Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy 1)

Confused, I open my eyes and almost jump out of my skin at the sight that greets me.

There at the window is a figure. Tall and dark and wearing a robe like the Grim Reaper.

But the Grim Reaper wouldn’t be worried about a little rain getting into the house.

I almost scream as it—he—straightens and turns toward me. I push my back to the wall.

The figure is in a black cloak with a wide hood pulled up over his head so the little bit of light coming in from outside doesn’t illuminate his face. The cloak reaches the floor, and he’s tall. Well over six feet.

I want to scream. I want to open my mouth and scream for help, but when I do, nothing comes. No, a sound more pathetic than nothing.

Am I dreaming? Is this a dream, a nightmare I’m trapped in?

But some part of my brain remembers that it knows these robes. Ceremonial. My father had worn one once. I’d been terrified when I’d seen him too.

We remain like that—neither he nor I moving, me not even breathing. He has an advantage. He can see my face. See my terror. I can’t see his.

Him.

It’s a man. His height and build give that away. More reason to scream if only sound would come. Where is my brother now when I need him?

I stare wide-eyed as he takes a step toward me, and when he does, the light just touches his face. But it’s even more terrifying then because he’s wearing a black half-mask, and what I glimpse of his face is impossible.

“Wh…what—”

“Ivy Moreno.”

Cold, bony fingers seem to crawl along my spine at the deep tenor of his voice, and I visibly shudder. The devil's touch. It’s what Sister Mary Anthony used to say when that happened. I make the sign of the cross out of habit.

That makes him laugh. It’s an ugly laugh. Short and unamused and hard.

I rub my eyes, wanting to wake up, but he's still there when I open them again. Closer even.

“How do you know my name?”

“You don’t remember me, Ivy? I didn’t make an impression? I’m offended.”

“I...I don’t—”

“You’ll be my wife,” he continues as if I hadn’t stammered my feeble attempt at a response. “It would be strange if I didn’t know your name, don’t you think?”

His wife?

I peer closer. This is Santiago De La Rosa? Why is he wearing that cloak? The mask? It's for ceremonial purposes only. Worn by the male founding family members and only when tradition dictated it. They'd lent my father a similar cloak when he’d attended one such event. I still remember his excitement even when my sister and I had been terrified to see him in it.

But there’s a more pressing question. What the hell is Santiago De La Rosa doing in my room in the middle of the night?

Then I remember hearing Abel out in the hallway at some point tonight. I remember being irritated that he was making so much noise he’d woken me.

Did Abel let him in here?

“What do you want?” I ask.

I can just make out how his eyes roam over me, and I look down at myself. I’m wearing a T-shirt and panties, one foot up on the bed, the other dangling off it. I pull both in and gather up the blankets.

“No need for that,” he says, stepping closer still to take the edge of the blanket and tug it slightly off me. “I came to give you something.”

I press harder against the wall when he steps to the edge of the bed. He takes a moment to look at the ornate frame and all the pink.

“A bit childish, isn’t it?”

“What do you want with me?”

He looks down at me, and I don’t know if I see or imagine a grin. Don’t know if I imagine the skeleton that peers closer as I back into the corner.

“Oh, that’s no way to behave with your husband-to-be, sweet Ivy.” He sits on the edge of the bed, inching closer.

“What do you want?” I scream it, thinking surely, Abel will come. Surely someone will help me.

But nothing. No one comes. I am alone with this man.

He exhales like he’s disappointed, then reaches out, touching the tips of his fingers to my cheek before he slips them to my neck where my pulse beats wildly.

I keep the back of my head pressed to the wall.

I’m dreaming. I must be. But he feels so real.

“What do you want?” I ask, this time in a quieter voice, a frightened one.

“I already told you that,” he starts, voice low and deep.

He takes my hand, his fingers like a vise around it, and pulls it toward him. His touch is ice-cold. Maybe it is the Grim Reaper after all.

“I have something for you.”

He stretches out my hand, reaches into his pocket and I watch in shocked silence as he forces a ring onto my finger.