Rites of Spring (Break)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  I hereby confess: Even the secretive…

  Not all tropical islands keep…

  The Rose & Grave Club of D177

  I hereby confess: I’m not cut out for a life of crime.

  1. Crooking

  I hereby confess: I didn’t realize how much I’d missed him.

  2. Mistakes

  I hereby confess: It only takes two.

  3. Conspiracy

  I hereby confess: I blame the weather.

  4. Sin and Cosin

  I hereby confess: There are some negotiations for which no amount of preparation is enough.

  5. Parley

  I hereby confess: I’m the dumbest person at Eli.

  6. Sweet Defeat

  I hereby confess: Best to bear the ills you have than fly to others you know not of.

  7. Escape

  I hereby confess: I thought I was going to die.

  8. Waves

  I hereby confess: I had no idea how to handle it.

  9. Expectations

  I hereby confess: Even in Florida, they know who we are.

  10. Left Behind

  I hereby confess: It was so a date.

  11. Lessons

  I hereby confess: I may have seen it coming.

  12. On the Beach

  I hereby confess: All I could think was, “Not again.”

  13. Meetings

  I hereby confess: Still waters run deep.

  14. Sea Change

  I hereby confess: Sometimes I think the whole thing is silly.

  15. Pageantry

  I hereby confess: I wanted to believe it could be that easy.

  16. Sunstroke

  I hereby confess: Everyone, that is, except me.

  17. Suspicions

  I hereby confess: I never saw it coming.

  18. Sweetness and Light

  I hereby confess: I can’t remember anything after that.

  19. The Other Island

  I hereby confess: I no longer care what anyone thinks.

  20. Seaworthy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Preview of The Conclusion of Diana Peterfreund’s

  Also by Diana Peterfreund

  Copyright

  For Mom and Dad, who made me a Florida girl

  * * *

  Not all tropical islands keep their treasures buried, but for those that do, no map will help. Take, for example, a tiny strip of land off the coast of Florida. It has long been understood by those who care to keep track of such things that this glorified sandbar, this unassuming key, heavily wooded and lacking more than a single decent beach, is actually a lush and luxurious retreat for the members of one of the most notorious secret societies in the world.

  Yet Cavador Key is not listed on any map, whether those commissioned by the state, or the penciled sketches of shallows by a dock-bound old salt. The locals won’t speak of it in voices raised above a whisper. No charter company will take you thither, and when emissaries from the island come to the mainland to pick up supplies, they are silent as the grave about their employers and those employers’ mysterious pursuits.

  What happens on Cavador Key? Rumors abound, but few have seen the rituals up close. Anyone boating near the island is given stern warnings to stay away, and if unheeded, these warnings turn into threats. Several rooftops peek out from the ground cover, and grainy photos reveal evidence of people scurrying from building to building, wrapped in dark, hooded cloaks in spite of the warm Florida weather. Recently, access to satellite photos revealed still more: a helicopter pad, the remnants of an airstrip, and crisscrossed pathways surrounding a somber, windowless structure. Those who have made it close enough report strange sounds, and stranger lights. Those who have made it closer still are never heard from again.

  So next time you’re out on your boat, a little sunstruck and with way too many piña coladas on your tab, don’t make a decision you’ll regret. Cloak-and-dagger government cabals, clandestine midnight rituals, and inexplicable disappearances aren’t on your Spring Break itinerary. You don’t want the kind of trouble an unplanned excursion like this can bring you.

  But hey, is there an offshore island paradise that doesn’t hold a secret?

  Trust me on this one. Some of us know the truth about Cavador Key. But we’re few in number, and we keep our secrets close, just like we were taught by the Order of Rose & Grave.

  Don’t believe me yet? Do you think, perhaps, that I’m just spouting the party line? Or maybe you suspect that even a dedicated Digger like me doesn’t know everything about the organization to which I’ve pledged my all, and even less about the property we call our most sacred retreat.

