Page 45 of Tether
Nothing but a date and a time are scrawled on it.
Basement. 1:30 p.m.
My head whips towards the clock above the door. 1:38 p.m. “Shit,” I mutter beneath my breath, gathering my books and shoving them haphazardly into my satchel. I ignore the professor’s glare as I slip out of the lecture hall.
Anticipation weighs heavy in my chest as I make my waythrough the basement tunnels, trusting my feet to bring me where I need to go based on luck alone. Pulling the black robe Reed gifted me after initiation over my clothing, I tuck the journal into the pocket. I pull the hood up high over my head, the fabric itchy against my skin as I swing the heavy door to the meeting open. Figures in robes, some with masks, some without, crowd the space. It’s near silent, save for the soft murmurs wafting through the room. I thread myself between bodies, heading in the direction everyone is facing, my eyes darting around the room for Reed.
When I make it to the front of the room, my breath catches in my throat. Reed stands on the dais without a mask, leisurely pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. On the far end of the dais, a man, shirtless, is on his knees between two members, his head hung low.
Someone to the right suddenly bumps into my shoulder, launching me sideways into the member next to me with anumph. They hardly budge, as if I’m nothing but a fly. I peer up at the mountain I’ve just collided with, and a set of emerald eyes stares back at me.
“Right on time,” Jenkins says, with a wickedly smug look on his face. He cradles his bandaged hand against his chest, and I’m shocked he’s even here at all after what happened.
It takes me a second to form words, debating if I should even speak to him at all after his cruelty towards me. “What’s going on?” I swallow the bile snaking up my throat.
“You’re about to find out,” he says, grinning.
“The Hollow Iris Society is built on loyalty and trust.” Reed’s voice rumbles through the room, and the murmurs quiet down. “This society has existed for decades because no one outside these walls knows it exists. Not classmates, not professors, and especially not lovers.” His gaze drops to the member on his knees before him. Whispers ripple through the room and are quickly hushed.
“Tonight,” he says, voice eerily calm. “One person decided that their need to confess, to behonest,mattered more than the safety of everyone standing here.” Reed paused, his hands flexing at his sides. His gaze hesitantly breaks from the man, and his eyes sweep the swarm of members deliberately, as if counting them. As if searching for someone. I make myself scarce. “Silence is not optional. It’s mandatory.” His features harden, but a soft smile cracks at the corner of his lips. “Take this as a lesson, all of you, that actions reap consequences.”
Reed spins on his heel and drives his fist into the member’s cheekbone. A loud crack sounds throughout the room. The member falls to the ground just as Reed’s fist drives into him again. A loud commotion ripples through the crowd, and I’m shoved backwards. My heart hammers in my ears, confusion and concern wound so tight within me I might burst. The seconds feel like molasses, sticky and slow, trapping me here. Speckles of blood burst into the air, coating Reed’s cheeks like freckles, and dousing his knuckles in a deep crimson. His eyes are wild and furious. He’s maskless and no longer hiding behind the facade of a wolf. This time, it’s just Reed, and he’s almost as unrecognizable to me as the face of his victim. I clutch the journal harder, suddenly feeling protective of it.
Sometimes, bad people wear masks to hide their true selves from the good they take advantage of.Mauve’s voice rings in my ears as I slowly, speechlessly, back away into the small crowd. Between the gaps of the people, I watch Reed stand up and scour the members, searching. I turn and slip out the door without him or anyone noticing, gripping the journal like a lifeline.
TWENTY-NINE
VERENA GRAVENHURST
April 8th, 2021
I have spent most of my life believing that truth is a beacon of light in the darkness. That if someone is brave enough to chase it, the lies that bury it will recede out of respect. Hollowcrest cured me of that illusion.
My sweet Lilliana’s death has been reduced to physics and probability. A freak accident that transpired from a mix of weather, recklessness, and inattention. I have tried, in good faith, to accept the story the Hollowcrest Police Department handed me. I stayed up late into the night rereading the report until my eyes blurred.
She inherited my hunger for understanding, my refusal to leave a single question unanswered in search of the truth. I taught her how to read between the lines in order to survive the cruelties of Hollowcrest, of the world, but I failed to teach her when or how to stop.
