Liv, Forever (27 page)

The door opened.

Seven men, all in large hooded cloaks, sat around the round table. Some kind of ritual was set up on the table. Candles. A bowl of dark liquid: blood. A thick, old leather-bound book clenched with a lock. I almost laughed at how unoriginal the scenario looked, until I saw, right in the middle of the table, my necklace—the locket I always wore. I hadn’t even known it was missing. I shuddered. This was not a joke. It was very, very real.

The men stopped dead and looked up. Chanting halted. Their hoods made their faces shadowy and sinister. Or they just
were
sinister. They were neither alarmed to see Malcolm nor angry. Kent, sitting in the center, smiled. “Malcolm, we thought you might pay a visit. Please come in. Close the door.”

And they all smiled—warmly, welcomingly—from beneath their cloaks. Smiles had never held such horror. They were inviting Malcolm,
including
him. They
wanted
him there. I whispered for the others to wait outside, and before they could protest, I rushed in behind him.

The door closed behind us, disappearing into the wall of books.

“What is this? Who are you people?!” Malcolm demanded.

“Your family.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed the man speaking was Malcolm’s father. “You’re one of us.”

“I am not!”

“True. You haven’t been acting like family lately. I wasn’t sure what to do about that,” Kent remarked.

“You tried to kill me. You tried to drown me, that’s what. My scull, remember?”

Kent ignored him. “But I discussed the matter with these kind gentlemen, and we decided rather than get rid of you, we should promote you.”

“You demonstrated scruples, son—misdirected, but noteworthy,” Mr. Samuels added. “And a drive that proves you capable of taking charge.”

“We’ve voted you Victors President for next year,” Malcolm’s father said, so pleased and proud. “This way we can tell you everything.
Finally.
”

“You’re lucky, my son. You’re the next heir,” another offered. I recognized him; in fact, they were all strangely familiar from the Ball.

“Welcome, Malcolm,” they muttered from under their hoods.

“Please sit,” Kent insisted. But Malcolm stood.

There was a man even older than Mr. Samuels, overweight and shaky. He spoke with a quaking voice. “The
Victors were founded one hundred and forty years ago, in Wickham Hall’s tenth year.”

Malcolm’s father took up the sales pitch. “The school had incredible potential, but the founders didn’t have the necessary discipline or focus.”

“They were a little lost amid the Romantics, Spiritualism … séances,” Samuels offered.

“They understood there was another realm—and one with great power—but didn’t know how to use it to benefit their school,” another chimed in.

“But their son, Elijah, understood this school could be the best institution in the country,” Malcolm’s father continued. “And that it
should
be. Elijah had a long-standing interest in Spiritualism fueled by his parents.”

“But he was also a Latin scholar,” Kent added.

My eyes flitted from Kent to Malcolm’s father to Samuels to the others. They were all uncannily the same—it was like looking at one man at different stages of his life.

“And in reading the writings of Julius Caesar, he became acquainted with some Celtic and Gaelic traditions,” Malcolm’s father said. “Such as the worship of darkness.”

Samuels spoke again. “Samhain was the Gaelic autumn festival that heralded in the ‘darker half’ of the year. Sacrifices were made to ensure a fruitful year. They made human offerings. Burning them. Elijah believed if an offering was made to Wickham Hall, Wickham Hall could reach its true appointed potential. So he established the Victors, and in 1885 Elijah’s protégé Balthazar Astor made the first offering: Clara Dodge, a sad commoner who’d managed to finagle her way into the school.”

“It was hardly a loss,” Kent said. “And Elijah was right. Wickham Hall and its students thrived. Thus, he created this book and established the ritual.” He gestured to the large leather-bound book. I noticed that its cover was embossed with the same strange imagery from the dream and the Wickham objects and the woodwork downstairs.

“And the Victors were designated to preside over this precious tradition. Every ten years, the president oversees the sacrifice, then seals that sacrifice in the annual bonfire.”

“What does ‘seal the sacrifice’ mean?” Malcolm finally asked.

“The soul is offered to Wickham Hall.”

“You’ve mentioned ghosts,” Kent said. “If you’re telling the truth, that’s proof. The souls were captured. And we benefitted. So, your little girlfriend proves what we do is real. It works.”

“Son, it has made Wickham Hall the most successful school in the country. What we do benefits so many.”

“We lead countries. We wage wars.”

“And we bring prosperity and work to so many.”

“We heal the world,” Samuels added with a smile.

“We are the proud men who have carried on the sacred tradition.”

Malcolm turned to his father. “You, too?”

His father was silent but held his gaze.

“You’re a murderer?!” Malcolm snarled at him.

“We don’t look at it that way,” Samuels interjected. “It is a privilege to serve our country, our school, and our classmates.”

“A privilege and a duty,” Mr. Astor added.

“All students are guaranteed success, but the Victors enjoy privilege beyond imagination. And the Victors President can have anything he wants in life.”

“
Anything
, son,” Malcolm’s father emphasized.

Kent continued. “This year was my year. I had picked someone else—another expendable—to sacrifice, but because of your interest in Olivia, I changed plans.
She
became the sacrifice.”

Malcolm’s demeanor withered as he absorbed the truth. “An
expendable
?” he finally asked.

“A lesser person,” Samuels offered.

“The dregs and drags on society.”

“The dead weight,” Kent explained.

“It’s our responsibility. Our
mission.
” Samuels was practically beaming with pride.

“And you will be president next year, son,” Mr. Astor finished.

“I will
not.
”

“You
will
do it. You will not have to kill, but you will be Victors President—the
seventh
Astor to hold such position,” his father said forcefully. “It ensures your success for life. God knows you need the help.”

