Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy 1)

“Are you feeding Eva?”

“Of course I’m feeding her. But I’m also careful of her weight. Her metabolism isn’t like mine, you know.”

I look her over, raise my eyebrows. “I thought that was Dr. Abrams.” Dr. Abrams is her plastic surgeon.

A few years ago, I overheard an argument between my parents that I almost remember word for word. Their marriage isn’t one built on a foundation of love. For as far back as I can remember, my mother and father never really liked each other very much and have been pretty vocal about it behind closed doors. They only share one commonality as far as I can tell. They revere The Society and will do anything to remain in its good graces.

That night I understood why they stayed together. I learned that my mother had been a sort of present for my father. When The Society had realized he had a gift for numbers—one neither I nor any of my siblings inherited—my father had become valuable. And so, he’d gotten a prize. My mother.

Although she’s no prize according to me and, I bet, according to my father. She’s beautiful. And her genes carried on with Hazel and Evangeline. They mostly skipped me apart from the color of my eyes.

Beauty isn’t everything, though. I wonder if there was a time when my father was blinded by hers. If there was a time he loved her. I doubt it. She’s not the woman he had a photo of inside his wallet.

Although not a founding family, my mother's family is above my father’s in The Society’s hierarchy, so on a certain level, she had the upper hand in their marriage. And in a way, I think she hated my father for what happened to her—for having to marry beneath her station.

My mother opens her mouth, but Abel interrupts her. “Stop your bickering. Ivy, get your coffee, and let’s go. We’re late.”

“Visiting hours don’t start until ten.”

“We have another appointment first.”

I turn to him, suddenly chilled. “What appointment?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there. Let’s go.”

I open a cabinet and grab a to-go cup. Filling it with coffee, I add a generous serving of cream even though I usually take it black. This is just to irritate my mother. I’m sure she doesn’t want me getting fat before the big day. I twist the lid on, grab my coat, and follow Abel out into the chilly but sunny morning.

I climb into the passenger seat of the Rolls, and he starts the engine.

“Is there any change with Dad?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” he says as we turn onto the road and head in the opposite direction of the hospital.

“What is this appointment you’re taking me to?”

“We need to take care of a few things before the wedding.”

“Speaking of, when is the big day?”

His phone rings, and he answers it rather than answering me. He’s on the call for the next twenty minutes and only disconnects when we get to a neighborhood I’m not familiar with, one where the houses are about twice as big as ours and a guard asks your business before he opens the gate.

“Where are we?” I ask him anxiously, my stomach growing tense when we pull up in front of a large mansion where another Rolls is parked on the driveway.

We’re here on Society business. I know it.

Abel parks the car behind the matching one and kills the engine.

“We’re here at your fiancé’s request.”

“What?”

“Well, request isn’t quite how I’d put it honestly. De La Rosa doesn’t make requests. Even now, with his fucked-up face.”

That last part he mutters, but I can hear the hate in his words. He’s still jealous of Santiago De La Rosa? Even after what happened to him, to his family? I knew he was jealous before back when Dad couldn’t say enough about the child prodigy. Dad had been mentoring Santiago for years at The Society's request and teaching him what he knew. At one point, he’d mentioned how Santiago had surpassed him in knowledge, and he went on and on about Santiago’s mind, how it was like a computer, how clever he was, and so on and so forth. In a way, I get how Abel felt. I felt it too. But Abel’s jealousy is accompanied by something else. Hate.

“Have you seen him? Since the explosion,” I can’t help but ask. I want to know if it’s true. If the reason he’s become a recluse is his face.

He turns to look at me fully. “Would you, Ivy Moreno,” he starts, taking my jaw in his hand and turning it, pushing the hair that hides my eye away before continuing. “With your own deformity, judge another on his outward appearance? That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t judging...I just—”

“Sometimes, Ivy, I don’t know what kind of person you are. The nuns would be so disappointed in you. I know dad was.” He jerks his hand away roughly.