wait any longer to make us sisters. They must be about to get in trouble for the hazing.”

“They’re initiating us?”

A twin barks, “Shut up, Swallows, or we’ll shut your mouths for you. Silence. Now.”

The Falconers are dressed in red robes, covered head to foot. All that’s missing is our leader. As I start looking for her, she detaches herself from the shadows behind us. Becca is resplendent in black, her hood covering her sunny hair. She is a crow. A raven.

Our Mistress.

We are placed in line, given a drink and a pill. This isn’t a little one like the Ecstasy, and I’m immediately worried about what it might be. I can’t lose control, not now. Not with so much at stake.

But when I try to refuse, my mouth is pried open and the pill pushed in, the bottle clanked against my teeth until I swallow it all down.

It doesn’t take long to start working, I feel woozy almost immediately.

The bottle is passed again, and again.

They build up the fire in the grate. It is then that I notice the poker in Becca’s hand. The tip glows red in the coals.

Murmurs begin. The acrid scent of sweat and panic fills the room.

Oh, no. No way. They’re going to burn us?

The end of the poker has a curl on it. I realize it is the stylized wing of a bird in flight.

Not burn. Brand.

I don’t want to do this. This is crazy. It’s archaic. Inhumane.

Standing there with a red-hot poker in her hands, flanked by the red-robed Falconers, Becca intones about the meaning of Ivy Bound. About why we were chosen. About each girl’s strengths, what she brings to the group.

She runs through all thirteen of us. Giving us the why.

The reasons vary. Humor. Kindness. Intelligence. Fortitude.

When she gets to me, I find it hard to meet her eyes.

“Ash. You were fragile. Hurt. And yet you faced your fears with formidable internal strength. You are the heart of Ivy Bound. You are its soul. You will forevermore have sisters by your side to hold you up, who will sip at your power when they need their own. Your service to your sisters will go down in legend. You will never be alone again.”

It’s probably the pill and vodka, but I can’t help myself from grinning. The smile in her eyes makes all of this worth it. Whatever else has happened, I have found someone special. She may be mercurial, but part of that is the situation into which I’ve been thrust, as a Swallow. Now that we’re sisters—equals—we can begin our real friendship.

She finishes reciting the reasons for inclusion to the end of the line, then puts the brand in the fire again and beckons the first girl toward her.

There are screams. Faints. Stoicism. Tears. I stay in line, hands tucked under my arms to keep them from shaking, and shuffle my way forward. I am midway now. Four to go. Three. Two. And then, finally, it’s my turn.

Despite the vodka, despite whatever pill I’ve taken, when I raise my shaking left arm and let Becca force the flaming hot metal into my rib cage to the left of my breast, equal latitude to my heart, I want to scream. It is agonizing. It is the most pain I’ve ever experienced, willingly or otherwise. But I grit my teeth. Tears pour down my face. I deserve this torture. It is cleansing, this pain. So intense, so severe. There’s something about it I like.

And then it is over, though the sting remains. I am dipped in petroleum jelly and wrapped in some sort of plastic and sent to the end of the line, where Twin One is waiting with another dose of something to take away the pain, the cares, the worries. I down it gratefully.

When the last screams die out, Becca kicks dirt onto the fire, then faces us.

“Ivy Bound is based on integrity. You were chosen for your strength and your honor. You shine as an example of the best of Goode. The finest character, the strongest personalities, the kindest hearts. You have all been tested and found worthy. Welcome to the sisterhood.”

There is cheering, hugs. Falconers and Swallows merge into a mass of sweaty, drunk, stoned girls.

Swallows and Falconers no longer. The Mistress no longer.

We are one now.

We are sisters.

We are Ivy Bound.