Page 75 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“They found an underground ritual chamber and decided to build their house on top of it?”

“They considered its existence a sign.” Rebecca throws a look back at me. “Powerful people are very good at mistaking what they want for divine instruction.”

That doesn’t sound like the answer of a woman devoted to The Order.

The lower stairs are slick with water. I press closer to the wall and place each foot where Rebecca’s had been. The torchlight crawls over symbols carved into the stone, some little more than scratches, others cut so deeply the darkness fills them.

The staircase opens into a rounded chamber lined with the same damp stone. Candles sit in rusted iron holders around the walls. Rebecca lights them and their flames bend whenever air moves through the room. Manacles hang between them, attached to chains darkened by age.

My feet stop on the last stair.

Symbols cover the floor. Spirals, crosses, eyes, hands, and alphabets I don’t recognize overlap one another as if generations kept carving their beliefs into the stone without caring what came before.

Dark stains fill some of the cracks.

My gaze moves to the brazier against the wall. Ash and charred wood fill the bottom. A long iron rod rests across the rim, its end shaped like the equal-armed cross branded into Carrson’s shoulder.

I’ve traced that mark with my fingers. Kissed the damaged skin. Felt him go rigid when I touched too close without warning.

“This is where they did it,” I say.

Rebecca looks toward the iron. “Yes.”

“To Carrson.”

“To every son of The Order. Carr came here at fifteen. Carrson did too.”

She crosses to the center of the chamber, where a deep rectangular basin rises from the floor on a wide bronze base. Steam curls from the water inside it. Flowers and herbs cover the surface, pale rose petals mixed with lavender, rosemary, and small white blossoms I don’t recognize.

A long bronze slab rests upright against the wall nearby.

Rebecca points to it. “That fits over the basin. Once it’s in place, this becomes a table. Or, depending on what’s happening down here, an altar.”

I look from the slab to the steaming bath. The sweetness of the flowers fights against the smells of wet stone, candle wax, and old blood.

“What is all this?”

“The beginning of your preparation.”

“You want me to take a bath in there?”

“I want you to understand the tradition before you decide whether to participate in it.”

Rebecca crosses to a wooden bench beside the bath. A white robe lies across it with a stack of towels, soap, and a silver bowl. Someone prepared all of this before we arrived.

She picks up the robe and places it within my reach.

“Order girls are brought here when they turn sixteen. Their mothers prepare the water and remain with them while they bathe.”

I look toward the manacles.

Rebecca does too.

“The Sons and Daughters of The Order experience this chamber differently.”

“I’m guessing the boys don’t get flowers.”

“No.” A trace of sadness passes over her face. “At fifteen, the boys cut their palms and add their blood to a ceremonial bowl. They speak The Order vow, then receive the mark on the back of their right shoulder.”