Secret Society Girl by Diana Peterfreund Page B

Initiate?
    Hardly—or at least, not in the last few decades. If a man like Malcolm Cabot was a virgin, then I was a nun.

    As if he heard my unspoken musings, the M.C. went on. ―Though most of the Knights are already familiar with such Earthly Pleasures‖—

    And Purple Prose.

    —―there are few who leave Eli without having tasted of her Delights.‖ The coffin stopped moving, as if we‘d reached our destination. ―Have you heard such tales, Neophyte?‖

    No, not as such, but it didn‘t sound off-base. A prostitute on call at the Rose & Grave tomb? A little gross, but in keeping with every other tall tale I‘d ever heard about the society. ―Sure, why not?‖

    He leaned so close to the coffin, it was as if he hissed the following words directly into my ear.
    ―And have you never wondered, Miss Not-Too-Shabby-in-Bed, from whence we recruit her?‖

    Uh-oh.

    ―Why don‘t you find out?‖

    And with that, they flipped a latch and turned the coffin on its end, tipping me out. Plunging forward, I braced myself for a crash that never came. I fell down and down, too shocked by the disappearance of the ground even to scream.

    And when I finally landed, things got even worse.

    Blankets buffered my fall, and after the first bounce, I felt strong male arms close around my torso to keep me steady. But I was no one‘s whore. I lunged out with my fists.

    ―Help!‖ I clawed at my face, fighting to get my wet hair out of my eyes, and kicked to untangle my legs from the blankets. ―Help! Rape! Fire! ‖

    (I‘d always been taught that people pay more attention when you yell ―Fire‖ than when you yell
    ―Rape‖ because fire endangers them as well. Fun world we live in, huh?)

    ―Help me, please!‖ My fist grazed someone‘s jaw.

    ―Ow! Amy, jeez, chill out.‖ I paused in my flailing for a moment and peered through the ropy strands of my hair to see who was holding me. It was Malcolm, robed, but with his hood pushed back off his face.

    ―Get your hands off me, you political slime,‖ I shouted, ―or I swear to God I‘ll make sure your father never holds elected office again!‖

    These are the types of threats one makes at Eli.

    He laughed then, and loosened his grip, setting me on my feet. ―You‘re preaching to the choir, girl.‖ He brushed my hair back behind my ear. ―And no one‘s going to touch you, least of all me.
    It was just a joke.‖

    I looked around at the boys who stood there, holding the ends of the makeshift blanket parachute, and then up at the staircase landing, where the plywood coffin stood open. A few more robed figures were traipsing down the stairs to join us, pushing their hoods back as they went.

    ―Well, it wasn‘t funny,‖ I said, straightening my clothes and glaring at Malcolm. ―Especially the bit about the pool. I have a phobia about water.‖

    “What?” Malcolm‘s voice betrayed genuine surprise.

    ―Oh, right. Like you know who my third-grade homeroom teacher was but not why I never joined the swim team?‖

    Malcolm‘s gaze flashed to the leader of the staircase crew, who merely lifted his chin in defiance. The guy was slim of build, with dark hair and very pale skin. I‘d never seen him before, but knew instantly that this was my Sith M.C., Shadow Guy #2, he of the This-Is-Your-FBI-File line.

    ―Well, now you can add it to your fucking files.‖ I wrung out my left pant leg and straightened.
    ―Where‘s the exit?‖

Malcolm‘s face fell. ―You‘re not leaving ?!?‖

    ―You bet your GPA I am!‖ I pointed at Darth Digger. ―I wouldn‘t join a tea party that asshole‘s at.‖ I headed off, ignoring the squishing sound in my left sneaker and hoping that I was correct in my assessment that I was walking toward something vaguely exit-esque. The hallways were lined with dark red paper and lighted only intermittently by dim candles in skull-shaped sconces.
    With my luck, I would end up in their dungeon, and in seventy years, it would be my cranium