Maybe in the end, the accident was my fault. Maybe the weight of the truth she carried that night, while leaving themanor, left her distracted. As a grieving father, I would accept and carry that as the truth. It was my job to protect her, after all. But as a logical man, I refuse to see anything but the truth. I know my daughter. She was not careless and so easily distraught. She never let the weight of her emotions cloud her judgment. The word accident sits on the report like an insult, because deep down, I know this was no accident at all.
There are never accidents in Hollowcrest, and I will not rest until I discover who took her from me.
The pads of my fingers skim over the black ink of my grandfather’s penmanship, the weight of his words causing an ache to settle in my chest. I found myself curled up in the leather sectional of the library soon after arriving back at the manor, and time seemed to slip away from me. His entries have been nothing but normal up until now. I told myself I’d find all the answers within the pages of his journal, but with each flip of the page, I’m only troubled with more. He thinks the accident wasn’t an accident at all, and the thought of that being true opens up a wound in my chest I have tried to heal for so long. I wipe away a tear that found its way down my cheek, swallow hard against the knot that’s formed at the back of my throat, and flip to the next entry. A sudden chill wafts through the library, and I tuck my feet onto the couch, pulling a soft knitted blanket over my limbs.
“Please don’t tell me you’re upset over some book you’ve pulled from the romance section,” a teasing voice says from the doorway, and to my surprise, I don’t even flinch at the sudden noise. I don’t know how long he’s been there, and honestly, I don’t care all that much. A strange numbness has settled within me. The moon seeps through the grand window to my left, setting the library in a soft blue glow. A cheeky grin tugs atthe corner of Loxen’s mouth as he saunters towards me, then suddenly drops when my eyes meet his. He must see the melancholy bleeding through my features, because his expression softens. He doesn’t say a word as he takes a seat next to me, and the cushion dips under his weight. He’s so close I can practically feel him against my skin, yet somehow he’s entirely too far. His presence has become a balm to my aching heart and spiralling mind because once my mouth opens, it doesn’t know how to stop.
“Last night, after you left my grandfather’s office, I found his journal,” I admit to him, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t tell a single soul about it after everything that happened today. Hollowcrest is full of secrets, it seems, and it was only right I have one of my own. But something about Loxen makes me want to crack myself open—shatter myself into a million little pieces so that maybe he could put me back together in the right way, undamaged, and whole. I peer up at him from beneath my lashes, and he sinks further into the couch, his long legs sprawled lazily in front of him. Loxen stares at me with a kind of reverence, like I’m a wound he wants to heal. Maybe even like I’m not someone he despises anymore, but someone he understands.
“I’ve been sitting here reading his entries for hours. I’m not even halfway through, yet I’m left with more questions than answers. Questions about my mother, and the accident that took her away from me forever. About the academy and the—” I cut myself off, shaking my head, not wanting to say anything that would incriminate me with the society. “I have questions about who my grandfather truly was…there’s so much I need to know so that my damaged heart can heal from the trauma my family has endured.”
Loxen nods, like he understands. Like maybe he feels this way, too. “We’re all a little damaged, Verena. That’s what makes you human,” he says after a long moment.
“And how are you supposed to know all the answers anyway, when you’ve only made it through half of the story?”
His eyes drop to the journal, though the meaning behind his words reach way beyond it. “What if the ending isn’t what you expect? It rarely is, after all. All stories, no matter the writer, hold secrets. It’s inevitable. Every story is half-truth, half-lie. And maybe you won’t uncover all the secrets at the end. Hell, maybe you won’t even like the ones you do find. And that’s okay, because the only truth worth holding onto is your own. You can uncover all the facts, but the only story that truly matters is the one rooted right here,” he says, pointing to the flesh above his heart.
I nod, and we hold each other’s stare, understanding settling in the air between us. I try to think of Loxen’s story, and all the secrets a man like him must keep. It’s then I realize I don’t know much about him at all. My eyes narrow on Loxen as I slouch back into the armrest, facing him, and make myself comfortable. “And what about you?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He quirks a brow. “What about me?”