  Interesting theory. Shall we put it to the test?

  The Rose & Grave Club of D177

  * * *

  1) Clarissa Cuthbert: (Angel): Cavador Key

  2) Gregory Dorian (Bond): Yaddo Writer’s Conference

  3) Odile Dumas (Little Demon): Cavador Key Filming Motion Picture

  4) Benjamin Edwards: (Big Demon): Cavador Key

  5) Amy Haskel (Bugaboo): Cavador Key

  6) Nikolos Dmitri Kandes IV (Graverobber): Beachside Mixologist externship

  7) Kevin Lee (Frodo): Cavador Key

  8) Omar Mathabane (Kismet): Chairman of the International Prospective Students Week

  9) George Harrison Prescott (Puck): Cavador Key

  10) Demetria Robinson (Thorndike): Cavador Key

  11) Jennifer Santos (Lucky): Cavador Key

  12) Harun Sarmast (Tristram Shandy): Cavador Key

  13) Joshua Silver (Keyser Soze): Art Tour through Spain with barbarian lover

  14) Mara Taserati ( Juno): Research Assistant for Groundbreaking Volume on Domestic Policy tentatively titled Why All Liberals Should Be Set Upon by Wild Dogs

  1.

  Crooking

  * * *

  Some people pledge to lose weight for their New Year’s resolution. Others quit smoking, or promise to do their homework before Sunday night, or swear that they’ll never again, no matter how many pomegranate martinis they’ve imbibed, give in to temptation and drunk-dial their ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, or ex-friends-with-benefits and invite them over for a nightcap.

  Instead of resolving any of the above (and that last one sounded pretty good), I promised to commit a felony.

  On December 31st, as the clock struck twelve, I held aloft a glass of champagne and solemnly swore that I’d join my secret society brothers in their quest to steal back one of our treasured relics from a rival society. At the time, I thought it would be a relatively straightforward operation. Sneak into the Dragon’s Head headquarters, snatch back the knee-high stone statue of Orpheus, and hightail it back to Rose & Grave’s High Street tomb, booty in tow.

  Wrong.

  Dragon’s Head had grown suspicious over Winter Break, indulging their more paranoid sides. I knew from intimate association with my fellow knights that no one in our crew could have tipped them off on purpose, but perhaps we weren’t as discreet as we should have been during one of our many reconnaissance missions to their York Street abode. Perhaps they had as many hidden cameras trained on our tomb as we had on theirs. Whatever the cause, intel showed, clear as infrared, the Dragon’s Head members removing the purloined Orpheus statue from their courtyard late the previous night. If they were worthy of their admission to Eli, they would have hidden it out of reach in their house’s safe, a move that would make things tricky—but not impossible—for us thieves.

  Wait a second. Reconnaissance? Infrared? Intel? What’s going on here? I was a Literature major, for crying out loud, not a CIA recruit. And yet, in the
nine months since I’d been tapped into Rose & Grave, my inner spygirl had gestated and emerged as a black-clad, code-speaking, secret-handshake-knowing, card-carrying acolyte of the New World Order.

  Or at least, the wannabe New World Order. Despite all the 007 talk, this mission of ours cut a little closer to fraternity prank than military coup. But whatever the flavor of the operation, the practicalities were the same: I was spending my first night back on campus lying in the slush in an alleyway behind the Dragon’s Head tomb, waiting for orders, while my black ski mask painfully crushed my ponytail holder against my scalp.

  However, that wasn’t what was causing my headache.

  “I say we go now,” said the society brother lying in the slush to my left.

  “Bond directed us to wait for his signal,” said the one on my right.

  From the left: “Listen, old-timer, maybe in your day, you sat around waiting for someone to hand you an engraved invitation, but that’s why we’re running the show now. Your ways are out-of-date. Don’t you agree, Bugaboo?”

