GLYNDON

"How’s my favorite grandchild?”
I grin widely while lifting my tablet higher so I can get
a better view of Grandpa’s face.
He’s actually Dad’s uncle, but he raised him after his parents’
death, and, therefore, became my grandpa.
As in, my favorite person on earth.
I love my parents, but nothing compares to the complete
adoration and connection I share with Grandpa. I spent my whole
childhood basically living with him and Grandma Aurora.
Whenever Mum and Dad took me home, he’d come to ‘steal’ me
again.
It’s a known fact that I’m his favorite grandchild. He likes
Creigh and Bran and has big expectations for Eli and Lan, but I’m
the only one he spoils like a princess.
After all, I’m the only female offspring in the Kings’ line for a
few generations.
I might feel like I’m worthless in front of Mum’s and my
brothers’ talent. I might consider myself unfit to be in the same
picture frame as them, but those feelings never exist when I’m
with Grandpa.
And honestly, it should be the other way around. Jonathan
King is a ruthless businessman with an empire that reaches all
parts of the world. He has a reputation that leaves people
trembling in his presence.
Me, however? I get all giddy. I don’t see him as the cold,
merciless man people describe him to be. I see him as the man
who taught me how to take my first steps, ride a bike, and bought
Grandma a whole new set of special edition makeup when I
decided to go rogue and painted the door with all of hers.
He still looks to be in his mid-fifties, although he’s way older.
Two streaks of white decorate the sides of his hair, adding a wise
edge to his hard features—features that are softening as he talks
to me while sitting in his home office with bookshelves behind
him.
“I’m doing great, Grandpa. Studying and trying to convince my
professor that not all my paintings are that horrible.” I laugh in an
attempt to mask the awkwardness.
He’s the only one I’m willing to share my insecurities with.
“Or I can send him to the next planet where he’d wish he’d
never bothered my princess.”
“No, Grandpa, don’t do that. I really want to convince him on
my own.”
I thought I was coming close today when Professor Skies
wanted to speak to me alone, but then he asked me to see if
Mum could make it to some gallery opening he’s planning.
Not that it cut me open or anything.
Okay, maybe a little when I heard him tell his assistant
teacher, “I can’t believe Glyndon is the Astrid C. King’s daughter
and Landon and Brandon King’s sister. Her technique is juvenile at
best and so chaotic that it’s embarrassing to compare her to
them.”
I learned long ago that being an artist means to open oneself
to criticism. Mum and my brothers got their share of it, but I
guess I’m not as strong as they are or confident enough to close
my ears to that type of roasting.
It’s why I had to talk to Grandpa right after. He makes me feel
better. Mum does, too, but I don’t talk to her about any art school
things, because I feel as if she just wouldn’t understand.
She’s better.
She doesn’t struggle with low self-esteem or other darker
thoughts.
“If he doesn’t, I’ll take care of him. He’s obviously a crook if he
doesn’t recognize your worth,” Grandpa says.
“Just because he doesn’t like my work doesn’t mean he’s a
crook, Grandpa. He’s world-renowned.”
“He could be applauded by Picasso himself but still be a crook
if he doesn’t understand you’re a different person from your
mother and brothers.” He pauses. “Is anyone else bothering you?”
“No, I’m all good. The girls and I made a new friend. But
enough about me, tell me about you! Have you been taking walks
and working less?”
An amused look covers his features. “Yes, Doctor.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have asked if you were following the doctor’s
instructions. I want you to live until I’m old and gray.”
“If I put my mind to it, nothing will stop me.” He looks up, face
softening further, and soon after, Grandma appears in the frame.
She stands beside his chair, wraps her hands around his face, and
kisses his lips before pulling away.
Grandma has a calm, evocative beauty with her raven hair,
petite features, and slim body. She’s about ten years older than
my parents and is a successful business owner. We often get
custom-made watches from her luxurious brand and I hold them
close to my heart.
Grandpa stares up at her for a beat, his eyes easing at the
corners. I’ve always loved the way he looks at her. As if she’s the
only one who can melt the ice inside him. The only one who
understands him in ways no one else can.
She smiles at him, then wraps an arm around his shoulder.
