by Kathy Reichs
You brought her here, pal. We were doing just fine before.
I laid out the flatware and took my usual seat. Whitney began distributing her latest masterpiece: chicken-fried steak, okra, mashed potatoes, and butter beans, everything slathered in thick, beefy gravy.
One point I’ll concede—Whitney is a phenomenal cook. Lights out. I can’t imagine how she maintained her figure, eating like that, but I was happy to be along for the ride. Her culinary prowess was the sole perk of sharing a roof.
“Tory!” Whitney flashed synthetically whitened teeth. “Now that you’ve debuted, have you thought about how you’d like to give back to the community? We’ll need to get you admitted first, but there are several interesting committee openings in the Mag League.”
I froze, mid-bite. “The what?”
“The Magnolia League.” Mascaraed lashes fluttered in surprise. “Surely you’ve heard?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Voice flat. I didn’t like where this was going.
Whitney turned disbelieving eyes on Kit. “The Magnolia League of Charleston is only the most exclusive young women’s service organization in the South. I’m sure all of your debutante friends have already joined.”
“My debutante friends? Who would they be, exactly?”
“I don’t understand.” Whitney cocked her head like a sparrow. “I’m referring to the wonderful group of young ladies with whom you shared your introduction. Why, you’re practically sisters now! Members of a debutante class are lifelong friends. You girls will be grouped together when you join the League.”
Blargh.
I’d thought this nonsense dead and buried. Apparently my debut was merely a prelude to a life sentence.
I tried to be diplomatic. “I’m not sure that’s a good fit for—”
“It’s a perfect fit. Tory, this is simply what you do as a member of polite society. It’s also a tremendous honor. Only daughters of the finest families are even considered for admission.” Whitney’s lips thinned. “Frankly, you’re lucky to still be invited, after this nasty court business.”
My jaw clenched. I fought an impulse to say something I’d regret. Whitney describing the Gamemaster’s trial as some kind of embarrassing inconvenience drove me bonkers.
“It’s completely up to you.” Kit gave me a hopeful look. “Might be fun?”
“You simply must continue with your charitable work.” Whitney practically whined.
“I’ll think about it.” Changing the subject. “Everything good at work, Kit?”
“What?” Kit lowered a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Oh, fine, fine. Business as usual. The hurricane damage has been repaired, and the monkeys seem unaffected. Overall, we were very lucky.”
“We need to pay better attention to the social side of things.” Whitney folded her napkin and placed in on her lap. “Your employees need diversions, living out here in the sticks.”
Meaning you do, you harridan.
“There’s much more to do in the city,” I said innocently. “When is your place due to be finished?”
“Not for weeks yet,” Whitney murmured.
Kit dodged my eye. “What diversions did you have in mind, Whitney?”
She perked up. Had been waiting for the question.
“We should host a block party. Right outside, on the front lawn. We could rent a white pavilion, tables and chairs, and serve barbeque and iced tea. Maybe have some games. Croquet. Or even badminton! And door prizes, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” I repeated.
Kit gave me a warning look.
Whitney clapped her hands, delighted by her own idea. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful? And LIRI should cover the entire cost. A gesture like that would show the neighbors how much you care about their well-being.”
“Great idea,” Kit said automatically. “You should organize it.”
Whitney positively beamed. “I’d be honored. Tory, you can help!”
“Fantastic.”
Double blargh.
Tuesday
I braced myself for the coming storm.
Downtown. Tuesday morning. 7:00 a.m.
Time to face the music.
Shelton, Hi, and I stepped off Hugo, exited the marina onto Lockwood Drive, and walked south to Broad Street. Moments later we reached Bolton Preparatory Academy’s majestic front gates.
I stopped. “Ugh.”
“Yep.” Hi adjusted his backpack. With no court appearance that morning, he was back to the inside-out jacket, with the blue lining exposed. “Gonna be wild.”
Shelton snorted. “By wild, you mean horribly awful, right?”
Bolton Prep is Charleston’s oldest and most prestigious private school. For well over a century, admission to its hallowed halls has been a coveted and expensive status symbol. Most students hail from the city’s wealthy elite.
My crew couldn’t have been more out of place.
As an incentive for LIRI employees living out on Morris Island, the institute provides tuition for their children to attend Bolton. Otherwise, we’d never set foot inside. And since the drive to campus takes over an hour, LIRI also provides Tom Blue’s daily shuttle service. All in all, not a bad deal.
Hi, Shelton, and I were on the backstretch of our sophomore year, my second at the academy. Our time there hadn’t been easy.
To most of our classmates we were aliens—unknowable foreign beings, dropped from the sky to spoil their lavish party. For a few, our presence was actually offensive. We had no place in their indulgent, privileged world.
Everyone knew we attended on scholarships. We’d been called “island refugees,” “boat kids,” even “peasants.” Rarely had a day passed without one of us getting picked on.
The three of us had identical schedules that year, so we watched one another’s backs.
“Safety in numbers” is a real thing.
Our course load was nearly all AP classes, which drew students from across Bolton’s different grade levels. The previous semester Ben had been in half our classes, too, despite being a junior. Obviously, he was no longer around. Sometimes it felt like a limb was missing.