  I shifted in the slush. Time was, I would have made precisely that statement, and had. But last semester I’d been involved in espionage activities with the guy on my right, and he’d proven quite handy in a pinch.

  Whereas the guy on my left was mostly all hands and pinches.

  “Listen, Junior,” hissed the party on the right from behind his ski mask, “I concur that we don’t see eye-to-eye. About anything. But if you move now, you’re going to throw off the whole group. Wait for the signal.”

  The guy on my left rolled his copper-colored eyes and sat up. “I’m no one’s junior,” he threw over his shoulder. “Dad’s middle name isn’t ‘Harrison.’” He sprang into a crouch.

  Poe leapt across me to grab Puck before he could give our position away, but it was too late. Puck had already jumped to the top of the wall that separated the Dragon’s Head property from the alleyway.

  “Middle name should have been Asshole,” Poe grumbled.

  In place of a response, I coughed, politely, and he seemed to notice that he was still lying on top of me, his hands resting in places that weren’t exactly public access.

  “Oops.” He stood, and brushed snow off of his pants. “Here’s an idea for next year’s taps, Bugaboo,” he said, and pulled me to my feet, making as if to brush snow off me before I gave him a warning swat, “only tap the ones who are interested in keeping your secret operations secret.”

  I laid a finger against my ski mask–covered mouth. I was to blame for many things involving George Harrison Prescott, but not this. “Remind me who it was that tapped our dear Puck?”

  “I liked it better when you were playing mute.”

  “You always have,” I replied, as the alarm went off.

  Alarms in most buildings on campus might bring a few offhand observers, perhaps some threatening glares from light sleepers or heavy studiers, and campus security. Alarms at a secret society bring reporters. And since the offices of the Eli Daily News were right next door, I’d say, Winter Break or not, we had approximately eight seconds before our masked countenances turned downright conspicuous.

  “Jump!”

  “Right. New signal.” Poe jumped. I followed, missed the ledge, and proceeded to scrape elbows and knees on the stone as I slid down the wall.

  Poe’s face shot over the ledge, silhouetted against the purply-orange sky, a signature of overcast New Haven nights. “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He reached down and gave me a hand.

  I looked over the wall at the virgin snow on the ground inside. Crap. Could we make the leap all the way over to the cleared walkway in the center of the yard? Did it even matter anymore if the Dragon’s Head knights knew where we came from, now that the alarm was blaring loud enough to be heard up Science Hill?

  Poe jumped down from the ledge and landed in the snow, and I saw black-clad figures doing the same all around the yard. Guess not.

  We convened at the kitchen entrance near the back. “What brain donor was responsible for moving in early?” asked Thorndike, a.k.a. Demetria Robinson. She was rocking her set of broken-in breaking-and-entering duds and picking the lock on the Dragon’s Head back door.

  Poe and I pointed at Puck, who gave us the finger.

  Angel arrived. The New York socialite most called Clarissa Cuthbert was almost unrecognizable with her fall of blond hair tucked under her ski mask. “That was…unexpected. Lucky almost had the alarm system disabled. Bond’s furious. They’ll be along in a minute.” She stared at our motley crew. “Where are the others?”

  “Forced to abort.” Lil’ Demon, known to her legions of fans as bad-girl starlet Odile Dumas, leaned against a wall and attempted to catch her breath. “I tried to wave down Tristram and Frodo, but they were totally zoned out.” She squinted at Poe. “Who brought him?”

  I shrugged. “He brought himself, as usual.”

  “I don’t blame the boys for getting distracted,” said Angel. “We’ve been waiting for half an hour. I almost forgot what we were doing myself.”

  “I think the term is ‘woolgathering,’” said Poe.

  “Yeah, if you’re my grandmother,” said Thorndike, and the door popped open.

  “Wait,” I said. “Wasn’t your grandma a Black Panther?”

  “Okay, so not mine, exactly. She skipped the tatting lessons in favor of showing me how to crack safes. Let’s go.”

