Brimstone (54 page)

I looked at her, startled, probably a lot guilty. “What?”

“You keep glancing at your watch.”

Some spy I am. “Oh. No.” Gosh, that didn’t sound guilty at all. “Well, yes. I have to—I need to—”

She raised her brows expectantly. I made one last-ditch effort at a save. “I’m meeting someone.”

Her eyebrows shot up even farther. “
You
are meeting someone?”

The disbelief in her tone was a little insulting. “Yes. Why is that so incredible?”

“Because you’re so … Gidget.” She laughed at my offended expression. “Okay. Maybe not. You’re too snarky.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me I shouldn’t date an independent, or all Sigmas date Gammas, or whatever?”

“No. I’m rebelling vicariously.”

I stepped off the porch, then turned back, whispering, “Aren’t you going to tell me not to have sex while I’m a pledge?”

Laughter in her eyes, she asked, “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. How’s that?”

“You either. Seriously.” I sobered to warn her. “Stay away from the booze and stay away from your mother.”

“Deal.”

“Y
ou’re late.” Justin put the car in drive and headed the few blocks to Greek Row. “I was about to go in and get you.”

“Like Orpheus in the underworld?” I grabbed my jeans from the backseat and pulled them on under my dress. “That’s sweet.”

“You joke about those things, and I never know how serious you are. Is it any wonder I worry about you?”

“I know. I get it. I’m high-maintenance. So you’ve said.”

“We’re not having that argument again. What really bothers me is—God, Maggie! Do you have to do that?”

I had unzipped my dress and extracted my arms so that I
could pull on a black cat-burglar sweater. “What? Don’t be such a prude, Justin.” All the same, I yanked the turtleneck over my head and squirmed into it quickly.

He cruised past the SAXi house, which was quiet and dark, and looked for a spot to park a few doors down. “What really bothers me is that you keep picking crusades that I can’t help you with. High school, now a sorority. You’re going to a convent next, I know it.”

“Why is my chastity such a big issue with everyone lately?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He parked the car and got out. I buttoned my jeans and wiggled the dress down my legs, stepping out of it as Justin opened my door. Grabbing my camera bag from the floorboard, I climbed out and tugged down my sweater.

“At least let me go in with you,” he said.

The SAXi and Gamma Phi Ep houses were quiet, but there was plenty of activity on the street as the other chapters worked on their floats for the morning’s parade.

“Then who’d keep a lookout?” I checked that I had the right keys. “Distribution of manpower.”

Shaking his head in frustration, he rested a hand on the roof of the car. “I cannot believe I am so whipped,” he grumbled, “and we’re not even dating.”

I looked up at him in irritation. One, he was blocking my way. Two, “If you’re looking for sympathy, you’re talking to the wrong person,
pal
.”

A rapid series of emotions moved across his face, and he opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it closed. “Later,” he said, and stepped out of my way. I shouldered my bag and headed for the house, walking as though I had every right to be there.

Technically I wasn’t breaking and entering since, as a Sigma, I had a key to the front door. Maybe, if I got caught, a judge would see things my way. If I ever made it to see a judge. I guess the Sigmas could decide to simply sacrifice me at the next meeting and save the court’s trouble.

Justin was right. I really had to stop joking about things like that.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling conspicuous as I entered the foyer, hyperaware of the chapter room to my right. Too easy to picture something lurking behind the closed door, like a monster in the closet. And the more I pictured it, the more powerful and gruesome it became, until it seethed in my mind with reason-killing ferocity.

Get a grip, Maggie. You’re not five years old anymore
.

But I hurried past all the same.

The stairs sighed softly under my feet as I climbed to the second floor, holding my camera bag against my side to keep it from swinging. The upstairs hallways ran north and south, with the bathrooms at one end. The storage closets were opposite, so I turned left at the top of the first flight of steps.

I crept, cat-footed, past the bedrooms, even though I’d done a mental check of all the residents while at the party. The hall seemed endless, but finally I reached the closet and contemplated the solid wood door and the deadbolt.

Not worried about fingerprints as much as I was psyche-prints, I filled my mind with images of octopi and compasses and indigo auras before I inserted the key and turned the knob. I expected an atmospheric creak as I pulled open the door, but the hinges glided smoothly, without a sound.

The closet was pitch dark and a little musty, but underneath the smell of old plaster and carpet glue was something spicy, and a little earthy, with a tangy metallic thread: the incense from that first night. I’d found the right place.

I flipped the light switch with my elbow and stared at the perfectly mundane storage room, maybe ten feet by twenty. Industrial shelves against the walls. Boxes marked “Xmas Lights” and “Skit Night” and a rolled canvas backdrop on the floor. Lightbulbs and Sam’s Club–sized packages of toilet paper. In the corner was a large water heater, and beside it a neat stack of luggage, stored for the semester. No sign of anything the least bit mysterious.

Poking around, I found a box of white candles like we’d used in the pledging ceremony, and the crimson stoles, folded neatly. Finally I found a few boxes labeled “Initiation,” and inside were a lot of white togas, several skeins of silken cord, and more candles—indigo and crimson.

With a derisive snort, I pushed the box back onto the shelf. I’d expected something a little more exciting than inventory from the Wiccan Gift Shop.

About to give up, I made one last turn around the tiny room, this time using all my senses. Nothing leaped out and snagged my attention.

And by that I mean an actual nothingness; there was a
hole
in the back corner.

Everything, even lightbulbs and Christmas decorations, feels like something, even if it’s just the psychic equivalent of white noise. The dead space reminded me of the strange blankness in my head when I woke with the aftereffects of a dream, but no memory of it.

