The Broken Puppet (The Elite King's Club 2)

“Letting me face the ‘rents on my own, huh?” I ask, inspecting the modern-style brick house. The house I’ve come to call home.

“Sorry, sis, but hey!” he calls out, just as I get out of the car. “If you need like an alibi or anything, I’m your guy.” I roll my eyes and slam the door behind me. If there’s anyone I will need an alibi for, it’ll be against him and his pack, not our parents. Exhaling, I step toward the house and push open the front door. The scent of disinfectant, flowers blossoming, and tarnished wood floats around the familiar surroundings.

“Hello?” I call out, shutting the door behind me and dropping my bag.

“Madison?” Elena calls out, stepping out of the kitchen and wiping her hands. “Oh my God!” She runs toward me and squeezes me into her chest. Tears wet the side of my neck and I inch back, slightly confused.

“Are you okay? Where have you been? What happened?” She panics, her hands running up and down my arms. “Jesus, Madison, your father and I have been worried sick!” Confusion wiggles itself under my skin. No one told her anything? Not even Nate?

“S-sorry,” I mutter, unknowing what story I should be going with. Fucking Nate, couldn’t even give me a heads up before I got out of the car.

“Sorry?” she squeals, her hands running over my cheeks. “I was worried, Madison. So was your father. Come on, let’s get you something to eat.” I follow her into the kitchen, tugging out one of the stools and taking a seat. She pulls open the fridge and takes out some deli meats.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Shaking my head, I answer, “No. Sorry. Not right now. Where’s Dad?”

Putting the sandwich together, she cuts it and then slides my plate toward me. “He’ll be home soon. I’ll call him to let him know you’re home.”

“Okay, thank you.” Picking up the sandwich, I take a small bite and chew slowly. The dry bread and lettuce isn’t helping my parched throat, so I slide off the stool and go to the fridge, taking out the carton of OJ. Closing the fridge, I see a note dangles on the door, but it’s written in some foreign, weird-ass language. Latin, I think. I vaguely remember a friend talking about Latin back at one of my old schools, and the words look similar. Why would there be a note written in Latin on our fridge? It’s a dead language; no one uses it anymore, which makes it even more absurd. It would make more sense if the note was written in Japanese.

Tugging it off the magnet, I read over the fancy wording.

Saltare cum morte solutio ligatorum inventae sunt in verbis conectuntur et sculptilia contrivisset in sanguine et medullis.

Pulling out my phone from my back pocket, I punch the wording into Google Translate.

Riddles dance with death when the words are inked in blood and carved with marrow.

The words hit me like a train of destruction. Why would this be on our fridge? Why today of all days? I flip the note over and scan the back. The paper is fresh, the ink clean. It doesn’t look old at all, and—

“Madison, your father is on his way home.” Elena walks in, and I quickly push the note into my back pocket.

“Okay.” I smile.

She points to my sandwich. “Eat up.”

After eating, I climb the stairs and head to my room. I push open my bedroom door and pause at the threshold. Everything is exactly as I left it. My four-poster bed is rooted in the same spot, my net curtains still shade my patio door, and my TV is still sitting nicely on my dresser at the foot of my bed. Walking into my closet, I pull off some hangers and toss them onto the bed. I know I need to unpack and get settled back into my life here, but I have a plan to carry out, and following through will take a lot of time and preparation. Emptying my duffle bag into my clothes basket, I swipe my hair out of my face just as a thump hits the top of my laundry. Bending down, my fingers skim over the worn leather, curving over the emblem embossed into the cover. Tilting my head, I suck in my bottom lip and pick it up, flipping the pages as I make my way back to my bed. Whatever my plan is, I need to continue this book—or diary, or suicide note. It’s the key to everything; I just know it.

Flicking through, I land on the chapter I was up to, after finding out about the Silver Swans.

9.

The Silver Swan

The truth is I don’t know what my husband did to my daughter. He said girls are tainted. There’s no room for girls in his master plan, and that’s how it always will be. He said they would sell the girls, but something dark and doubtful always tickles the back of my mind. My husband is a liar, a cheat, and a manipulator. There’s absolutely no part of him that is truthful or redeemable.