Page 27 of The October Trials

I watch the exact second his spine gives way, the arrogance shattering behind his eyes like cheap glass. He drops to his knees, huffing, and grabs the rusted handles with both hands.

The crack of bone is louder than the wood creaking under him.

He screams, the sound echoing up into the rafters where my mother is listening. I know she’ll enjoy it just as much as I am. Dropping the blood-soaked pliers, he cradles his hand against his stomach, weeping onto the Persian carpet.

“Get up and get back in your seat, crybaby.”

I pick the pliers back up, wipe the grease off the handle with my thumb, and move down the line.

To my little bird.

The room is holding its breath now.

Blair doesn’t look away when I stop in front of her. Her mouth is swollen, the faint red imprint of my fingers still fading from the curve of her jaw.

She looks claimed. By me.

“Number seven,” I murmur. “Lucky number seven.”

“Dare,” she blurts out.

Damn it. I wanted her to pick truth, for the house to tell me what kind of secrets she’s hiding behind those big blue eyes.

I reach down, pick up a small crystal glass filled with tap water from the tray, and set it before her.

“Take the water,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “Balance the glass on the back of your left hand. Hold it there, perfectly level, while you count backward from fifty. Don’t spill a drop.”

Blair blinks, stunned. “That—that’s it?”

After a nod, she picks the glass up and starts counting. Fifty. Forty-nine.

“That’s not fucking fair!” Christian roars from his spot at the table.

I cross the room to him in two strides, leaning down to hiss in his face. “Shut the fuck up. In case you haven’t realized, I am the one in charge, I decide what happens to her. Open your mouth again, and I will cut your tongue out with my knife.”

I grab his hand, the one with the broken pinky, and slam it down onto the table. He jerks with a startled cry just as Blair gets to one and sets the glass down.

That’s what he gets for refusing to join the Legion.

When I turn back, my father is staring directly at me, cold. He always said weakness for women was not tolerated in this family.

A cold prickle of defensiveness runs down my back. I need to erase that look from his face. I need to remind him whose blood is in my veins. I don’t wait for her to finish. I turn on my heel and walk straight to Susan at the far end.

Susan is sixty, maybe sixty-five. Only here because her useless grandson ran away at the last minute, and when we went to pay him a visit, my second-in-command decided she would take his place.

She’s already hyperventilating, her sweater soaked in cold sweat, clutching a silver crucifix at her throat like it might actually summon God here to help.

God doesn’t live here, not in this house.

“D-Dare,” she gasps. “Dare, please, God, dare—”

Hm. It seems everyone here has some truths they’re afraid of revealing, as Sloane did. Humans are amusing sometimes. They’d rather withstand physical pain than tell the truth of their sins.

I walk to the fireplace and retrieve the black chalice we use for initiation rituals—a heavy, lead-lined cup filled with the house’s consecrated offerings.

I set it down in front of her. The fumes rising from the dark liquid smell like rotting elderberries and battery acid.

“Drink it,” I command.