Page 52 of They're Watching You

“I’ll refuse to disclose my methods.” His free hand moves to my hip, and in a swoop of momentum, my back presses firmly into the brick wall as his body becomes flush with mine.

My breath catches. His eyes latch on to mine, so fiercely I have to shut mine as he drops my hand, placing his palm on the wall above my shoulder.

My arms dangle stupidly at my sides. He’s waiting, breath hot on my cheek. Waiting for a sign.

I reach for the back of his neck, and as soon as I touch warm skin, his lips are on mine. I try to push out the thoughts, the questions of whether or not I’m doing this right, and kiss him back. His lips are soft, his hand on my hip gentle as it drifts around to the small of my back, pulling my hips closer to his.

I move my fingers up into his hair, and his palm lowers from the wall to my neck, sending tingles down my spine.

When we part, I try to catch my breath, try to remember what we were even talking about moments before.

He smiles shyly down at me, touching the base of his neck where my fingers were. “That wasn’t a task, I promise.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe not for you.” His upturned expression falters, and I snatch his hand, which feels rough, warm, and amazing in mine. “A joke,” I assure him as I thread our fingers together again.

“You know,” he says, gaze skimming our feet. “I totally had a crush on you back in Form I.”

I’m too shocked to reply. The donut incident. It wasn’t all in my head. My lips are parted in awe, and by some miracle, my phone pings in my back pocket, rescuing me. I let go of Remington’s hand to read a text from Gavin.

What happened? Are you okay? Did he do something?

Remington runs a knuckle over his scarred brow. “Gavin, I presume? What does he want?”

“Nothing. I’ll get rid of him.”

Don’t need an escort after all. Thanks though!

I see the rippling dots and silence my phone. He’ll be fine. The more Gavin worries about me not showing up tonight—the more he accuses Remington of being involved—the more convincing our plan will be.

Twenty

After dinner, I’m slouching in a beanbag chair, trying to focus on my English homework but really just staring at Polly’s empty bed and the rose-print sheets no one ever bothered to remove. I can’t stop wondering what exactly Polly wanted to show me that night at the fountain. What did she find that had her so worried about the society? What would cause her and Jane to do something risky enough to get punished?

Polly had asked to meet. Whatever she wanted to show me, she couldn’t do it in our room. Was that because she didn’t feel safe inside? With a chill, I think of the open window in the dead of night, of the cloak left sprawled on my bed earlier this week. That could’ve easily been it.

But another possibility teases my consciousness. That she wanted to meet at the fountain because the thing she wanted to show me wasthere.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m tossing my homework to the floor. Then I’m on my feet and out the door, making the trek downstairs and out to the garden in front of the Lowell Math and Science Building. In the distance, the sun dips behind the new cathedral, casting the campus in twilight. I stop beside the white iron bench, situated perfectly for viewing the splashing merman fountain and the shrubs trimmed into his sea creature friends—the one Polly and I consideredourfountain. We always speculated about the significance of the ocean theme, usually arriving at the same consensus: that Lowell guy must’ve been a real nut.

Now that I’m looking at the fountain and not cracking jokes, the figure on display is no ordinary merman. He’s Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea. One of the twelve gods that lived and ruled from Mount Olympus. Suddenly, I get a flash of the fresco from the catacombs, the one of the eyes watching as the bloody battle rages on below. I remember the copy ofThe Iliadstashed among Polly’s belongings. I’d assumed she had to read it for a class, but Polly and I have always had our Language Arts classes together. Dr. Hernandez read selections with us back in Form II, which he photocopied and handed out in class. We were never required to purchase our own copies of the epic poem.

What is it with these people and the Greek gods? I press closer to the fountain, my gaze skipping over the stonework.

I continue searching, hoping for a clue engraved somewhere, a note from Polly tucked away between the stones. But I make it full circle, fountain water misting my sweater, without a single clue. I know a little about Poseidon and the other Olympians from class; I know nothing about this Pelops guy, other than what Gianna mentioned down in the catacombs. I sit back down on the bench, opening up my phone’s browser.

I typePelopsinto the search engine and skim the articles that pop into the results. Despite variations in the story, most of them echo the one Gianna told down in the catacombs. When I run through the suggestions at the bottom of the results (Pelops Curse, Pelops Son, Pelops and Tantalus), my eyes hitch on the last topic.

Pelops Cult.

Instinctively, I look up from my phone to scan the courtyard. I click on the topic, finding only a Wikipedia article and another article on something calledchthonic cults. “Derived from a word meaning ‘subterranean,’chthonicin English describes deities of the underworld, especially as pertaining to Greek mythology.”

A group of students ambles past me in the direction of the library, reminding me of the stacks and stacks of homework awaiting me in my room. My eyes skip down toPelops, who was apparently celebrated in the form of hero cult worship at Olympia dating back to the Archaic period. “Though part god, being a grandson of Zeus, Pelops was considered of the earth after death, and as thus was worshipped by means of offering libations and animal sacrifices into a pit belowground. Though scholars have theorized that sacrifices were burnt in their entirety, others believe the sacrifices were simply slain and lowered beneath the earth.”

After finishing the article, I scroll through the remaining hits. There isn’t much, other than a purchase link to a book about Greek and Roman hero worship and some scholarly journal articles. I click on the first article, which looks promising but requires a subscription to an online database. The next article was published back in 1812 and requires a subscription as well.

Though I can’t access the full article, there’s a snippet at the top that sends a red-hot rush of terror through me. “Remnants of Pelops’s shrine indicate there may have been radical subcults that offered human sacrifices every four years, possibly in synchronization with the tradition of the Games that originated in his honor, in hopes of achieving a similar heroic, godlike status.”

Nausea rises in my empty stomach.

---