I freeze. She never calls me Jo.
I named you Jocasta. Not Jo or Joey or Cassie.One of the many arguments we had repeatedly in my middle school years. Before we found other things to fight about.
I raise the phone back up. “Yeah?”
“In the literature, no one is ever what they seem. Gods, demigods, they’re all playing games for their own purposes. And if you’re not playing, too, you’re likely the sport.Gladiator in arena consilium capit.”
I don’t share my mother’s expertise in Latin. (I took Spanish in high school:La biblioteca esta cerrada.) But even I get the gist of this one. If you’re not already fighting, it’s probably too late.
11
Taking action is all well and good, if you know what to do next.
I do not.
Carter left almost an hour ago, handing me a pile of Beecher sweats, in purple and white, with the tags still on—not a surprise, I cannot see him wearing anything with a comfy waistband—in exchange for his phone. In the time since, pacing his small apartment, I’ve made zero progress.
Fuck.I drop onto Carter’s oversized blue sofa and flop onto my back. This sofa really is ridiculous. Overstuffed and huge, large enough probably for Carter to stretch out on, which I suppose is the point.
All right. So, think.
I don’t know where Devon is or how to find him. My mother gave me information but nothing directly actionable. And my father is apparently unreachable. Which means I’m back to where I was.
Waiting for whoever it is to come after me again. By killing someone else, or giving police the “evidence” they need, or directly attacking me.
From above me, loud thumping footsteps, followed by a crash and raucous male laughter, echo throughout the apartment. Muffled but not nearly enough. Upstairs neighbors must be home. And playing one-on-one, from the sound of it.
I glare up at the ceiling. That is the only problem with River Crossing—aside from attending parties where you might confuse your future TA for a regular undergrad—that the walls are thin. The walls at Branwick are solid.Nothingleaks through those. Not that I’m probably going to be back there any time soon, with—
I go still. The faint electric sensation of an idea—two previously unrelated thoughts smashing together—lights up the back of my mind, sending goosebumps down my arms.
Leaking. Echoes. Magic.
I sit up. When Carter drove us by Branwick on the way to the Foreign Language House, I felt the lingering effects of magic. From whoever killed Lennie.
But it didn’tstopthere. I felt it all the way down into Old Campus and by Greek Row. Stronger, even, than it was by where Lennie died.
I’d assumed it was an echo, a reverberation of sorts from the magic used to kill Lennie. Because I’d never felt anything like that on campus before.
My mother loves that old chestnut, “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.” Assumptions represent poor scholarship, in her mind, leading students down a dangerous, unpublishable path.
In this case, though, she’s right.
I scramble off the sofa.I’m a fucking idiot.
Theta Iota house is a monstrosity. Most of the fraternity and sorority houses on Beecher’s Greek Row are modest bungalows, originally private homes that the university bought or otherwise acquired in the past forty years or so. Only about eight members can live there at a time, so most of the houses are too small for the ragers that one might expect. Greek life here is relatively muted in its current incarnation, mostly an excuse to wear matching clothing and ride a float in the homecoming parade.
But Theta Iota is an exception, a sprawling two-story building in red brick with enormous white columns and multiple dangling light fixtures—porch chandeliers?—out front. It looks more like a mansion than Branwick does, and Branwick actually was one.
The house is a relic from an earlier time. Apparently, a very generous Beecher alum donated a serious amount of cash for a new Theta Iota house in the early 2000s, and the brothers ended up with a nostalgic design that looks like a set for an old movie. One featuring popped collars, puka shell necklaces, and guys named Chad and Brad.
Thankfully, the old cemetery across the street, with its oversized mausoleum, worn-thin headstones, and blank-faced angels tipped at odd angles into the sunken ground, does kill that vibe a little, making it more “Camp Crystal Lake Goes to College.” Which is not particularly reassuring at the moment, frankly.
On the sidewalk out front of Theta Iota, I stop and turn in a slow circle, trying to pin down what I’m sensing.
I’ve walked all of Greek Row, and the twang of magic, the uncomfortable reverberation I felt earlier on my drive with Carter through campus, feelsstrongerover here. That can’t be just an echo or ripple effect from what happened to Lennie.
No. If anything, it’s like a combination of that and… whatever Devon is doing inside to the fraternity brothers.