I walked to the corner, and saw a cabinet. Plain, industrial.
Locked. I pulled a Nancy Drew: taking the barrette from my hair, I reshaped the wire clasp until I could slip it between the double doors, catch the latch, and pull it up.

The monster wasn’t downstairs. It lived in this box.

A dank smell, like old, wet leaves, rolled out of the cabinet, and with it a feeling of ancient power. I’d felt something like it once before when I’d touched an artifact forged millennia ago for arcane purposes. This tangible energy was not as old, but just as icky. There was a baseness to it; death and sex and blood—the earthy, metallic smell beneath the spicy sweetness of the incense.

I saw the censer on the top shelf, the burnished metal looking warm even in the incandescent light of the bare bulb. A bowl the size of a candy dish, it had a lid with holes for the smoke to emerge. Turning on my camera, I took pictures of the censer and of the symbols etched in the brass.

The lamp sat next to it; they looked like a matched set. I took down a plastic bottle, unscrewed the top, and sniffed. Oil, with a pungent smell. I soaked one of my lens-cleaning cloths with a little of it, and tucked it in one of the pockets of my camera bag. Tucked behind the censer was a Tupperware container that held the incense, and I took a sample of that as well. Who knew all those
CSI
reruns would come in so handy?

On the bottom of the two shelves was the book, lying by itself. I wiped suddenly damp palms on my jeans. The feeling of danger and power was so strong, I would have rather put my hand in a vat of earthworms than pick up that heavy volume.

And that’s about what it felt like: when my fingers made contact with the leather binding, my skin tried to crawl up
my arm and away from the Evil—capital
E
—that I sensed inside.

With a deep breath, I pulled the tome from the cabinet, holding it away from my body. It was heavy: big like a coffee table book, and fat like a dictionary. The leather of the cover was pale and smooth, darker where generations of hands had touched it, and worn at the corners and edges.

No lettering or symbols marked the outside. Gingerly, I set it on top of a box of toilet paper and opened it, letting the thick pages fall where they pleased.

Calligraphy script, illuminated diagrams, and a lot of text I didn’t understand and wasn’t going to grasp in the short time I had. I snapped pictures of as many pages as I dared then, hoping that was good enough, I closed the book and with great relief slid it back onto its shelf.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, startling me. I fumbled it open without looking at the caller ID.

Holly’s voice, tight and quiet. “Victoria and my mother just shot out of here like a pair of greyhounds after a rabbit.”

“What?”

“Maggie, I don’t know what you’re doing, what you’re
really
doing. But
they
know. And wherever you are, they’re going there now.”

I didn’t have to be told twice. I shut the cabinet doors, using my impromptu jimmy to hook the latch back in place. The dreadful wrongness disappeared, the blankness coming back down like a curtain.

Grabbing my camera bag, I dashed out of the closet, locking it behind me, then sprinted down the hallway to Devon’s room.
Please don’t let this be the one day she locked her door.…

It wasn’t. As I fumbled the closet key onto its proper ring, my phone vibrated again: Justin, warning me they were outside. House keys returned to normal, I shoved my own into my pocket and started back out.

Too late. I heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs and ducked back into the room. What the hell was I supposed to do now? There was a fire escape, but it was on the far side of the staircase.

The women’s voices came closer, becoming distinct as they neared Devon’s door. I pressed myself to the wall and visualized becoming one with the house.
Deflector shields, don’t fail me now
.

“You can’t really think it’s her.”

“What I think, Victoria, is that you need that girl, so you are blind to the fact that she’s playing you for a fool.”

“I have the situation under control.”

“Oh, you are
all
about control.” Juliana’s voice was derisive. “Control and playing it safe.”

Victoria answered tightly. “Not everyone is about using people up and throwing them out. I’m making a long-term investment.”

“So am I.”

“In yourself, you mean.”

“Do
not
fuck with me, Victoria.” Frost rimed the woman’s voice. They must have stopped directly outside. I could feel the icy power through the door, sense the dominance shifting between the women like weather patterns. “Never forget who started this. You would never have had the guts to do what I did. And if I hadn’t, where would you be? Married to a city councilman with two mortgages and a minivan in the garage.”

But Victoria wasn’t done. “Don’t threaten me, Juliana. Where would
you
be if I hadn’t kept this house going the last twenty years? You need us. You need
me
.”

“Not as much as you think,” she purred, clearly a threat. “But my daughter does. Now open the door and let’s see if someone has put their hand in the cookie jar.”

I’d been careful to put everything back, not just where it looked right, but where it
felt
right. But I worried that my fear and revulsion might be the psychic equivalent of a neon sign.

Hurrying to the window, I raised the sash and looked out. Only one floor up, but my heart pounded as if it were a dozen. Looping my bag bandolier-style, I sat on the ledge and swung out one leg, then the other, turning so that I hung out the window, then lowering myself until my dangling feet found the ledge below.

How did a girl as unathletic as me keep getting into these predicaments? And why was it
always
heights?

Clinging white-knuckled to the brick overhang, I managed to lower the window sash, which is tricky from the outside. Then I realized I was going to have to let my feet go, hang from my fingertips, and drop to the ground. Let’s see—sprained or broken ankle versus the Witch Queens of Endor.

I’d take my chances on crutches.

Luckily it was autumn, and that meant rain. The ground yielded, absorbed my weight, then dumped me onto my butt, where I have the most padding. I’m telling you: Things work out for Sigmas.

“D
rive,” I wheezed, diving into the backseat of Justin’s car after my sprint from the SAXi house. “I have to beat them back to the Abbotts’.”