Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

“—Brantley, can I talk to you for a second?” Veronica interrupts from the patio.

“Go make sure you’ve got all your shit. I’ll handle this.” I grit my teeth, standing and making my way toward where V stands, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Hmm, I’m interested to see how you plan to allow this to carry on with her.”

I pass Veronica and enter the main living area, falling onto the sofa.

Veronica places a cigarette in her mouth and lights the tip. “You do know that this can’t last?”

“This isn’t anything. She’s my responsibility.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I feel like a fucking liar. The famous words I’ve always used as a shield to hide the truth.

Veronica flicks off the ash of her smoke into the crystal ashtray. “She belongs here, Brantley. You know it, I know it—hell, even her sisters know it,” she mumbles, crossing her legs. “Even if Frankie doesn’t like her, she still understands that Saint belongs here.”

“Saint.” I bare my teeth. My anger is hanging dangerously close to the edge. “Belongs everywhere I am, not this coven or you. I appreciate you taking her under your wing while I needed to handle business on my side, but she’s coming home tonight.”

Veronica looks at me, eyes slit and lips in a straight line. She may be my mother, but everything between her and me has always been strictly business. She left when I was a kid, faked her death, and got in contact with me when I was old enough. There’s zero love between us. Everyone assumed I got my coldness from Lucan, but that’s because they’d never met my mother.

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Brantley, I think she has broken our curse.”

Saint

He disappears back into the house with Veronica not far behind him. His mother. How? How is that even possible? She looks barely old enough. I pause. How old was she when she had Brantley? Then again, it is Lucan. I can’t be all that surprised.

My phone dings and I open the text. It’s a group chat with Madison and Tillie. I can’t believe I’m going to call them my normalcy, but they are.

Madison: When are you allowed out of that coven? I need to vent.

Tillie: You could vent to me, but you don’t want to.

Madison: No, it’s because you’re crazy right now. Saaaiiiint?

I begin typing out a text to them, my mouth stretching wide with a smile. I missed them.

Me: I think we’re coming back today. Some weird shit happens here.

Madison: Trust me. We know weird.

Tillie: We need you to balance our pregnancy hormones.

I shuffle backward out of the pool, taking a seat on one of the sun chairs.

Me: Mad, how are you and Bishop?

The text bubbles flash. Then disappear. Then reappear. Then stop.

Tillie: Let’s just say we’re all scared.

Madison: I think he needs you.

I pause, my heart racing. I hate that I’ve been here when I should be there for Bishop. Obviously, the news of him becoming a father would have been big for him. My shoulders feel heavy as the sudden urgency of fleeing surges through my veins. I make my way back into the house, bumping into Ophelia.

“You’re leaving today?” She pouts her bottom lip. I’ve more than warmed to Ophelia while being here. I can safely say that she is someone I will miss completely.

“I am, but we’re not far from Riverside, so we will see each other often.” I pull my phone out and hand it to her. “And in the meantime, text.”

Ophelia’s bright green eyes falter as a ghost of a smile briefly spreads on her lips. “If only that was true.” She takes my phone and punches in her details, handing it back to me. “Please keep in touch.”

I tilt my head. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” She moves toward the pantry, taking out a bag of Cheetos and falling onto one of the barstools. Clawed steel curves up her back, molding her into the chair. The chairs are eccentric and gothic. After she’s chewed one, she sighs. “Okay, fine, maybe not. Frankie is acting crazy because she can’t seem to attain the attention of Samael.”

“Samael?” I lean against the kitchen counter. A breeze swims through the air, twirling around the nape of my neck and igniting goose bumps down my spine. “Was he one of the warlocks?”

“Yup.” She pops the P before downing another fat Cheeto. “He’s a little particular with who he chooses. We’ve always known that. I personally cannot stand him and will never actively seek him out during a hunt.”

“But Frankie does?” I ask, an eyebrow quirked.

Ophelia locks eyes with me. “Every single time.” She shuffles off her chair. “I hope you come back, Saint, or at the very least, don’t be a stranger.”

Driving down the manor’s dark, gloomy driveway brings back a surge of memories from the last time I was here, preparing for Bishop’s ceremony.