Brimstone

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  “Well, his wife is one. She’s the chapter adviser.”

  What could it have to do with the SAXis? Probably nothing. But it was a place to start, when I didn’t have much to go on.

  It was time for a little old-fashioned, completely mundane detective work. Mumbling an excuse to my father, I rose and headed for the stairs.

  “You forgot your coffee,” he called.

  The stale smell of nuked coffee was too much, even for me. “I’ll get some on the way to the paper.”

  “Maggie?” I turned at the concerned note in his voice. “What are you up to?”

  “Just getting my Nancy Drew on, Dad.”

  He met my innocent look with one of narrow-eyed doubt. “There isn’t any …” He glanced to check that Mom wasn’t in the living room. “… you know. Any weird stuff going on, is there?”

  “Don’t tell Mom,” I whispered. “But all Greek stuff is weird to me.”

  He let out a pent-up breath. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that.”

  I hated to lie to my dad, even by omission. But really. There just wasn’t a way to introduce the subject of sorcerous sororities without getting into a much more involved discussion than I could handle before lunchtime.

  Upstairs I found a message from Justin on my voicemail. “Hi, Maggie. Saw that you called last night. The reception in the old library is awful. Since you didn’t leave a message, I figured you were okay. Call me if you want.”

  Of course I wanted. Didn’t I make that clear?

  But should I? In the security of my room, I felt a little silly for freaking out yesterday. And I knew I shouldn’t always rely on Justin. The fact that I wanted to run to him, to play the damsel-in-distress card and get his attention, made me that much more determined to do this without him.

  Resolved, I deleted the message.

  13

  A couple of decades ago, the town had passed a bond to restore downtown Avalon to its original redbrick streets and Victorian faux-gaslight glory. The courthouse was in the center of the town square; the surrounding blocks were dotted with long-standing businesses, like the Sentinel, interspersed with new stores, mostly antique and quilt shops. Froth and Java was on the corner, and I left the Jeep parked in the lot there rather than trying to find street parking.

  Latte in hand, right on the threshold of the newspaper office, I suddenly remembered what else was on Main Street: the offices of Congressman Peter Abbott.

  The skin on the back of my neck tingled, like a cold wind had blown across my nape, and I knew I’d been spotted. Frozen with my hand on the door, I raised my deflector shields, but of course they did nothing against a perfectly good pair of eyes and the ability to put two and two together.

  “Maggie Quinn, isn’t it?” Victoria Abbott’s voice came as no surprise, but I flinched anyway.

  Caught. How stupid could I be?

  I turned, brushed my hair from my face. The buildings made a wind tunnel and turned the mild day brisk in their shade. “Hello, Mrs. Abbott.”

  She was dressed casually today, like a Ralph Lauren ad instead of a Vogue spread. If not for the dread curdling the cream in my coffee, I would have really coveted the leather bag she had slung over her shoulder. Her eyes looked me up and down, canted over to the words Avalon Sentinel on the office window, and came back to my face.

  “Perhaps we should talk.”

  “Um. Sure.” Perhaps I wouldn’t just die on the spot. Victoria Abbott was intimidating on a mundane level—even without the memories of last night’s ritual flooding back to me when I saw her. How could I have forgotten?

  I expected her to lead me back to the congressman’s office, but maybe she didn’t want my body discovered there. Instead, she headed toward Froth and Java; gesturing to an outside table, she asked, “Would you like a refill?”

  “No.” I remembered my manners. “No, thank you.”

  She sat, crossed her legs, and waited.

  Cops use that technique: Keep quiet and let the suspect hang himself. There’s a need to fill silence, and when you’re guilty, it becomes a compulsion. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from blurting out … everything.

  She was strong, but I was stubborn. I looked at the puffy clouds blowing across the sky, the Saturday antique shoppers, the clock on the courthouse—anything but Victoria.

  Finally, she said, “I know what you’re up to.”

  I powered up my psychic force field. “All I’m up to is research. I need the Sentinel’s archives for a school paper.”

