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

I open a message from Tillie, with a screenshot of my Instagram photo from a couple weeks ago and Frankie’s comment, which now has a lot of replies and angry Bran-stan girls swearing at her.

Tillie: Who is Samael, and you probably should have deleted this comment… See you soon.

I send her a message back.

Me: Don’t laugh. A witch man.

Tillie: A warlock?! Is he hot?

Me: Does it matter?

Tillie: Good answer.

I lock my phone and slide it into my tiny trunk bag, slipping the chain over my shoulder.

Ivy stares at me with inquisitive brown eyes. So much to say.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. A wide smile spreads across her face, and in that alone, I relax. Ivy has definitely slid into a comfortable friend-zone, right along with Ophelia.

Three Range Rover Sport SUVs await outside the front of the circular-style driveway, with men sporting strapping black suits. One for each SUV.

“Ahh, we’re all here,” Veronica says cheerfully, clapping her hands together with a trail of people behind her. I figure those people are just Sam’s friends and Frankie and Alessi.

Sam locks eyes with me, smiling. “You look beautiful, Saint.” He kisses my cheek, curling his arm in mine.

“So, before I forget, Saint and Samael will walk in directly behind me, with Ophelia to the right of her and Ivy behind Ophelia. Frankie, Jorge, and Gary will go at the back, coming in behind us.” She names the other warlocks, as Tillie would call them, that are with Samael. “We need to form a united front. When we walk in there,” Veronica says, a cigarette to her lips. How could I be related to this woman? We don’t look anything alike. Even if she did dye her hair black, she is dark-featured like Brantley. “I want us strolling in there like fucking Nancy, Sarah, Bonnie, and Rochelle.” She waves her arms high, her black bat-like gown breezing up in the wind. “Let’s go.” She smirks. “They’re waiting.”

We all pile into the allocated Rovers, with Ophelia, Sam, Ivy, and Jorge in ours. Veronica slides into the passenger seat at the last minute, bringing a trail of nicotine smoke with her. She pulls out a little plastic bag and dips her pink finger into it, scooping the powder onto her nail and snorting it through one nostril. She passes the bag back and we all decline but Jorge. It takes five minutes to get to the entrance of the school, this time looking a little different to the last time I was here. The gates are opened, though still old, rusted wires reaching for the dark sky. We drive in to see no one out front, as though we’re really late—not just a little. A man dressed in a sumptuous Armani suit stands stoically at the entrance, an AK strapped to his outerwear.

Only The Kings.

“Only The Kings,” I repeat, this time out loud while staring at who I’m guessing is the valet, who breaks his hard exterior to move straight for my door.

It opens and he pauses, his eyes on me. Something similar to recognition flashes over him, just as his mouth curves upward slightly. “Ah, welcome home, princessa…” I take his hand in mine, offering a gentle smile. “Or should I say, regina…” Once I’m out of the car, he turns to face the others. “Park the cars in the back.” His face turns bland. All of the affection he showed me seconds ago, he doesn’t share with the others.

“I thought you were the valet, and where’s my help to get out of the car?” Veronica argues from the front seat. My mouth closes.

He snickers. “When was the last time a valet was strapped with enough bullets to cut you into little bitty pieces? Get your old ass out of the car yourself.” His eyes swing to the back and he pauses on Ophelia. “I take that back.” He leans forward, offering his hand to Ophelia. “My lady…”

She rolls her eyes, whacking his hand out of her way. “I don’t need your help, or that pretty face.”

He grins at her, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by how beautiful he is. In a strange way. “Well.” He grabs her hand and tugs her out of the car anyway. “This pretty face would be a good place for you to sit, too, so…”

Ophelia sneers at him. “Not even if I was desperate.” She leans up on her tippy toes, pinching his nose. “Which I will never be.” She pats his shoulder and grabs onto my hand. “Who in the fuck is that?” she whispers into my ear.

“—Benny, leave the fucking girl alone,” Bishop’s voice interferes, but it goes over my head because I’m launching myself right into his chest. “Hey, precious. How you doing?” I inhale his scent a few times, my arms unwilling to let go of his waist. I step back, holding myself up by his arms. He’s wearing a suit—all black. Not one speck of color anywhere. It’s perfectly tailored in all the right places, his hair styled tidily.