Hell Week (16 page)

He cast me a curious look, but let it go. I remembered that we'd argued--well, discussed intensely--the last time we spoke. It seemed as though he might say something about that, or at least something personal. Instead he set down his own book and picked up one of mine.

"The Encyclopedia of Earth Magic." He glanced at me, then warily picked up the next two. "Sacred Geometry. Finding the Goddess Within." Until he read them aloud, it hadn't oc- curred to me to wonder if we had a particularly esoteric library at Bedivere.

"Taking up some new hobbies?" he asked.

"No." I retrieved the books and neatened the pile self- consciously. "I'm working on a project."

"What kind of project?"

Crap. Now my skills at subterfuge chose to fail me?

When I didn't give him an answer, he laid his hand on the stack of books, as if he was going to keep them from me. "Like your friend Lisa? That kind of extracurricular project?"

"God, no." I tucked my hair behind my ears and ex- plained . . . sort of. "It's an angle for the column. Origin of symbols, female power. That kind of thing."

He looked at me, hard, then relented. After all, I wasn't exactly lying. "What do you want to know? Anthropology of occult folklore is my deal. Why didn't you just call me?"

What a stupid question. Because I was stubborn, and he'd hurt my feelings, of course. It occurred to me that be- cause Justin was older--definitely more knowledgeable and probably more sensible--I'd more than once put him on a pedestal. But really, guys could be so obtuse sometimes. Instead of pointing this out, I asked, "Don't you ever think you're crazy to believe this is real? Even in the face of experience?"

"Of course," he answered quickly. "Faith isn't absence of doubt. It's belief without proof, not without question."

He spoke as if he would know, which I found interesting. Justin's character was so clearly defined: forthright, gallant, conscientious. But for such a straightforward person, he was still a mystery in some ways. He'd never given me much detail on what had formed him, or set him on this unusual course of study.

The silence lengthened, and he answered my unvoiced question. "I guess that's why I'm here, trying to bridge the gap between faith and science."

I let myself smile at that. "Not enough windmills to tilt at?"

He smiled, too, and the distance between us--from Avalon to Ireland, from Greek Row to the Bedivere library-- seemed to shrink for a moment.

But only for a moment. "Hey, Maggie." Will appeared from around one of the shelves. "I thought I heard your voice."

I stifled a sigh, and greeted Will with a wave. He ambled over, a couple of books tucked under his arm, and gave Justin a friendly nod. "How's it going?" Then to me, in a teasing voice, "No fair getting help from the TA on your term paper."

Casually, I turned the stack of books to hide their titles. "If I really need help in history, I can get it at home."

Will shook his head sadly, but his eyes were laughing. "I just knew you were going to throw off the curve." "Professor Quinn doesn't grade on a curve." Justin was trying to be nonchalant, and wasn't entirely successful.

If he noticed, Will amiably pretended not to. "All on me, then." He gestured to the stack of books. "You checking those out? I can carry them down for you."

"Um . . ." He wasn't a Sigma, but I didn't know how much the Gamma Phi Eps were in bed with them--metaphorically speaking--and the titles of the books were unusual to say the least.

"They're mine," said Justin. "This one is yours, Maggie." He handed me the book he'd been carrying, a history of the Knights Templar. Which, in addition to being a secret soci- ety, was also part of our history assignment. No coinci- dences.

"And," he added, "there's nothing wrong with calling me for help. That's my job."

Not the most flattering way to make that offer, especially given my bent pride. "I'll keep it in mind." I left it at that, since Will was rather obviously waiting to walk me out.

Would it completely have blown my cover to stay? Maybe the library wasn't the best place to talk about the weird stuff. The shelves made it too easy for someone to eaves- drop, and I knew I wasn't the only Sigma with deflector shields.

But that wasn't the real point. Would it have killed Justin to give me some hint that he wanted me to stay?

"I wasn't interrupting anything there, was I?" Will asked as we wound down the stairs to the circulation desk.

"No." That didn't sound entirely convincing, so I added, "We were talking about school." He nodded, and we checked out our books. On the way out, he asked, "Did you eat yet?"