  All technically truthful.

  She lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. “Then you’re not the Phantom?”

  I started to speak, but no sound came out. No lie, no truth. Nothing. Victoria leaned forward and said under the cover of traffic noise, “There’s no point in lying. I’m good at seeing through things. Just like you, I think.”

  She held my gaze, watching while I considered and rejected excuses and lies, one after another. Finally, I decided to be direct. “Are you going to kick me out?”

  She rolled her eyes, and the atmosphere became almost normal. “You really think I care about a pissant school paper?”

  Well … I cared.

  “I see great things for you, Maggie Quinn.” She tapped the table with manicured fingernails. “But let’s establish some ground rules. The Phantom can mock the Greek system as she pleases. The hypocrisy, pretension … I don’t care.”

  That not only sounded as though she wasn’t going to kick me out; maybe she wouldn’t turn me into a frog, either.

  “But not one word,” Queen Victoria continued, “about specific Sigma members, business, or rituals. Everything that happens in that house is off the record.”

  Relief turned to suspicion. “But … why?”

  “You are a Sigma, and Sigmas excel in their careers. This is the start of yours, so why should I hold you back?”

  “I …” Words failed me.

  She set her folded arms on the table. “I don’t believe in coincidence. However you came to join us, I think you’re meant to be a Sigma.”

  “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the second chance. But I’m not—”

  “Maggie, don’t be coy.” She gave me a cut-the-crap stare. “Jenna told me she talked to you about the special qualities we seek in Sigmas. I need you to be a leader.”

  “But I’m not.” The argument was pointless, but I made it anyway. I wasn’t a follower, either.

  Victoria’s mouth turned up in an enigmatic smile. “You have ability and ambition. You could go far, Maggie, if you open yourself to the possibilities that Sigma can offer. I can put in a word for you at a real paper. A big newspaper.”

  Moments like this rock my world, shake my faith in my own freakitude. Was that all there was to the SAXi success ratio? Was it really just networking?

  While I sat reeling, she gathered her bag from the back of her chair. “I’ll let you think about it. If you come to your pledge meeting on Monday, I’ll know we have an understanding.”

  “That might be awkward,” I said. “The other houses—heck, the other Sigmas—want my guts for garters.”

  Rising, she smoothed any wrinkles from her khaki trousers. “Kirby and the other officers do not know you’re the Phantom, and we’ll keep it that way. Our little secret.”

  She laid her hand on my shoulder. I’d been visualizing my psychic force field the whole time—which was one reason I hadn’t managed many multisyllable answers. I so did not want to see into this woman’s psyche, almost as much as I didn’t want her to see into mine.

  I got nothing but an impression of locked and barred doors. Of course. Her deflector shields.

  She left, and I sat on the café patio for a long moment, getting my mental feet back under me after being knocked on my metaphorical ass. Victoria had a lot of confidence, not only that I’d stay with the Sigmas, but also that I wouldn’t report this whole conversation.

  Like anyone would believe me.

&nbs
p; The city newspaper offices were technically closed, but of course there were people working. Fact-checking had been one of my intern duties, so I knew my way to the archives. They called it the tomb—a basement room, musty and dimly lit. You didn’t need a lot of light to stare into the microfiche reader.

  What, specifically, I was looking for, I had no idea, but the conversation with Mrs. Congressman Abbott had given me a starting point, out of perversity if nothing else.

  I started with Peter Abbott’s official bio. His first office had been that of president of Gamma Phi Epsilon, here at Bedivere. He’d left for law school, but returned to Avalon to practice. Went to Congress by special appointment when the seat opened by the death of its occupant. Two years later, he won it in his own right. The guy had been flagged as a wunderkind who spoke eloquently to promote his innovative ideas.

  Victoria had a marketing degree, and ran Abbott’s campaign. Funny career choice, being a politician’s wife, after what she’d told me about Sigmas excelling in their fields.