For a group of middle-class, unapologetic science geeks, Bolton was a social minefield. The mocking began the first time I opened my locker, and found a Barbie doll dressed like a homeless woman. And when those same jokesters discovered that the “snotty ginger genius” was also the baby of the class, the sniping turned uglier.
Freshman year had been brutal. No other way to describe it. Only my Morris Island buddies had kept me from demanding a transfer. Depressingly, sophomore year hadn’t started much better.
But that was all out the window.
The Morris Island Three. That’s what they called us now.
Since the events of last fall, we’d practically become celebrities.
The Gamemaster saga had been headline news for months. Every infinitesimal detail of the case had been examined, debated, printed, broadcast, and blogged. There were seven Tumblr accounts dedicated to the trial alone.
Our classmates had learned what almost happened at the debutante ball. Most had been there that night, or had friends or family who’d attended. They’d learned that the “boat kids” had stopped a murderous psychopath. That those dirty “peasants” had saved their upper-class asses.
The effect was shocking.
Former tormentors now regarded us with something close to awe. Dozens of wide-eyed classmates—many who’d never glanced our way before—had personally thanked us for what we’d done. A few seemed too intimidated to even approach.
Sometimes the world flips upside down, then forgets to right itself.
Suddenly, every day at Bolton felt like that.
Which isn’t to say we’d become popular. The majority still avoided us, unable to bridge the gap from grudging resp
ect to actual friendship. But the taunting had stopped. The pranks had been discontinued.
Fine by me.
Being left in peace was enough.
Our classmates’ change in attitude didn’t extend to Ben, however. They took his expulsion as irrefutable confirmation of his complicity in the Gamemaster’s schemes. Nothing could convince them otherwise. I’d stopped trying.
Shelton checked his watch. “Bell in five.”
“All right, you jackals.” Hi squared his shoulders. “Come and get some Hiram.”
They both looked to me. I nodded.
Hi pounded his chest—once, twice—then strode through the archway. Shelton and I followed him down the cobblestone path. Circling a cherub-capped fountain, we entered the quad and made for the mammoth granite lions flanking the school’s front steps.
Students filled the courtyard, chatting in groups among the benches and delicate rock gardens, soaking in the morning sunlight before first bell. The usual morning scene.
Maybe no one will care.
As we crossed the flower-lined plaza, conversation stopped.
Heads turned. Eyes followed. Whispers flew behind cupped hands.
Crap. The local TMZ was tuned in to us.
Hi’s head whipped this way and that. “They’re staring like we’re buck naked.”
“Keep moving,” Shelton hissed. “This is excruciating.”
“Just follow me.” Ignoring the gawkers, I hurried to the giant wooden doors and slipped inside. A deep breath. Then, face set to neutral, I fired down the hallway. AP Calculus was first period. I needed my book.
Rounding the first corner, my heart sank.
Jason Taylor was idling by my locker. Pretending not to be.
“Tory!” Jason flashed a grin. “I heard you did great yesterday. Did that guy really pull a knife on you?”
“Knife? What?” Argh. Worse than I thought.
“That’s the rumor outside. Didn’t sound too likely.”
Jason had the whole Nordic thing going. Ice-blue eyes. Pale skin. White-blond hair. His body was Thor-sized, too. Captain of our lacrosse team, Jason was a sick athlete.
He was also infatuated with me.
A problem that appeared to be getting worse.
These days, Jason seemed to pop up everywhere I went. I worried he’d planted a tracking chip on me, like a prized Labrador.
Don’t get me wrong—Jason’s a fantastic guy, and a true friend, one of the few non-Virals I could count on in a jam. He’d been instrumental in thwarting the Gamemaster, risking his life to help save others. That’s not something you forget.
Romantically, however, he just didn’t do it for me.
No tingle. No spark. Chemistry fail. I didn’t understand why, but there it was.
Jason spoke as I shuffled my books. “Did you know Chance was there?”
My hands froze. “Where? In court?”
Jason nodded. “He sat in back. Saw the whole thing. It must’ve been banana pants in that room. You sure like causing a stir.”
Jason went on, but I was barely listening.
Chance Claybourne. In the gallery. Watching me.
I wasn’t sure what it meant. What I wanted it to mean.
Make no mistake, Chance was a problem. A fabulously gorgeous problem.
Chance had graduated from Bolton the previous semester. Though only eighteen, he’d gained access to a large portion of his inheritance, making him one of the richest men in Charleston. Son of former state senator and pharmaceutical magnate Hollis Claybourne, and heir to the staggering Claybourne family fortune, he was also the city’s most eligible bachelor.
Chance kept turning up in my life.
Twice in the last year he’d witnessed our flare powers unleashed. He’d seen our enhanced speed and strength, and glimpsed our glowing eyes.
The first time shocked him so badly, he’d ended up in a mental hospital. The second time convinced him to return for more treatment.
I encouraged those fears, selfishly protecting the pack at his expense.
Guilt still dogged me, but I’d done what was necessary.