Malcolm looked down. He shook with rage but swallowed it. He looked up, all of a sudden eerily placid. “Success at anything?
Anything
I desire?”

“Anything in life. The Victors President can do anything.”

“And what do I have to do?” he asked quietly.

“No, Malcolm, don’t!” I yelled. He was so convincing even
I
thought he was wavering.

“You will inherit the book, care for it. Pass it on. You will conduct the annual Samhain ritual.”

“Which entails …”

“Leading the chants,” his father said.

“Collecting the blood,” Kent gestured to the bowl filled with blood. “And burning it in the fire.”

“Whose blood?”

“A drop from every new student—taken at the admissions physical—so each and every one is bound to the school and will benefit from the sacrifices we’ve made. Eternally.”

“Bringing wealth and success to themselves and eventually to Wickham Hall.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, son,” his father assured him.

Kent smiled.

Malcolm nodded. In the next instant, he knocked the bowl across the table, splashing the burnt-umber liquid all over the cloaked men, and scooped up the book, backing toward the door.

“You cannot have this information and walk away,” Kent warned.

Malcolm turned, but Kent and two others were instantly on top of him, pinning him against the wall of books. Malcolm struggled against them, but it was three against one. His own father watched, silent. I yelled for help. Ruth, Mary, Florence, Clara, Brit, and Lydia were already there.

“What do we do?” Kent gasped, his hand around Malcolm’s throat.

Mr. Samuels gestured toward the window. He pulled
the curtain without even bothering to get up. Malcolm’s father started toward his son, but the oldest man in the room put up his hand and simply said, “The oath.”

Malcolm’s father sat back down and gestured for them to proceed. Suddenly I saw a flash of Goya’s hideous
Saturn Devouring His Son
, the gruesome painting Malcolm had said reminded him of his father. Now I understood why. His father was inhuman, a monster. He had already murdered once for Wickham Hall, and now he was sacrificing his own son.

Kent tried to get the book out of Malcolm’s hand, but he wouldn’t loosen his grip. So Kent pushed Malcolm right up against the glass of the window. “Don’t make us do this to you.”

“Stay, son. Agree to stay,” his father urged.

Kent looked at the elders; they all nodded. Mr. Astor turned away. As the other two held Malcolm, Kent opened the window. With that, they pushed him out.

As I saw it happening, I instinctively soared after him. I didn’t realize or expect—or even have time to consider—they’d all come with me. The six other spirits merged with me, and together we created enough resistance to slow his fall. It wasn’t enough to stop him completely, but he tumbled gently, like a falling leaf. Somehow enough energy remained among us. Perhaps the other ghosts had more power than they’d known. Or perhaps it was that together we created something greater than the sum of our parts. Or maybe some other spirit, some greater spirit—that thing people like my parents would call God—wanted Malcolm to live. Regardless, I helped save his life. And in
that last instant as he descended toward the earth, I heard him laugh over this miracle: he was
flying.

Once he landed, I separated from the spirits and saw Minerva was there, too. She’d helped us! But before I could speak, she vanished back through the closed front door without a word. Why would she help? It didn’t make sense. Unless … was she a victim, too? Had Elijah turned
against
his parents? Was Minerva different somehow? Did she even know what had occurred at her school? If she did, why wouldn’t she have stopped it? Why keep the ghosts apart?

The Victors peered down from the window—shocked and horrified—as Malcolm stood up, unharmed, still clutching the book. He waved it triumphantly and then took off into the darkness.

Malcolm made it through the cemetery unseen, but as he crossed through the woods, he was spotted by one of the Wickham Hall security guards. I could hear the sound of the walkie-talkie as the guard, who’d obviously been called by the Victors, alerted the other guards to the culprit’s whereabouts.

Malcolm turned in the opposite direction, heading directly to the Art Center. He spoke to me as he ran, huffing, “I think I’m safer in the crowd. They can’t hurt me in front of everyone, can they?”

“I don’t know,” I said calmly. Clearly. Not huffing. When you’re dead you don’t get out of breath. That’s one perk, I guess.

He ended up at the back of the Art Center. He ran along its perimeter and headed toward the roar of the party. I could hear the familiar sound of Headmaster Thorton
prattling into his beloved microphone, resonating against the glass-and-concrete atrium.

“And now, we light our annual bonfire—the one hundred and fiftieth such one that has burned right here in this space to celebrate Wickham Hall’s birthday! When Wallace and Minerva lit that first fire, it was a modest campfire, but now we’re in this elegant Art Center. My, how we’ve grown! Before you know it, we’ll heal the world!”

There was a big round of applause for the headmaster as Malcolm turned the corner, now in sight of the crowd—hundreds of people. And he ran smack into Ms. Benson.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I heard on one of those walkies that you stole something from Old Homestead.”

He started to back away.

“Burn it,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Burn it. Destroy it. Before they get to you,” she said urgently.

Malcolm scanned the situation. Security guards were closing in on all sides, but he still had a clear path to the fire.

“Go!” I yelled, but of course he couldn’t hear me. All the spirits surrounded him now, shouting, “Go! Go now!”

“Go
now
!” Ms. Benson told Malcolm, swatting him, pushing him. And he went.

MALCOLM PUSHED HIS WAY
through the tweed jackets, tea dresses, and hats—lots of hats. While the orchestra played a cheerful tune, fireworks erupted, and Abigail, Sloan, and
Amos performed the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire. Malcolm peppered his shoves with
excuse me
and
forgive me
—ever the Victor gentleman, even as he desperately sprinted to put an end to their lies and age-old curse. In that moment, I loved him more than I ever had.

Flames shot up from the giant fire pit. Smoke swelled into the sky. As Malcolm approached the edge overlooking the fire, Kent was suddenly upon him.

“They are really here, aren’t they?” Kent asked.