  I’d been there awhile—judging by the crick in my neck—when a tap at the door heralded Ethan Douglas, editor-in-chief of the Sentinel.

  “Heard there was a phantom in the basement.” He grinned as he leaned against the doorframe.

  “Hardy-har-har.”

  “Working on something new?” He nodded to the microfiche.

  I turned the chair to face him, stretching my arms over my head to de-kink my back. Forties office furniture wasn’t exactly ergonomic. “I’m sort of following a thread. Still on this Greek thing.” Clearly he’d guessed my Secret Squirrel project. “How about you? Were you in a fraternity?”

  “Yeah. Pi Kappa Iota back at Plains State University.”

  “Do you think it made a difference in your career?”

  His freckled, boyish face twisted ruefully. “You mean, did it help me get the job as editor-in-chief of a small-town newspaper a hundred miles from any major metropolis?”

  “Er …” I would never win awards for my tact.

  He let me off the hook. “Don’t go cross-eyed at that machine. What are you looking for that you can’t find in the online archives?”

  “Old stuff.” I didn’t want to go into why I was avoiding the Internet. Fractal spyware was a little hard to explain.

  He turned to go, then paused, catching a hand on the doorframe. “Hey, Maggie. Your Phantom column is good stuff. Not news, but good. Can I call you if I need something covered at the university?”

  I blinked, since I’d figured that ship had sailed. “Sure. Of course.”

  “Great.” Flashing a grin, he took off, leaving me in the tomb all alone.

  Okay, I had to wonder if Victoria had been busy. But, no offense to Ethan, she’d said a big paper.

  I rewound the film and went to put it back in its box. Then I flipped through the index, free-associating a bit, the way I do when I want my logical brain to stop trying to out-shout my subconscious. Bedivere University. My fingers trailed through the subheadings until I saw Fraternities and Sororities. I found the oldest dated articles and pulled the film.

  The Greeks came to BU in the 1940s, about fifty years after the university was founded. Despite some opposition, the first three fraternities and two sororities formed chapters without incident. They moved into houses at the north end of campus, converted to living spaces for the boys and girls.

  Sigma Alpha Xi showed up in the fifties, followed shortly by their “brother” fraternity, Gamma Phi Epsilon. Their arrival firmly established the current Greek Row, and a line drawing from a 1957 article showed the area, labeling each house.

  I printed the page and carried it to a desk lamp. Greek Row was actually two streets which dead-ended in the park that bordered campus. Some ground had been lost to parking lots, but essentially the layout was unchanged. It had a certain proportion that resonated. Grabbing a pencil, I traced a curved line through the houses—sorority and fraternity both.

  What I had on the page when I was done bore an undeniable similarity to the phi diagram that Dr. Smyth had drawn, the same logarithmic spiral inlaid in the floor of the Sigma Alpha Xi house—which lay directly in the center of the coil, like a spider sitting in the middle of her web.

  14

  Professor Hardcastle had the personality of a piece of dry Wonder Bread—capable of holding the contents of an information sandwich, but completely without flavor or texture. Media and Communication was an entry-level class, so it wasn’t a very interesting sandwich on any level. On a Monday morning, it was hell.

  At the end of the hour, I roused myself from my stupor and gathered my books. Hardcastle stopped me as I walked down the steps of the lecture hall. “Miss Quinn.”

  I stopped, warily. “Yes, sir?” There were enough Greeks in the class to make me nervous at being singled out.

  “Were you serious about working on the newspaper?”

  “Yes, sir.” Honestly. Was I serious about breathing?

  “Bauer needs some help with layout, and I thought about you, since you seemed so fired up to work.”

  “Sure.” I contained my glee, which of course had nothing to do with Hardcastle having to eat his “No freshmen” words. “When should I come in?”

  “Bauer asked me to send you to the journalism lab now, unless you’ve got another class.”

  “Not for a couple hours. I’ll go on down.”

