Brimstone (53 page)

“Gamma Phi Eps”—Jenna picked up where she had left off, and her tone was
significant
—“are good matches for Sigmas.”

“You mean they’re …” I tapped my forehead. I could mean psychic, or I could mean crazy. Or both, which is how I felt lately. “Like us?”

Jenna shook her head. “Not any more than any other random population of people.”

Dead end on that question. “Well, that’s a relief. I was worried there was a conspiracy.”

She looked at me sharply. “A what?”

“To breed a master race of television psychics.”

Jenna folded her arms and didn’t laugh, but looked as if she wanted to. “You have no idea how special you are, do you? Even among us. That’s why Kirby pushed for Brittany to be pledge prez. You could run laps around her when it comes to …”

“What?” I asked, when she didn’t go on.

“You’ll find out when the time is right.”

I let my irritation show. “I hate being in the dark.”

“I know.” She sounded honestly sympathetic. “But you shouldn’t be thinking about it so much. It’ll give you a headache.” Her hand squeezed mine where it rested on the tailgate, and her fingers were almost as cold as the metal. “Just wait until initiation. You’ll understand everything then.”

Initiation again. All roads led there, where I
so
did not want to go.

T
wo weeks slipped away in a circular blur of class, newspaper, homework, Homecoming, and Sigma Alpha Xi activities. I overheard two actives saying that since losing the election for pledge president, I really seemed to have discovered my Sigma spirit.

Whatever.

Ethan Douglas, editor of the
Avalon Sentinel
, called and asked me to do an article on the student art show in the campus gallery, and Will asked me to Homecoming. The more time I spent with the Sigmas, the more things went well.

Except, of course, that I didn’t want to go with
Will
to Homecoming.

I saw Justin on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but since Will walked with me from history to the arts building, we didn’t speak more than “Hey” and “How are you.” Which, as I had nothing to report, was enough. Theoretically.

On Thursday before the parade, I tried my best to corral the SAXis and Gamma Phi Eps into a picture with the not-quite-finished float. I’d gone around Greek Row to interview the other houses and had the same problem; getting them all to behave long enough to get a workable photo was like herding cats.

“Come on, guys! Squish in.” I framed the shot for my third attempt. “This is for the school paper, so maybe you could hide the liquor bottles this time?”

They did,
finally
, and when I was done, Devon, Holly, and Jenna crowded in to look at the camera’s view screen. “Can I have a copy of that?” Jenna asked.

“Sure. I can print you one after I upload them.” I checked my watch. “Which I need to do if there’s a hope of this running in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Can you use my computer, Maggie?” Devon asked. She was looking more like her perky self, so I suspected her “break” was over. “Cole has sent stuff in from there.”

“Probably. Do you mind?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.” She waved for me to follow her. “Come on.”

Since the front door of the sorority house required a key—only Sigmas and their pledges had one—a lot of the
girls didn’t lock their rooms, especially if they were just going downstairs. Devon was one of them.

“Here you go.” She woke the desktop computer with a jiggle of the mouse. “We’re on the school network, like a dorm.”

“Thanks.” I pulled the USB cable out of my camera bag and started hooking up.

“Do you need me? Otherwise I’ll go back outside.”

“I’m good. I’ll close the door when I leave.”

She took off, and I uploaded the photos, first to the computer and then through the Internet to the
Report
server. While I waited for them to finish loading, I browsed the bulletin board on Devon’s wall. It was full of pictures—of her and her pledge sisters, of Cole, of parties and vacations.

A set of keys hung from a hook. The fob was a woodcut cartoon octopus with indigo SAXi letters. Not the most convenient thing to tuck in your pocket on the way to class.

No way was it that easy. Keeping an eye on the open door, I plucked the ring from the hook. I got a muddled sense of a series of girls who had held them, but overwhelmingly, these belonged to the house. When I concentrated, I could distinguish each one: front door, chapter room, outside storage shed, and finally a musty, stuffy dark place. The closet.

I checked the hall: Grand Central Station. The whole chapter was here, mostly out working on the float, but also in and out of rooms to get coats and drinks, up and down the stairs. Okay, maybe not that easy.

Grabbing my own key ring from my camera bag, I flipped through it until I found one of the same standard
industrial-shaped keys as the one for the closet. It was to my family’s rented storage unit, so hopefully if Devon did touch the ring, she wouldn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. The worry would be moot if she tried to actually
use
it, but the whole thing was a gamble in the first place.

Things work out for Sigmas
. I said it over and over in my mind, like a mantra.
I’m a Sigma. I might as well put it to use
.

“I
think I can get into the closet where they keep their supersecret stuff.”

Justin stared at me, his sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth. We were eating lunch in Dad’s office; he wouldn’t notice any extra crumbs and—privilege of tenure—he usually left at noon on Fridays anyway.

The sandwich went back down onto the wrapper. “How are you planning to do that?”

“There’s this big mandatory party tonight at the Abbotts’ place for all the alums who are coming for Homecoming. I’m going to slip out, go back to the Sigma house.”

“They just leave their supersecret stuff lying around?”

“Well, not exactly.”

He eyed me sternly. “So you’re going to break in.”

“Of course not. I have a key.” I took a bite of chicken salad, chewed, and swallowed, all under his inscrutable stare. “But there actually is something you can help me with.”

Once again I had done my shopping at the fine establishment of Grandmother’s Closet. Tonight’s ensemble was very
Breakfast at Tiffany’s—
black cocktail dress, pearls, and ballet flats. I’d learned my lesson on footwear: you never knew when you’d be facing down hordes of ravenous demon spawn, and kitten heels could be a real encumbrance.

