Page 12 of They're Watching You

My vision spins. This is how to get to the initiation meeting. It’s not enough that they bury you alive. They also expose you to extreme heights in the dark. And what happens on the other side? It’s too high to jump.

I blink away the dizziness. I have to do this. These people know something about Polly’s whereabouts. It’s what she would’ve done for me. I force myself into the open, striding ahead toward the figure on the ground, who wears a long black cloak with a hood. I rifle through my purse, pull out as many of the pebbles as I can, and thrust them forward.

He or she—I still can’t tell in this light—gives a curt headshake and motions toward the ladder.

I stuff the pebbles back into the purse and sling the strap across my chest to secure it. Gritting my teeth, I step onto the ladder, which is no easy feat in these kitten heels. Why the hell did they tell me to dress up if I was going to be scaling cathedrals and climbing through broken glass?

When I reach what I think is halfway, the ladder shifts. I glance down, finding that not only is the world spinning, but someone else is climbing up behind me. Someone who’s not even bothering to wait for me to make it to the top. I turn my attention back up the ladder, trying to cinch my dress so I’m not flashing whoever’s down there. My next step is quick, but as I put my weight on it, the heel slips off the rung.

Yelping, I slam into the ladder. I grip the rails with every ounce of strength in me. The darkness, the brick cathedral wall, the rungs—it all rotates until I’m not sure what’s up or down.

But I hold on tightly, and a moment later, I regain my footing. Below me, Mr. Impatience lets out a serpentine “Shhhhh.”

Sorry if my near-death experience almost blew your idiotic club’s cover.

I take my time on the next step, struggling to catch my breath and to get these ridiculous heels to land on the rungs. At the top, I heft myself onto the windowsill and maneuver my body so that I’m perched in a sitting position, ready to face whatever death-defying stunt comes next.

But it’s another ladder leading down. The darkness thickens inside the cathedral, with only the half-moon glow spilling in from the topmost windows to light it. I can’t make out what awaits me below. The top few rungs of the ladder are visible, but the night washes the rest of it away.

I stretch my leg out onto the back side of the ladder. Praying another mysterious figure stands below to hold this one, my pulse pounds in my ears as I lower myself onto a rung I can’t see. Above me, the ladder clanks as Mr. Impatient starts down.

If I survive the descent, maybe I’ll shake the ladder a little.

Soon I touch ground, where I still can’t see anything clearly. But I hear something.

Breathing.

My skin prickles. I don’t know exactly how many others are in this condemned building with me, but there are people. Silent ones. They lurk in this space like an army of gargoyles slowly waking to life.

Mr. Impatient makes it down, slithering up behind me without a word, and now I’m positive coming here was the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Suddenly, a light blazes, illuminating the space.

Annabelle Westerly stands in the middle of a small crowd, holding a lantern—the ancient kind you light with a match. The base of the bell tower is in complete disarray, and I take care to avoid the holes in the ground as well as the collection of cobwebs. The small space leads to an ambulatory identical to the one in the new cathedral. Nine or ten group members seem to leak out of this small space into that one. Their faces are shrouded by black hoods, just like the figure outside. Only Annabelle and a few others, like Mr. Impatient, who has shifted into the shadows, are uncovered.

“Welcome,” Annabelle says, a faint curve to her lips. She drops down onto her knees, setting the lantern onto the warped stone. Reaching toward the floor, she grasps something I can’t quite distinguish, and tugs.

With a groan, the floor lifts.

One of the hooded figures approaches, dropping what I can only assume to be pebbles like mine into a basket beside the trapdoor. He whispers something before disappearing beneath the floor.

The other members line up, repeating this procedure over and over until only the uncloaked students remain.

We exchange uncertain glances, which I find strangely comforting. The guy beside me steps up to the trapdoor. I don’t know his name, but he’s always in the coffee shop. Orders a double espresso every time like a forty-five-year-old Wall Street executive. I consider stopping him to ask about the whispered words, but that might be against the rules. He drops his pebbles into the basket, whispers to Annabelle, and then ducks beneath the floor.

A girl is up next, Kara something or other. A Form II. I make an effort to press closer and listen, but I can’t make out the words.

Think. Think. Think. The guy to my left, Mr. Impatient, steps forward, and my cheeks heat. I recognize him now as Remington Cruz, a Form III. Back in Form I, we were discussing donuts while waiting for a perpetually late professor, and I mentioned liking the cream-filled kind they sell in the coffee shop. The next day, he brought me one, and we ate our donuts together until Professor Gross showed up. I actually thought Remington liked me. So stupid. He got together with completely gorgeous Jane Blanchard a couple months later.

I start to ask something, but he steps forward, leaving only me. Panic locks my jaw. Annabelle didn’t say anything about a password.

But Diana did. At lacrosse practice. She mentioned the worddust.

The line from the invitation rolls back into my memory.

As soon as Remington disappears, I inch closer to Annabelle, massaging my sore jaw muscles with my thumb. “Victory or dust,” I whisper, tossing the words like a shot on the buzzer. Annabelle doesn’t respond, so I let the glass stones clink into the basket.

Then, placing my foot onto what appears to be a staircase, I lower myself down into a dark abyss.

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