“Actually, I’m going to play devil’s advocate on this one. None of us are the firstborns in our families, so technically we wouldn’t be invited to join,” Easton interrupts, giving his own non-committal smirk to Colt’s cold-fronted stare. “Just stating facts.” Easton shrugs, leaning back on the bed, his elbows keeping his torso up.
“You’re not helping, East,” Colt chides, his eyes yelling at him to shut the fuck up. Colt then turns over to Lincoln with a more sympathetic appearance, and hoping to bring his cousin to his senses, he tries to mitigate and says, “Listen to me, Linc. There is no such thing. The Society is just a story that college kids talk about in dark corners of libraries or drunk at frat parties, trying to add some excitement to campus life. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Unfortunately for all of us, Linc’s expression continues to be steadfast, bringing an uneasy chill to creep up my bones.
“Why? Why are you asking about The Society?” Colt queries unnervingly once again, his tone beginning to show some loss of his self-assured confidence.
“Because I think we just got our recruitment papers,” Lincoln proclaims, throwing an envelope that was tucked in his back pocket onto the bed.
All four of us look silently at the black envelope, sitting neatly on the mattress between Easton and me as if it were a bomb ready to explode.
“What the fuck is this?” Easton questions as he bravely picks it up, while I try to scoot my body as far as I can away from the cursed thing without dropping off the bed entirely.
As East examines the envelope, back and front, the first thing I notice is the unusual, red seal attached to the black paper. I can’t make out the design for sure, but if I had to guess, it looks like some sort of elaborate pentagram. The other thing that immediately captures my attention is how the seal has been broken, hinting that Lincoln already knows the contents of the envelope.
“Read it,” Lincoln orders coldly, and Colt, looking a little bit worse for wear, takes the necessary steps to join us on the bed so he can assess the contents with his own eyes.
Easton takes one more look at our troubled friend, who continues to keep his distance from the wretched thing. Linc’s vigilantly cautious demeanor is so unlike him, it even has Easton opening the envelope with care, worried it might contain a tripwire that could go off with the slightest miscalculated touch. Ever so carefully, East pulls out a folded, black stationery paper from the wax-sealed envelope. As he unfolds it, I catch a glimpse of gold lettering and the same familiar, red seal stamped at the bottom of the page.
Easton clears his throat before starting to read each word out loud. As his voice begins to crack with each sentence, so does my spirit. My mouth runs dry, and the fist that has been clutching my heart since this horrific nightmare began gives it another infernal squeeze, letting me know the worst is yet to come.
“This has got to be some sort of macabre joke,” Colt chokes out, ripping the letter from Easton’s trembling hands so he can have a read through of his own.
“I don’t find it particularly funny,” I snap back, getting up from my seat, franticly pacing the varnished wood floor as I usually do when I find myself too overwhelmed.
I’ve never been one to keep still when shit hits the fan. My body’s default mechanism is always to keep moving, so my mind can take its time to process the information to avoid a full meltdown. And right now, my feet can’t keep up with all the wheels turning in my head.
“It’s not a joke. Whoever sent this letter knows what happened that night,” Easton adds, his face stoic and unfeeling, already coming to terms with the notion that, somehow, someone out there knows what happened in this house last spring.
“That’s absurd. We were the only ones here! How could anyone have found out?” Colt tries to reason, but when he starts grabbing at the ends of his hair, showing his aggravation, it’s a telltale sign he’s no longer as certain that this so-called society is nothing but an old wives’ tale. “Linc, when did you get this?” Colt interrogates, clutching the envelope in his grip, and rereading each damning word for the third time.
“Last night. Right before I texted all of you.”
Colt nods on autopilot, while his green eyes scrutinize every sentence as if he’ll find some missed clue as to who sent it.
“Okay. I don’t want any of us doing something stupid. This,” Colt says after a long silent pause, holding up the evil paper in his hands, “could just be someone fucking with us. No one knows shit. As long as we keep our mouths shut and pretend everything is fine, nothing will come from this.”
“You sure about that, Colt? What if whoever is behind this letter sends another one and doesn’t like the fact that we haven’t followed their instructions? You sure you’re okay with everyone finding out what we’ve done, especially from someone who might not be as forgiving with the details of that night?”
“No one will find out, Easton!” Colt yells, demonstrating how rattled he is.
I swallow dryly as I watch my two best friends butt heads. I dread that the collision of the fire and ice coursing through their veins could be worse than whatever The Society might have planned for us.
“Hey, assholes! This is not the time for you two to start your shit. We’ve got bigger fish to fry,” I chastise, bringing the two hotheads to heal.
It feels unfamiliar that I am the voice of reason. Usually, this type of stuff is Lincoln’s area of expertise. He’s always been the glue that kept our band of brothers together. The one friend we could count on who would pacify our tempers, keep us sane through our messed-up lives. However Linc’s mind is miles away, not even registering that his two best friends are ready to go at each other’s throats because of the unknown threat that may, or may not, be headed our way.
“Linc, this is your show, man. Whatever you want us to do, we’re behind you one hundred percent. It’s your call. How do you want to play this?” I add insistently, hoping that my plea is enough to slice through his apathetic state.
All our eyes fall on the friend who has more to lose than the rest of us combined, praying that his head is cool enough to get us out of this mess.
Again.
“For the time being, we can’t do much but wait,” he states pensively.
“Wait?” I exclaim flabbergasted, not liking that plan at all. “I’d rather we find these fuckers and punch some sense into them. They have no idea who they are fucking with.”
Fuck waiting. I’m more of an offense kind of guy. Show me the target, and I’m like a bull in the ring. Waiting for the shoe to drop is why I’ve been a fucking mess lately. I’d rather do something than sit on my ass, waiting for the next shitstorm to implode.
“I think they do, Finn. And violence isn’t the answer. For now, at least,” Lincoln replies, his frame suddenly turning rigid with an impenetrable, steel wall beginning to take form and rise around him.
Lincoln’s ocean-blue eyes resemble a storm of ungodly retribution. Looking at his demeanor, I’m no longer fearful of the person who believes himself to be the puppet master but troubled by the man who actually is. How far is Lincoln willing to go to keep our secret intact? From where I’m standing, his haughty glower screams that nothing is off the table.