of Devil, and tonight we find out if you truly deserve the title.”
He drones on a little bit, talking of legacy and loyalty. But that’s old Devil fare. Us—the new Devils? I look around and know that none of us really care about that stuff. It sounds nice, sure. But we’re connected in other ways. In deeper ways. In ways that are going to make the Devils better.
The man eventually reveals, “Each of you fulfilled the requirements for membership. Each of you were successful in all the rites—both individually and jointly. We didn’t expect that,” he admits, turning slightly to the other Devils. “Too often, arrogance supersedes duty and kinship. To be made a Devil is to make a pact. To break that pact is to fail your brothers.”
Elana coughs a delicate, “Ahem.”
The Devil inclines his head toward her, and after a beat adds, “To fail your brothers and sisters.”
All the Playthings lock eyes, grinning.
He goes on, “Rejecting any one of you will compromise the group. We can see the chain formed here. Remove one link and the others will fall.” There’s a long, suspenseful pause before he announces, “So it's fortunate that you’ll all be given membership.”
I exhale, the nerves rushing through me.
“It’s time for the initiation,” the leader says. “When your name is called, you’ll approach the first member.” He nods for Emory to step forward and directs him to the first cloaked person on the end.
This Devil is the one holding the candle. “The Devil’s light represents our undying flame. May it guide you through hell.”
The elders all repeat, “May it guide you.”
Emory holds out his candle and the flame passes from one to another.
The Devil with the box opens the lid. He pulls out a small, silver object. I squint my eyes and see that it’s a small, slim stickpin. A pitchfork. “The pitchfork represents the forked paths of our brothers and sisters. Wear it always. Keep it hidden. May it guide you through hell.”
They all repeat, “May it guide you.”
The main Devil places the pin on Emory’s black shirt and gestures for him to move forward to the chalice. “The cup represents our combined potential and willingness to share it. Drink for luck and wealth—two important tenets of this society. May it guide you through hell.”
“May it guide you.”
The cloaked figure holds it out and my brother takes a nervous swallow, licking his lips after.
The next person holds out the book. In the crease there’s a pen. “The book represents our history and legacy. Sign your name and make your vow. May it guide you through hell.”
“May it guide you.”
Emory does as he’s asked, scribbling his name on the fresh sheet of paper.
“Emory Hall,” the leader says, “you are a Devil, for now and for always. Elvatio Infernum.”
They all welcome him in with a chanted, “Elvatio Infernum.”
Ben goes next, and then Afton.
When Sebastian steps up, he takes a sip from the chalice and pulls a face. “Just wine,” he mutters, sounding disappointed.
Caroline is next, and then Aubrey. Tyson sticks himself with the pin and spends his whole initiation rubbing grumpily at his chest. Carlton goes, and then Elana. Reyn brushes my hand when he steps up to get his candle lit, and I find myself mouthing along to each iteration of, “May it guide you.”
When it’s my turn, Emory sends me a grin, looking excited and important with his dumb candle and pin. I smile back, because this is definitely going down as the most crazy and absurd experience of my life, but at least I’m sharing it with these people—these amazing, kind, ridiculous, beautiful people—who are all ready and willing to call me a sister.
That’s one thing I certainly know how to be.
Carlton thrusts his beer into the air, shouting, “Elvatio Infernum, motherfuckers!”
Ben and Tyson raise their beers, whooping obnoxiously.
“I’m not driving you all home,” Elana says, sounding bored. “Last time we did this, Tyson threw up in my back seat and I had to get the whole car detailed.”
Tyson pouts. “Sorry, El. If it makes you feel any better, I spent the next morning praying for the sweet release of death.”
We’re back at the lake, celebrating. There’s a bright fire roaring in front of us. It’s chilly and late, but I feel pleasantly warm. Reyn’s sitting on the ground and I’m between his legs, his arms wrapped tight around my shoulders.
Sebastian, just returning from a munchie run, tosses Emory a bag of chips and snorts a laugh when it just falls limply at