The Abbotts’ Victorian mansion was brightly lit, inside and out. The doors and windows opened to the veranda for guests to wander. Which they did, squealing with delight when they saw a sister, or clasping hands and slapping backs with a brother.

The Gamma Phi Epsilon alumni were there, too. Lawyers, CEOs, bestselling novelists. I knew these weren’t
all
the university’s notable alumni, but being in the room with them, it seemed that way.

The student members were encouraged to circulate and schmooze. There was an open bar for those old enough to drink, and the pledges took well-orchestrated shifts carrying trays of punch and canapés around. I was bringing an empty tray to the kitchen and checking my watch when Holly came up and wrapped her arm around mine.

“My mother wants to meet you.”

“Your mother’s here?” I set the tray on a console table in the hall, since I was obviously not going to get back to the kitchen. “You didn’t say she was coming.”

“I was hoping her plane would crash.”

Holly had been hitting the sauce. The only thing that gave her away, though, was the brightness of her eyes and redness of the tip of her nose. Well, and the looseness of her tongue.

I knew Holly drank, but since her underwear-drawer stash consisted of little airplane bottles, I hadn’t been too concerned. Now I wondered.

“Should I be worried?” I asked.

“Only if you’re allergic to brimstone.”

If she only knew.

Still clinging to my arm, she pulled me to a corner of the room, where a gorgeous auburn-haired woman in a three-thousand-dollar suit held court in the midst of a bunch of Gamma Phi Eps. They were, man and boy, practically tripping over their lolling tongues.

It wasn’t simply that the woman was beautiful. She radiated charisma. Once you were in her sphere, it was hard to look away. The power was palpable, raising the hair on my arms. Holly had told me her mother was a lawyer; if she stood in a courtroom and told me the moon was made of green cheese, I would believe her.

“Holly!” She beckoned her daughter through the entourage. “Is this your new friend?”

“Mom, this is Maggie Quinn. Maggie, this is my mother, Juliana Baker-Russell-Hattendorf-Hughes.”

Riiiight. No passive aggression there.

The multinamed lady shot Holly the briefest of glares, then extended her manicured hand to me with a smile. “A pleasure, Maggie. Holly has spoken of you often.”

I braced before taking her hand, shields at full power. That battle station was fully operational. “Nice to meet you, Ms.…” No way could I remember all those names.

“Hughes is fine. Or Juliana, since we’re sisters, after all.” She released my fingers and I resisted the impulse to shake my hand the way a dog shakes off water. “I hear you’re trying to decide between English and photojournalism.”

“Well, the journalism seems to be out in front at the moment.”

“Make sure you stay in touch, then. I have some contacts with the news services.”

“Too bad Jane and Ted got divorced,” Holly said. “She and Mom are like
that
.” She held up her crossed fingers.

“Great!” I grabbed my friend’s arm firmly. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Hughes!” Chirruping too brightly, I dragged Holly away before her mother the Death Star could blow up Planet Freshman with her laser eye beams.

“Very nice,” I drawled when we were out of earshot. “Thank you
so
much for introducing me.”

“You’re welcome.” Once we reached the kitchen, she pulled her hand from mine and sagged against the counter, making the busy catering staff reroute around her. “God, why did I wear high heels? I’m six feet tall already. Trade shoes with me, Maggie.”

“I don’t think they’d fit.” I glanced at my watch. I had to make up an excuse and get out of there to rendezvous with Justin.

“I hate my mother.”

The caterers were eyeing us with less annoyance and more curiosity now. I patted Holly’s shoulder, hoping to coax her to use, as my mother said, an inside voice. “She’ll be going back home after the weekend.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She pulled off the offending shoes and tossed them on the floor. I fetched them before they could trip an innocent food service worker; Holly grabbed an open bottle of champagne, poured a generous helping into a punch glass, and downed it before I could stop her.

“She killed my father, you know.”

I stared at Holly, mouth agape, but she went on, oblivious to the dead stop in the kitchen. “He had a heart attack in the middle of fucking her. How’s that for a cliché?”

“Peachy.” I reached for her arm, intending to lead her to a more private place, or at least relieve her of the bottle. But she easily avoided my grasp.

“Maybe I’ll just go in there and tell all those boys about
that
.” She stepped in the direction of the party and yelled, “Stay away from her, boys! She’s a black widow, that one!”

This was getting serious. There was a room full of alumnae witches in there, and I didn’t know how far sister-
or
motherhood would protect Holly if she really made them mad.

“Come on.” I tugged her insistently toward the back door. “Let’s go get some fresh air.”

“Why?” She looked down at me belligerently. “Because I shouldn’t embarrass my darling mother?”

“Because you shouldn’t piss her off!”

A flash of sobering fear entered her eyes. “No. I shouldn’t. Let’s go.”

Ignoring the staring caterers, I led her onto the back porch, where the bracing air ruffled our dresses and, I hope, cleared her brain. She tilted her head back and stared at the bright stars whirling through the spiral arm barely discernible on the inky fabric of space.

“Sorry,” she finally said.

“It’s all right. Nothing like airing family laundry to make a party special.”

She smiled slightly. “That’s not the half of it. Steven divorced her because she was sleeping around, and this new guy doesn’t even care, as long as he gets his first.”

“Nice.”

“She’s a succubus. I don’t want to be anything like her, yet here I am. At her alma mater. In her sorority.”

Something struck me about that choice of word. “Succubus?”

“A demon that sleeps with men to steal their souls.”

“Yeah. I know. But you mean that figuratively, right?”

She laughed. “How else would I mean it?”

Well, I’d learned not to take these things for granted. And when I say I got a feeling of power off Juliana Baker-Russell-Hattendorf-Hughes, I mean some
serious
power.

“Do you have somewhere to be?”