“Glyndon! I miss you, hon. This mansion is empty as hell without
you.”
“Miss you, too, Grandma! I’ll spend the upcoming break with
you guys.”
“How can it be empty when I’m right here, wild one?” Grandpa
asks with a raised brow.
“Don’t be jealous of your own granddaughter, Jonathan.” She
chuckles. “Besides, you also said you miss her energy.”
“I do. Come home soon, princess.”
“Will do!”
We continue talking for a bit, then I give him a report about
my brothers and cousins, making them look like saints.
Sometimes, I feel like Grandpa’s spy, but oh well, at least I
don’t tell him about all the trouble they’re causing. The dangerous
clubs they’re in or the underground fights.
By the time I hang up, I’m buzzing with energy. I knew
Grandpa would give me the pep talk I need to do this.
I’ve always been the rule-abiding Glyndon. The never-swimagain-after-being-hit-by-a-wave Glyndon. The peacemaker-atfamily-dinners Glyndon.
In a way, I’ve been a wallflower and have never dared to take
any risks. All I wanted was to improve my art and be recognized
for it.
The brutal reality of the world crushed me so hard that I
spiraled and hid into myself further. Sometimes, I miss the
mischievous younger version of me or how I used Grandma’s
makeup as a palette.
It was innocent back then, simpler. I only loved to paint and
that’s it. I didn’t know about the world’s expectations or that I’d
fail to meet each one of them.
Then I met Devlin in the first semester. We were in similar
places in life and we understood each other so well.
Until we didn’t.
Until he was taken away.
And I have to get closure—for him and myself.
So I put on my comfiest shoes and I slip away from the flat,
thankful the girls are busy. Cecily is studying at the library and
Ava has been practicing her cello. The haunting melody she’s
playing echoes behind me, or maybe it’s my nerves that give it
that edge.
The cold air covers my skin with goosebumps and I pull my
denim jacket tighter around me.
I make it all the way to The King’s U’s campus and security lets
me in once I show them the text message. It isn’t until I’m inside
the perimeter that I kind of start to get cold feet.
But I keep going, not sure which direction I should take. A few
other students are flocking to the eastern tower of the campus,
chatting among themselves. I assume they’re heading to the club,
considering they’re all wearing eager expressions and I hear the
word ‘initiation.’
My steps are light as I follow close behind them.
After some time, they arrive at a black metal gate that’s
situated at the far right of campus. The building is separated from
the rest of The King’s U by wires that surround the impossibly tall
walls of the property. They extend for as far as the eye can see
and fog eats up the rest of the distance like an ominous scene
from a horror movie.
Ravens and sparrows line up along the top of the gate and
shriek in unison as they fly away.
Okay. A hundred out of a hundred on the scary factor scale.
The group of students I followed queue at the end of a long
line of about thirty people.
At the gate, there are two men wearing black suites and
creepy bunny masks whose lips are smeared with blood.
Fake, hopefully.
One of the bunnies seems to be checking the students' QR
codes. Then upon seeing something on his device, he confiscates
their phones and mechanically feels them up for other phones,
cameras, or electronic devices.
All of those go into a basket with a number tag on them. Then
the other bunny straps a white mask with a number on each
participant’s face and ties a bracelet with the same number on
their wrist before letting them inside.
As my turn approaches, my whole body starts shaking. Second
thoughts swarm my mind and I stare behind me, only to find
others queuing on and on.
If I leave now, nothing will happen.
If I leave now…
No.
How is that different from being a coward all over again? Dev’s
death hit me so deep, and I couldn’t deal with it for such a long
time. This is my first real opportunity to get past this.
So what if there’s danger? I can take it.
Not sure how I got the invitation, but maybe that’s a sign to
be here and finally get closure.
It’s my turn to give the creepy bunny my QR code. His dark
eyes scan me before he takes my phone and mechanically
searches me. Once he’s sure I have nothing on me, he nods to his
friend and the other bunny shoves a mask on my face and a
bracelet on my wrist and points inside.
Sixty-nine.
That’s my number. Blimey. What an unpleasant coincidence.
My steps are careful as I drift to what seems to be the front
garden of a mansion. The giant building sits in the far distance
with the imposing presence of a gothic chapel.