  I assumed that this was a ruse because Cole wanted to discuss something. I’d written the week’s Phantom Pledge column over the weekend, covering the trauma of Bid Day, and I’d justified leaving out all details of the Sigmas’ ritual in several ways. One: the most interesting thing, i.e., the hoodoo I’d felt, was so unbelievable that I was beginning to doubt it myself. Two: most of the stuff—candles, recitation, circles—was common to at least one other house. I knew this because I called Tricia, who, per usual, was happy to tell me anything that went through her head.

  And three: I kind of liked being the Phantom Pledge. And I really liked having a weekly column in the pissant school paper.

  I followed my nose—ink and toner and film developer—to the journalism lab, a large room where rows of computers lined one wall and filled the middle desks. Several of them were occupied, but I didn’t see Cole, so I wandered to a big whiteboard showing the progress of the current issue. There was a Linotype machine, too, one of the old ones that used heated lead to print type on long rolls, which were then cut and pasted onto the layout. How medieval.

  “Maggie?” I turned to see Cole Bauer in a second doorway. He looked like five miles of bad road—worn and rough.

  “Hi, Cole.” I peered closer. I didn’t think it was just the fluorescent lights. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Great. I’m feeling great.” I had to admit that, despite his haggard appearance, he seemed very … bright, somehow, like a headlamp set on high beam. My eyes and my Sight were getting two different messages.

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked.

  He waved me over. “Come in here.”

  The office might have once been a closet, but it was on par with most grad student digs. He closed the door and gestured for me to take the desk chair. “I read through the clippings you gave Hardcastle with your application. Your pictures are good, too. And you’ve had editing experience, right?”

  “Yeah. I edited the AHS paper for a semester.” I had a weird feeling about this conversation; my skin prickled with unease. “But it was just a weekly, not a daily.” Or almost daily, in this case. The Ranger Report came out Tuesday through Friday.

  “Great.” He laid his hand on a stack of articles beside the computer. “These all need fact-checking and copyediting. We’ll start there.”

  “All of these?” It was a pretty big pile. “For which edition?”

  “I put them in order. There are only three or so for tomorrow.”

  “Um. Okay.” Good thing I had a long break until my afternoon classes. “Should I give them to you when I’m done?”

&nbs
p; “The first couple. I’ll be around, but I’m working on a project of my own. I appreciate your help.”

  “Sure.” There was definitely something off about Cole today. “Are you really okay?”

  Cole smiled. “I’m fine. Just …” He weighed his words, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d understand. I’m writing a book.”

  “Oh, really.” I tried to sound impressed, but honestly. I’m a communication major. Nearly everyone I’d met was writing a book.

  “I’ve got this idea. A fully formed, like Athena from the forehead of Zeus, kind of idea.” He ran his hand through his hair, which fell lankly around his thin face. “It’s wonderful and terrifying both, and I just feel that if I don’t write it now, quickly, the inspiration will desert me.”

  “Ohh-kay.” His intensity was certainly terrifying—I agreed with that much. “Is that why you look like you haven’t slept in days?”

  “I don’t want to waste writing time.”

  “You’re not doing drugs or anything?”

  He laughed in surprise. The ambush question also gave me his uncensored reaction. He was clean. In fact, he seemed to find the idea absurd. “No. I don’t need drugs.”

  “I get it. Writing is your antidrug.”

  “Exactly.”

  I gazed at the pile of copy and sighed. “Fine. But only because you’re my sorority brother-in-law.”

  He kissed my cheek. “I knew I liked you. I’ll put you in the acknowledgments.”

  “Great.” He left me to work on his computer. I touched my skin where his lips had brushed. No vision this time, just heat, as if he were truly burning with inspiration.

  15

  I don’t consider myself a Faust so much as a cat—consumed by curiosity. But both meet a bad end, metaphorically, so maybe it doesn’t matter, except to explain why I showed up at the Sigma Alpha Xi house for the pledge class that afternoon. I wasn’t buying what Victoria Abbott had to offer; I just couldn’t let the mystery lie.