My stomach growled as soon as he mentioned food. "I was going to grab some McNuggets on the way home."

He held the door, and coaxed me with a smile. "I'll spring for a Happy Meal."

What the hell. I could placate Victoria, learn about fra- ternities for my column, and eat at the same time. It wasn't a date, it was multitasking.

F F F

It was only fast food, but by the time I got home and dragged myself up the stairs to my room, the long day had crashed down on me, and I still had calculus homework. I set the Templar book on the desk and wrote myself a note on a Post-it. "What is the deal with the Sigmas and the Gamma Eps?" Further investigation would have to wait until the next day.

Later, post�math homework, I lay in bed thinking about how silent my warning system had been the last month or more. What were the odds that, as much time as I had spent with these girls, there hadn't been one eating disorder, chemical dependency, or boyfriend crisis to trip my switch?

And then there was the no-dream thing, which dis- tressed and frustrated me. Because those were basic. That was how my freakiness had first shown up.

According to Gran's book, you could psych yourself into meaningful dreams by relaxing, inviting the dream to visit your sleep. Or you could meditate, or pray if that was your thing.

Before graduation, I hadn't been to Mass in years. But facing Evil with a capital E makes a convincing argument that somewhere, in some shape or form, there was Good with a capital G, too, and I wanted no mistake about which side I was on.

I'm not saying Team Father, Son, and Holy Ghost is the only team in the G league, but it's what I defaulted to when I needed to get my spiritual ducks in a row. Even so, I'm not exactly what you call a reverent traditionalist.

"Okay, God." I stared up at the dark ceiling. "Maybe you could throw me a bone here. I'm going in circles and could really use a signpost." I paused, trying to sound at least a lit- tle supplicant. "So . . . anytime you're ready, that would be great."

I didn't really expect an immediate answer, but the si- lence in my head disappointed me anyway. My fingers had crept up to the small gold cross that I always wore--a confir- mation present from my gran. I usually forgot I had it on, which was a fairly obvious sign that while I was committed to the capital G, I was a little lax on the protocol.

With a sigh, I dropped the pendant. Then I rolled over, burrowed into the covers, and closed my eyes.

God, we both know I suck at praying. But please . . . just show me what to do.

F F F

I woke in darkness, heart pounding. Fumbling for the lamp, I switched it on. My eyes darted around the room for what had awakened me, but found nothing. I sensed nothing.

Throwing on my robe, I padded downstairs without bothering to turn on a light. Unconcerned about the parents' privacy, I went to their bedroom and opened the door a crack, held my breath until I heard two sets of soft, even snores. They were fine, and something deep inside me un- knotted.

Gran's picture was on the piano in the living room. Walking carefully in the dim glow of the hall nightlight, I picked up the framed photo. A slumbering sense of her floated into my brain, like the clean lavender soap smell of her sheets. Fine.

Why could I sense my grandmother through her photo, but from the Sigmas I got nothing? No dreams and no clear sense of their nature. That was important.

But how? Time was running out. Initiation was six weeks off, and then the window of opportunity would close.

I set the photo down and climbed the stairs, feeling like I was wrapped in wool--sweaty and hot. Why couldn't I think? I was a fast thinker, intuitively leaping tall quan- daries in a single bound. What had changed?

Falling onto my sofa, I picked up my cell phone to see what time it was, whether I could get any more sleep that night. I had a text message from Justin. Call me. Please.

What had I said? Show me what to do.

Flipping open the phone, I dialed. He didn't pick up until the fourth ring, and sounded still asleep. "Hullo?"

Swallowed pride doesn't always go down easily. I couldn't seem to talk around mine. Alert now, he said, "Maggie?"

"I . . ." It wasn't just the stubbornness. The wet wool feeling was invading my head, seeping in through my skull, making my tongue thick and heavy. "I need help."

"Are you home?" I heard the sound of rustling fabric, as if he was getting dressed. "I'll be right there." "No, don't. The parents--" God, my head. The more I tried to tell him there was something wrong, the more it ached. "I'll meet you somewhere."