We’re all lined up facing it, as if we’re waiting for a grand
opening or something. Some students chat with each other, some
speaking in American accents, others in Russian and Italian. Some
even in Japanese.
They are definitely all from The King’s U. I don’t dare speak or
I would be picked up as the weakling from REU, as Anni so
eloquently put it.
Instead, I focus on other students filtering in from the gates.
With the masks on, we’re all anonymous here, like at a twisted
costume party.
Some time passes before the last participant comes inside.
One hundred.
That’s the number of students taking part in this fucked-up
ceremony.
The gate screeches in unison with the crows as it slowly
closes. I stare at it the entire time, along with the creepy bunnies
who remain outside with all our belongings.
“It’s finally happening,” a giddy male voice, number sixtyseven, whispers to his friend, number sixty-six, in an American
accent. Both of them are standing beside me, and unlike me,
they’re only focused on the closed doors of the first story of the
mansion.
“We failed last time, but we’re definitely getting in now,” sixtysix says. “What do you think the challenge will be this time?”
“As long as it’s not a mind game with the red or the orange
mask, we’ll be fine.”
“You’re right. Those two are brutal.” Sixty-seven pauses. “But
even the white mask can get tricky if he chooses to.”
“Let’s hope it’s physical this time, but even that will get us in
front of that beast. By showing up, we gave him full consent to
use us as a punching bag.”
Punching what?
I stare at the closed gate again and regret not leaving when I
had the chance. Surely, they’ll give us a chance to retreat, right?
Because I’m definitely not going to get involved in any violence
kink these bored bastards have.
Besides, isn’t the fight club the place for violence?
Silence falls on the participants as the upper doors open with
ceremonial noise. Then the lower ones open, too, and countless
men in creepy bunny masks circle us.
And they’re men. I refuse to believe that some college
students are built like an ancient Greek temple.
Five figures dressed in black step out from the upper doors, all
wearing black purge style masks with neon-colored stitched faces.
The orange one takes the center, the green one stands on his
right, and the red on his left. The white and yellow ones occupy
the sides.
Like all people present, I can’t help gawking at them. They
haven’t done or said anything, but their aura is enough to spread
both fear and dread in anyone who’s watching.
I’m almost sure they’re Jeremy, Killian, Nikolai, and Gareth.
But who’s the fifth one?
Is there another member of their club they forgot to mention?
Not that it matters right now. Seeing Killian from this position
while being completely at the mercy of his games—in the literal
sense this time—causes sweat to trickle down my spine.
Static fills the air before a loud modified voice echoes around
us. “Congratulations for making it to the Heathens’ highly
competitive initiation. You are the selected elite who the leaders
of the club think are worthy of joining their world of power and
connections. The price to pay for such privileges is higher than
money, status, or name. The reason why everyone wears a mask
is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s
founders.”
People start murmuring to each other, probably some rich kids
who aren’t used to being told that they’re like everyone else.
“The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In
the literal sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that,
please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave,
you’ll lose any chance to join us again.”
My head whips in the door’s direction, and I can feel my legs
twitching, urging me to bolt the hell out of here.
A few participants, no more than ten, get cold feet, bow their
heads, and get out. The outside bunnies give them their phones
and take away their masks and bracelets.
After a moment, the door closes with a low creak and the man
on the speaker goes again. “Congratulations again, ladies and
gentlemen. We should now begin our initiation.”
Silence and anticipation fill the air as he continues, “Tonight’s
game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s
founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the
upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property
before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be
eliminated and escorted out.”
Hunted down?
What the hell is this? Do they take us for animals?
“The founding members have the right to use any methods
available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of
choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily
harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence
on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking
a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no
mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our
ranks.”
Wait. Weapons? What the hell does he mean by weapons?
Maybe I should’ve left, after all.
“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The
initiation has officially begun.”
Many around me bolt in all directions and I remain rooted in
place—the severity of the situation finally dawning on me.
I stare up at the people in masks, who don’t move from their
positions, watching the unfolding commotion, shuffling of feet,
and excited sounds.
My fingers twitch, but I turn around and do what I’ve never
done before.
I let my instincts take over.
I run.