Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,57

pocket, and it doesn’t slide in easily. I have to jiggle it around for a few seconds until the tumblers switch, unlocking the bolt.

I use my phone to guide my way, brightening the stone stairway that leads underground. It’s warm outside—still early fall—but down here the temperature drops. At the bottom is another arched door. This one has a lock, too. Annoyed, I dither for a moment, but decide to try the key in my hand. It’s still a struggle, but the notches fit. The heavy wooden door creaks as it opens inward, and my light reveals a musty, slightly damp room.

How long has this place been down here? And how did I never know about it?

The walls are covered in Preston memorabilia, some faded and worn, others slick and full of color. Half-melted candles sit on every surface, along with all kinds of Devil iconography. Photos, pennants, banners, stickers and stamps. A red and black blanket has been tossed over the back of a leather couch, and twelve chairs form a circle in the middle of the room. If it weren’t for the pyramid of empties stacked against the wall, it’d look like some goddamn basement AA meeting or something.

I approach a table against the back wall and see a stack of photos—clearly more recent. There are no faces, but its images of the scenes Collins told me about. There’s proof of them stealing other school’s mascots. The homecoming hijack. The basketball game prank. I pause on a stack of pictures featuring freshly inked tattoos. I flip through them, searching for something identifiable, and hit pay dirt with one. A Devil’s mark on a broad pectoral. I’d know my brother’s obnoxiously shirtless chest anywhere.

Fuck, but all of this would be a lot easier if I could just ask him about the Devils. That bridge has been well and truly burned, though. No skin off my back. Sebastian and I were pitted against each other since the day he was born. No surprise that this is where it’s led us.

What confuses me most, as I go through the pictures, is that several are definitely females. There’s a smooth inner thigh, a narrow ankle, the soft curve of a hip. I stop on the last picture, the dark inked lines of the Devil’s mark at the base of a thin neck.

Georgia.

Was this another ritual? Marking Playthings?

Who would want a girl like Georgia, anyway? Afton Cross, definitely. Vandy Hall? Sure, Reyn’s into that virginal shit. But Georgia’s the school bicycle. Everyone’s taken a ride. She’s not the girl you tag as your own. She’s the girl you do on the side when the girl you’ve marked isn’t putting out satisfactorily.

It’s further evidence that whatever is going on with the Devils, they’re making some questionable judgments. Girls like Georgia aren’t loyal.

I arrange the pictures back like I found them and poke around a little more. I spot a notebook and flip through it, seeing a list of names. Micha Adams? Ozzy Collins? Buck Smith? Josephine Wentworth?

I can’t imagine what those four would have in common.

Satisfied that I’ve seen enough, I take one last scan of the room. My eyes land on a small, silver box on a shelf. I grab it, flipping the latch and opening it up. Inside, nestled against a silk lining, is a memory card. Impulsively, I take it, tucking it in my pocket. Maybe this will have the dirt I need on the Devils—at least enough to give the Headmaster names and get him off my back.

It’s obvious that she’s not happy when she arrives in my office the next day—five minutes early, to boot. Since our class has been moved to the evening, the natatorium is practically deserted. But the janitor’s still lurking about, as well as a couple of the competitive swim students, trying to get in some extra practice.

She walks in the room, tosses my phone on the desk, and plainly announces, “You get a lot of calls. Who’s Gene?”

“None of your business.” I narrow my eyes. “Did you answer my phone?”

“No.” she rolls her eyes. “Like I want to know what degenerate and illegal stuff you’re up to.”

I’m not sure I believe her, but I slide my phone in my pocket and say, “About your punishment for skipping class—”

“I’m not sucking your dick.”

After a long moment, I give a slow clap. “The debutante, ladies and gentleman.” Jesus. In some ways it’s refreshing to be around a girl who doesn’t get shy about sex, but even