Considering the above, you can probably guess my reaction.

“The hell I am!” I shouted, drawing the attention of more than a few interested bystanders. “Malcolm, have you ever even read the Eli Literary Magazine?”

He made a face, as if the very suggestion was anathema to all he found acceptable in his reading material. (Note to self: Include more page-turners in next issue.) “Please, Amy.” Regrouping, he yanked me along. “Look, you’ve got a media outlet at your disposal. That’s all I care about right now.”

Well, I thought, as he swung me face-to-face with a silver-haired human shield, at least this fit the theme of “Ambition.”

“Mr. Cabot,” said one of the patriarchs. “Quite a daring move, I must say. Whatever must your fellows think?”

My society big sib didn’t miss a beat. “Malcolm Cabot, Eli Daily News. May I ask what brings you to High Street today, sir? It appears you’re guarding the entrance to the Rose & Grave tomb. Is this true?” And then, leaning in, he hissed, “I think it would be better if this matter were handled in-house.”

“I’m sorry,” the patriarch replied. “But I really can’t talk about that.”

“You’re making fools of all of us,” Malcolm continued under his breath. “No one wants the society to be a laughingstock.”

“I’m sorry,” the patriarch replied. “But I’m really not allowed to talk about that.”

“Come on,” Malcolm said. “You have to open up a dialogue here. Stop treating me like some kind of bar—” He froze, then straightened, his eyes wide as the rules of the game became clear. “Barbarian. You prick.”

“You defied us. You pay the price.”

“Like hell.”

The patriarch went on. “And that’s not all. We intend to pursue this to the fullest extent. Good luck with your career, Mr. Cabot.”

A frigid cord of fear seemed to band my lungs at the man’s oh-so-casual tone, and I felt my blood rush in retaliation. Now it was my turn to be indignant. “Hey! Don’t you think that’s taking things a little too far?” I caught Malcolm’s warning glance. “Um, Amy Haskel, Eli Lit Mag.” Formalities aside, I continued in a lower voice. “Some stupid undergrad organization is one thing, but you have no right to mess with his future—”

“Amy Haskel,” the patriarch said. “Editor of the literary magazine.”

I flicked a strand of hair behind my shoulder as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “That’s what I said.”

“Prescott College.”

And he could read my T-shirt, too. Big deal.

“Hails from Cleveland, Ohio. Daughter of Carl, an accountant with Simpson Associates, and Mardie, a housewife and former Montessori school teacher. Literature major. Scheduled to begin an editorial internship at Horton Press in Manhattan on June 12.”

There seemed to be a sudden blockage in my throat and I fought the urge to swallow convulsively. Ignore him. It’s the stupid Diggers trick. Blah blah blah files on me. Whatever.

But…my parents’ names, my internship start date…Poe had said they’d go after me….

“Nice plan,” he sneered. “Good luck with your career.”

Malcolm had to hold me back.

A scream rose within my chest and somehow, I managed to keep my mouth shut, though I could feel my lungs constrict with the effort of holding it in. You wouldn’t dare! I thought, staring at the man so intently that even my non-existent powers of telepathy couldn’t fail in getting the point across. I’d never once looked at an adult with more concentrated animosity, but then again, I’d never before been in a situation where one had threatened me. No, they usually tried to help me—teach me something, write me recommendations, give me a summer job, tell me how impressed they were with my prodigious achievements and how excited they were to see what I’d be making of my future.

The guy seemed to be intimating he’d like to make sure that I didn’t have one.

I couldn’t breathe.

And then the cavalry arrived, in the form of the other new taps. Demetria led the charge, followed by half a dozen others. I even saw Jennifer, though George Harrison Prescott was not around.

“No!” Malcolm said. “This is a private interview.”

“Right,” Demetria said. She puffed her chest out at the head patriarch. “Gonna screw with all of us, dipshit?”

“Let’s go,” Malcolm bellowed. He herded us up and moved us past the shield and the crowd. I saw a few familiar faces at the edge of the rabble. Senior Diggers, waiting in the wings. Malcolm nodded to one as he passed. “Get him,” he said, and I had no doubt who it was he meant. “My room. Powwow.”

The words galvanized me, and I found my voice at last. Malcolm dragged me away as I raised my fist at the patriarch to deliver a parting shot. “And, by the way, I don’t live in Cleveland. I’m a suburbs girl. Shaker Heights. Get your facts straight, sucker.”

“Amy!” said Malcolm. “Discretion.”

Malcolm hustled us away from the crowd and straight into the side entrance of Calvin College. He handed his set of keys to Greg. “Fourth floor, entryway J. I’ll wait for the others.”

I leaned heavily against the granite wall. Whatever rush of adrenaline had kept me upright for the last few minutes in front of the tomb had finally worn off. “Are we going to try to get in the back way?”

“What back way?” Malcolm blinked at me.

I waved vaguely toward the wall that separated Calvin College from the Rose & Grave property. “The back way into the tomb. The secret tunnel that the President uses during his clandestine visits.”

Malcolm snorted. “Right. Whatever. Not the time for jokes, Amy.”

There was no secret back entrance? God, weren’t any of the things I’d heard about this society true? Let’s see, they weren’t always secret, they weren’t about to gift me with a million dollars, and they weren’t hiding Nazi gold. So, what exactly were those idiots protecting with their Y chromosomes? A bunch of decades-old petty thefts from the medical school’s skeleton collection?

Still, that ass back there had seemed so…so sure of himself. Like he was more than capable of carrying out all of his threats. My legs began to feel a bit weak.

As the Diggers trickled in, Malcolm directed them up to his room. I stood against the weathered granite wall, trying to catch my breath, but my body refused to cooperate. I may not have let the patriarchs see me sweat, but to look at me now, you’d think I was busy making up for it. I tried to chill out, to think of anything but the cold looks I’d received from the men in the human shield. Okay, Amy, think of…grammar. Foreign grammar. After a few moments, Malcolm turned in my direction.

“You okay?”

I shrugged. “Sure. What, you think that guy bothered me?” As soon as he turned back to the gate, I held up my hand. It was trembling.

I clamped it into a fist and resumed conjugating irregular Spanish verbs. (Every Lit major has to take a year of literature in a foreign language. Because I’d had a head start in Spanish, I spent a few semesters misunderstanding Borges and Allende. The French people got to breeze through The Little Prince. What a gyp.)

Okay, snap out of it, Amy. Tengo, tienes, tiene. Tenemos, teneis, tienen. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since joining Rose & Grave, it’s that half the crap I’ve heard about it isn’t true. Tuve, tuvisto, tuvo. Tuvimos, tuvisteis, tuvieron. He’s an old man playing a stupid trick. Tendre, tendras, tendra. Tendremos, tendreis, tendran. He can’t do a thing to me.

I will have, you will have, he, she, or it will have….