Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“How is it done in the states?”
“Well, as Scotland’s much older, I assume they’re using traditional methods. In the states, I think many of the headquarters have switched to electronic record keeping although for appearances they may keep old ledgers like this one. This, though.” he shines his flashlight into the book, turns a page to read what’s there. “They’re still using it. Last entry was just a few weeks ago. And. Holy shit. This can’t be right,” Sev mutters that last part to himself, the chair creaking as he sits down.
I don’t pay much attention because pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving are starting to come together.
I flip through the diary wanting to find one of the passages I’d read earlier but before I do, it falls open onto a page that’s heavy with a design drawn in pencil.
Vines.
Roses.
A dead bird.
I look up at the wall mounted piece. It’s hard to find the bird in the dark but I’m sure it’s there. I’d bet my life on it.
But it’s not the bird I’m searching for. The bird doesn’t matter. It’s the name in the middle of the sketch.
The same name that’s on the fucking wall.
Fairbairn.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Sev mutters, and when I turn to look at him, he drags his gaze to mine, worry creasing his brows.
“What?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest because it’s all starting to come together. Why they didn’t just kill us. Why they brought us here. Why they’ve been treating Amal like royalty when I expected the complete opposite. It’s all coming together, but it’s impossible. It can’t be.
“What’s Amal’s mother’s maiden name?” Sev asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Jet,” Sev says and I walk over to the desk to look at what he’s looking at.
“What the fuck is this?” I hear myself ask because what I’m looking at is a photo of a woman standing in front of the wall now at my back. She’s wearing a sundress, her hands clasped over her stomach. One of those where the wearer could weigh ninety pounds or nine-hundred. The most wrong part? It could be a photo of Amal. I pick it up. “This isn’t possible.”
“How old is Amal?” Sev asks.
“It’s not—"
“Turn it over, Jet.”
I drag my gaze to my brother and hear the only sound in the room. A thudding. It’s my heart.
I flip the photo over. Read the name written in old-fashioned script. Liliana Fairbairn.
Amal’s mother is Lily. Was Lily. She’s dead. At least that’s what Amal told me.
“Did you know?” Sev asks.
“I don’t even think she knows.” I shift my gaze to Severin’s. “I’m going to get my wife. I’m going to get her and we’re going to get the fuck off this island if I have to kill everyone on it to do it!”
“Wait, Jet.” Sev grabs my arm to stop me rushing to the door. “There’s more.”
“What more? Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.” I shove the diary back into my pocket as I pull free of Sev and rush to the door but as I pull it open, someone on the outside pushes against it and soldiers rush inside, four of them.
My brother mutters a curse as Senna follows the four men. If it was any night but tonight, it would be comical how small he looks in comparison to the soldiers. How almost serene with his arms folded beneath the cloak all Society men own.
“Gentlemen,” Senna says as hands close over my arms to keep me from pouncing.
Someone switches on a light, and I watch him take in the room, his head tilting in curiosity as he walks toward the intricate carving on the wall.
“There is something to be said for the old ways,” he says. He then turns to us. A soldier escorts my brother to stand beside me.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demand. Was it him in that mask? He who arranged for someone to wear it knowing it would pull the rug out from under me? Senna knows everything that happened. All the terrible details.
He shifts his gaze from the wall to the desk, takes in the ledger Sev was very obviously reading then looks back at us.
“Thought you’d gotten lost.”
“Was it you, you bastard?” I demand, tugging at the two sets of arms holding onto me.
“You are not guests here, gentlemen. Please do bear that in mind. Any courtesy extended to you is at my request. And trust me, you should be grateful. Robertson would just as soon see you both at the bottom of the sea and forget all about you.”
“Well, you’ll forgive us for not falling over ourselves with gratitude,” Sev says, surprising me and, apparently, Senna.
“Severin, you disappoint me. I thought you’d be the reasonable one.”
“Where’s the contract. We’d like to sign it and go. Let you all get back to your… celebration.”