  We slid inside the building, taking up positions in the main hall according to our pre-arranged plan—a plan that now seemed to contain several obvious and glaring holes. Lil’ Demon, in possession of the two-way radio, directed us to keep our headlamps off for the time being and peeked through a scratch in one of the blacked-out windows to assess the damage.

  Dragon’s Head, unlike most of the dedicated society buildings on campus, is a retrofitted frat house. Instead of the windowless, mausoleum-like tomb we members of Rose & Grave enjoy, their building is more of a Tudor mansion. Back before all the frats were kicked off campus and the society had taken over the property, you could be a member of the fraternity that called this place home and, in your senior year, of Rose & Grave as well.

  To wit: We know every crevice of this house. Because past generations of Rose & Grave ceded their loyalty to us Diggers, we know the location of every secret room, every back stair…every emergency exit. And we’d probably need each one if we still wanted to pull this caper off.

  “Crowd’s forming,” whispered Lil’ Demon. “Bond says the rest of the crew was forced to give up or be recognized. He’s trying to mingle and keep giving us updates.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “So we’re down to what, Ocean’s Six?”

  The alarm died.

  “Ocean’s Seven,” said Lil’ Demon with a laugh. “Lucky came through after all.”

  “Either way,” said Poe, “we’re not going to have time to get Orpheus and get out. I bet they’ve got security on the way. I know their caretaker will have been roused, and any members already on campus.”

  “So you think we should abort?” I asked.

  “I think it might already be too late to make a clean getaway.”

  “Spoilsport.” I almost stuck my tongue out at him, then remembered the mask.

  “I think that title belongs to your friend.” He gestured to Puck, who’d taken up residence on one of the leather wingback chairs and looked relaxed enough to pour himself a drink. “He’s the one who got us into this mess.”

  True. Okay, time for some decisions. I addressed the group. “Here’s my thought: The same crowd that’s keeping us from getting out might be helpful in preventing the members from getting in. Too many witnesses. I say we’re made whether they catch us inside or outside. So let’s keep to the plan. All in favor?”

  There was a chorus of “Aye”s in the darkness. Poe crossed his arms, but his expression was unreadable beneath his mask.

  Puck clapped and rubbed his hands together. “I love it. Let’s go get arrested.”

 
Lil’ Demon looked around. “Where’s Thorndike?”

  “Already working,” came a voice over Lil’ Demon’s two-way. “And I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Lay it on me,” Lil’ Demon said.

  Thorndike’s voice crackled through the radio: “The bad news is, I’m not going to be able to open the safe. The good news is, I found something even better.”

  “Impossible,” said Poe, shaking his head, so the beam of his headlamp swerved like a lighthouse ray.

  “I’m with him,” said Puck. “Weird as that sounds.”

  Angel peeked into the hallway and down the stairs. “There’s no way we’re moving it without a dolly and about seven burly men.”

  Lil’ Demon stood speechless in front of it. “What…what is it?”

  To hazard a guess, I’d say the Maltese Dragon. The statue before me was about six feet tall, plated with gold leaf, and encrusted all over with semi-precious jewels. Lapis eyes flickered in the glow of the LED headgear a few of us wore, and ivory fangs jutted out from carnelian jaws. Jade scales mixed in with the gold. It was, without a doubt, the most precious thing in the society’s possession. (It was also way nicer than the tiny marble statue we’d come here to reclaim.)

  I’d been through most of their house by now (I can’t call this windowed Tudor a “tomb”) and, nice as it may be, their headquarters held none of the grandeur of the Diggers’ own home base. Their meeting room was cozy and well appointed, but enjoyed neither walls covered with expensive antique oil paintings nor a painted dome ceiling, like ours. Of course, I’d memorized their floor plan, but seeing the rooms in person gave a different impression completely. The whole building had a far less grandiose air than the only other tomb I knew.