Page 96 of The Devil

Fairbairn.

Now, just in front of me, thorny vines weave around and around, taking up the entire wall connecting dozens of plaques. Coats of arms entangled through the vines, some with creepy little portraits.

“What the fuck is it?” I say aloud, dread in my gut as I reach into my pocket to pull out the diary.

“A record.” Sev is following the line, tracing it with his flashlight. He stops on the name, studies it.

I open the diary to the page that’s folded over. I compare it to the carving. It’s nearly identical.

Sev looks around the room. His gaze lands on the heavy desk in the corner.

“I’ve heard of these. The Europeans use them.” He moves behind the desk to open what looks to be an ancient and huge leatherbound ledger. “It’s a record room. This is where all the records of Society members would be kept, all the marriages arranged. Finances would be accounted for here, the tithes paid, who is delinquent, etc. Pretty much all business outside of that of the Tribunal would be held here.”

“How is it done in the states?”

“Well, as Scotland’s much older, I assume they’re using traditional methods. In the states, I think many of the headquarters have switched to electronic record keeping although for appearances they may keep old ledgers like this one. This, though.” he shines his flashlight into the book, turns a page to read what’s there. “They’re still using it. Last entry was just a few weeks ago. And. Holy shit. This can’t be right,” Sev mutters that last part to himself, the chair creaking as he sits down.

I don’t pay much attention because pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was solving are starting to come together.

I flip through the diary wanting to find one of the passages I’d read earlier but before I do, it falls open onto a page that’s heavy with a design drawn in pencil.

Vines.

Roses.

A dead bird.

I look up at the wall mounted piece. It’s hard to find the bird in the dark but I’m sure it’s there. I’d bet my life on it.

But it’s not the bird I’m searching for. The bird doesn’t matter. It’s the name in the middle of the sketch.

The same name that’s on the fucking wall.

Fairbairn.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sev mutters, and when I turn to look at him, he drags his gaze to mine, worry creasing his brows.

“What?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest because it’s all starting to come together. Why they didn’t just kill us. Why they brought us here. Why they’ve been treating Amal like royalty when I expected the complete opposite. It’s all coming together, but it’s impossible. It can’t be.

“What’s Amal’s mother’s maiden name?” Sev asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Jet,” Sev says and I walk over to the desk to look at what he’s looking at.

“What the fuck is this?” I hear myself ask because what I’m looking at is a photo of a woman standing in front of the wall now at my back. She’s wearing a sundress, her hands clasped over her stomach. One of those where the wearer could weigh ninety pounds or nine-hundred. The most wrong part? It could be a photo of Amal. I pick it up. “This isn’t possible.”

“How old is Amal?” Sev asks.

“It’s not⁠—"

“Turn it over, Jet.”

I drag my gaze to my brother and hear the only sound in the room. A thudding. It’s my heart.

I flip the photo over. Read the name written in old-fashioned script. Liliana Fairbairn.

Amal’s mother is Lily. Was Lily. She’s dead. At least that’s what Amal told me.