"Not in the middle of the night you won't." Keys jingled and a door opened, then shut again. "I'll come get you. Meet me outside."

He hung up before I could protest again. 22

I think purgatory must be like an IHOP at two in the morn- ing. The fluorescent lights ward off the dark, but give no warmth. The people who come and go look tired, like they'd rather be somewhere else but aren't. You can get food and coffee, but it's not very good.

Justin took his coffee black. He poured us both a cup from the blue plastic carafe before he even let me speak. His brown eyes were bloodshot, his hair sticking straight up. He had sleep creases on his cheek. But he was there.

"Now. Tell me about the Sigma Alpha Xis."

I did. Everything I remembered, and the things I didn't, I told him about that, too. I told him about Victoria and the paper, and how tempted I was. I told him how I kept writing notes to myself to check things out, and then forgetting them.

He listened to all of it, then said, "That's everything?"

No, it wasn't. I was certain I was leaving something out, but I couldn't think what. The wool-headed feeling had lifted while I waited for Justin outside in the brisk air, and the headache with it. But I still had the sense I was forgetting something.

"It's everything I can recall," I said.

"So you think . . . what, exactly?"

"That's just it." Why wasn't I able to find the right thing to say to make this make some kind of twisted sense? "There's something wrong, something off. It's all feelings, no evidence." I sank my head into my hands. "I don't know."

The coffee cup scraped on the Formica as he pushed it aside, making room for his elbows. "Hey. Let's be organized. Tell me what you do know."

I looked up. He had his arms resting on the table, his head at my level, his gaze searching mine. "You'll figure it out, Maggie. What do you know?"

"Okay." I ordered my thoughts. They'd all poured out randomly before. "One. Victoria told me the Sigmas always succeed. Everyone else acts that way, too. Things just go right for them. Even my pictures for the paper--I always seem to have my camera pointed at the right place at the right moment."

"But you've been doing sports photography for a while, right? You might just have a knack." "Not in every shot."

He conceded the point. "Okay, that's a start. What's next?"

"Two. They're freaked out about Devon dating an inde- pendent." That made Justin laugh. "I know. Not that strange, either. All sororities want status, success, and guys, not nec- essarily in that order. See why I doubt myself?"

"Don't start that." He poured another cup of coffee. "Your feelings are evidence enough for me. The fact that you're not remembering things . . . maybe that's because you're on the inside. It's affecting your radar somehow."

This was the first hopeful, useful thing I'd heard in weeks. "You think so?"

He shrugged slightly. "Have they given you anything? The BU bookstore is full of Greek stuff. Anything like that?"

"No." Then I frowned, trying to remember. "Maybe. A T-shirt, the pledge pin . . ."

"It would be something you might keep on you all the time, or maybe by your bed."

I shook my head, not quite in denial, but in frustration. "You see? This is what happens."

Justin leaned in again, lowering his voice and catching my gaze. "Have you considered that there may be some greater power at work here? You joke about Faustian bar- gains, but maybe that's not a coincidental analogy."

"Sorority girls from Hell? Isn't that like saying French people from France?"

"I'm serious, Maggie."

"I know you are, Justin." He was talking capital E stuff, much more than just Mean Girls meets The Craft. "But if it is--and I'm not saying I think that--and I'm in a position to do something about it, I can't just run away."

He sighed. "No, you can't. I'm just worried that because you've made friends there--"

"What?" I demanded. "You think I'm enjoying myself too much? That the attention and success are going to my head?"

"No." He said it simply, taking the indignant wind out of my sails. "Because you've been wrong before."

I stared into my coffee cup. "This isn't like Lisa."

"Yes, it is." His tone was firm, but tempered with regret. "Your friendship, once you give it, is hard to lose. It's one of my favorite things about you."

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to hope. But, jeez, talk about mixed signals lately.

A shadow fell on the table and I looked up, thinking it was the waitress. I was surprised to see Cole standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Can't sleep." He indicated the laptop case slung on his shoulder. "Trying to work. Thought maybe a change of location . . ."

"You're not having writer's block, are you?"

"No," he growled, in a way that meant yes. "Don't you have an eight o'clock class in the morning?"