Protecting our secret came first. Always.
When Chance resurfaced, he’d been a different person. His playful side had mostly disappeared. The current version was more bitter, with harder edges. And that man was intensely suspicious of me and my friends.
Chance had also helped stop the Gamemaster—saving our butts along the way—but those events had convinced him we were hiding a secret. I had to stop him from learning how right he was.
Abruptly, I realized Jason had stopped talking.
One pale eyebrow rose. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m fine.” Closing my locker and shouldering my pack. “People are making a bigger deal out of it than it was.”
“Just another day for the Morris Island Three.” Jason smiled to show he was kidding. “I’m sure you dazzled them, like you do everybody else.”
Hi and Shelton reappeared, saving me from having to respond.
They greeted Jason with exaggerated head nods—those two had accepted his friendship completely, and seemed to revel in his attention. I understood. It was nice being friends with one of the cool kids.
Heels clicked on the hardwood behind me.
My eyes squeezed shut.
Of course.
I turned to find the Tripod of Bitch standing in formation.
Their positions had shuffled, but the components remained the same.
Ashley Bodford was now front leg. She had dark eyes, glossy black hair, and perfect teeth. Pretty, but in a cold, mean way, if that makes sense. She wore the same uniform I did—white blouse, plaid skirt, black knee socks and shoes, and navy blazer—but somehow she made it look stylish. No idea.
Courtney Holt stood a half pace behind Ashley. Tall and thin, with a model-perfect physique, she was the stereotypical embodiment of pure blond vacancy. She was sporting her “go-to” look—a white Bolton Griffins cheerleading uniform, two sizes too small. Upon discovering that particular dress code loophole, she’d purchased five sets so she could wear one every day.
Those two were awful in their own right—though, truthfully, Courtney was more stupid than mean. Just standing close to them made my skin crawl. But it was the coven’s third member that caused me sleepless nights.
Madison Dunkle cowered behind Ashley, color flooding her cheeks as she dodged my eye. With exquisite makeup, machine-tanned skin, and a new arrangement of perfectly highlighted auburn hair, Madison was a study in manufactured beauty. Our uniforms matched, but Madison’s anklet could’ve put me through college.
Formerly the Tripod’s leader, Madison had been dethroned by Ashley.
The most likely cause? Her palpable fear of me.
Last summer, in a fit of anger, I’d flashed my flare eyes at Madison. She’d nearly fainted. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a few months later I’d tried to . . . well . . . read her thoughts.
I know.
She’d sensed me poking around. And freaked. Hard.
The experience had shaken Maddy Dunkle badly. She seemed to verge on a panic attack every time we crossed paths. Only I knew why.
Ashley didn’t care. Pouncing on her frenemy’s weakness, she’d taken over the clique. I quickly realized that Ashley had always been the nastiest of the three, a pit viper with a venomous tongue. Madison was a classic bully. Ashley smiled while cutting you to pieces.
But like everyone else at Bolton, the Tripod had changed.
“Hey, Tory.” Ashley flashed her shark-like smile. I tried not to flinch. “We heard about the attack in court yesterday. How awful!”
“Did that schizo really have a gun?” Courtney blinked, wide-eyed. Not a candidate for Mensa. “They shouldn’t let him have one in prison.”
> “It was nothing.” Searching for a quick escape. “The bailiffs handled it.”
Madison had begun edging away. Suddenly, she turned and hurried down the hall.
Ashley rolled her eyes. “Forgive Maddy.”
Linking her arm with mine, she pulled me close, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Madison has issues. She’s seeing a shrink.”
A psychiatrist? Not good.
Having hooked my arm like a fish, Ashley tugged me down the corridor. Caught off guard, I let her. Courtney smiled sweetly, keeping pace.
It occurred to me that I’d been maneuvered into Madison’s place.
An unpleasant thought.
I still couldn’t process these vultures wanting to be friends. I had zero interest.
Behind me, Jason waved farewell. Hi and Shelton trailed our procession by a few paces, bemused looks on their faces.
Shut it, you two. I’ve been taken hostage.
“You should join us for lunch today,” Ashley said casually. “The boys’ soccer team baked us cookies, or something. Can you believe it?”
“Jason might be there,” Courtney chirped. “He likes you.”
“Oh.” Not a brilliant response. “Yeah, maybe. I might have a thing, though.”
Wonderful. Good job, good effort, Tory.
Behind me, I heard Hi fake coughing to cover his snickers.
The bell rang again, saving me from further awkward conversation.
“Bye, Tory.” Ashley released me with a parting squeeze. “Talk later, promise?”
“You bet.” Dear God.
The boys and I watched them saunter down the hall, classmates scurrying from their path.
“I can’t tell if they’re actually being friendly, or just messing with me,” I whispered. “Ashley gives me the creeps. And Courtney is terminally stupid.”
“I think that is Ashley being nice.” Shelton pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “She’s just not very good at it. Lack of practice, and all that.”
“She’s using you to get to me,” Hi said confidently. “Both of them. They’ve caught Hiram fever.”
I nodded. “Of course. It all makes sense now.”
