At the bottom was a door. I rested my palm against it. It vibrated, then stilled. Vibrated, then stilled. Like a beating heart. I cracked it open and slipped inside, turning the corner.
I almost screamed.
Before me swept a vast room, dark as a crypt, marble columns tracing up to the ceiling, flames flickering on the walls. Kneeling in a circle in the middle of the room were a dozen women, naked except for their sharp-pointed heels, hands tied behind their backs, heads hanging. In front of them, forming an inner ring, stood a circle of men. They wore dark suits, navy and charcoal, the kind worn to board meetings. Their faces were hidden by white theater masks, frozen in exaggerated expressions of sorrow, horror, agony. The combination was monstrous.
In the very center of the circles stood a man in black, his face a white mask of fury. It was the man who’d answered the door. A naked woman knelt before him, smiling up at him as if entranced. She was small and downy-limbed like a rabbit.
There was a sharp corner in the wall—I darted behind it, out of sight, and peered around the edge. I’d been invited, but every instinct screamed at me to know what was happening before I thrust myself into the middle of it.
The man in black cast his gaze down at the woman and placed a hand on her forehead, palm flat. Then his fingers twisted, rooting in her hair. He drew her head back and her mouth dropped open, eyes blinking at the ceiling.
“The first lesson.” His voice snaked through the room, and he drew the woman’s head back farther. “Take what’s offered to you.”
His gaze swept the circle of men. “Hold it in the palm of your hand, Paters. Fist your fingers in it. Feel her shake. What is that?”
“Power,” hissed the men from behind their masks, and I jumped.
The man in black’s voice rose higher: “What is that, Paters?” The strange word reverberated: Paters Paters Paters.
“Truth,” they boomed. They stomped their feet, shaking the floor, shaking the wall I’d pressed my cheek against. This was what I’d felt above. It was their chanting, the concussive force of their legs vibrating the house. “Truth! Power! Truth! Power!”
The man in black lifted his arms like some dark preacher, and the circle fell silent. His gaze turned once again to the woman who knelt before him. A tremor of fear ran the length of my spine. It was a game, I reminded myself. Some groups were big on them, rituals and playacting. Nevertheless, I wanted his attention off her.
“What are you?” the man asked, his voice now whisper-quiet.
The woman’s eyes met his, full of pleading. I strained to hear her. “I’m nothing.”
“Louder.”
“I’m nothing,” she cried.
His hand slid over her forehead, a priest blessing a sinner. “The only way to grow is to kill the identity that doesn’t serve you.”
“Yes,” she said, voice fervent.
“You are the only one with the power to give up your control. To seek guidance, a strong hand. You have the power to submit.”
“Yes.” I could see, even from here, the woman’s eyes filling with tears.
“What do you get when you submit?”
“Truth,” she choked. “Power.”
His voice soared. “Tell me, daughters. What do you get, when you fall on your knees?”
The voices of the kneeling women rose to join his, strong and loud. “Truth. Power.”
“Come here.” The man beckoned to the woman. “Show me.”
She crawled to him and lifted shaking hands to his zipper, unzipping and waiting for permission. I pressed my cheek harder into the wall.