It’s dank down here and even colder than it is outside, and it smells ancient and subterranean, like wet limestone and moss. The noise of our footsteps echoes in the empty space. Vaguely I can make out engravings on the walls around me, crests or insignias, images and writing lost to the gloom. The group has formed a silent circle around me. Their shadows dance and stretch across the walls.

“William Shea,” the masked figure in front of me asks, “do you know why you have been brought here?”

“Um,” I say, “is it because I’m the king of Tray Day?”

Nobody says anything for a moment. I listen as something sprays against the stone floor, and I catch a whiff of lighter fluid and hear the scrape of a match. All at once the room bursts into flame, a huge letter S blazing on the floor in front of me, casting an orange light across the circle of dark-clad figures standing around it. I take a step back.

“The Order of the Sigils has existed here at Connaughton for almost one hundred and fifty years,” the voice says. “Our membership is absolutely secret. Every year we invite at least one new student from each class into our ranks. If you choose to accept our invitation, you’ll be given an assignment. If you’re successful, you’ll be inducted into a society as old as the school itself. Your entire life will change, both at Connaughton and afterward. From your induction on, wherever you are, you’ll be a Sigil first and everything else second.”

I stare at the flames. “What’s my assignment?”

“Someone will be in contact with you soon,” the voice says, and just like that, somebody turns on a fire extinguisher and the flames gutter out, leaving me in total darkness. There’s a faint scuffle of footsteps, then absolute silence.

I stand there for a moment, until my eyes adjust, and then slowly grope my way back up the steps and out into the night.

Eighteen

UNCLE ROY ARRIVES ON THURSDAY, WHICH IS TECHNICALLY Halloween, but I’m too busy to mark the holiday. By then the temperature’s shot up twenty degrees, the snow is almost completely melted away, and just like that, it’s fall again. People are already wearing light jackets and making jokes about our twenty-four-hour winter. I’ve never seen a blizzard come and go so fast.

Meanwhile, I’d been thinking about the Sigils, asking around as unobtrusively as possible, trying to figure out what to do. From what little I can learn, invitations to join seem almost random. I’ve been told that they choose new inductees without regard to how rich their families are, or whether their ancestors came over on the Mayflower, or if they are one generation out of the trailer park.

Which makes sense, I guess, considering that they invited me.

At five o’clock that evening I’m walking back from a long study session in the dining hall when a gleaming gray Cadillac pulls up alongside me. For a second the car just sits there, as subtle as a flying saucer, and then the driver’s-side window powers down to reveal Roy’s deeply tan, wrinkled face behind a pair of enormous mirrored sunglasses. Teeth as white as Tic Tacs gleam out at me in a wide, perfectly even smile.

“Jump in, kid.” He doesn’t even get out of the car, so I go around to the passenger side with U.S. Diplomacy Between the World Wars tucked under my arm. The leather interior smells like a familiar combination of spearmint gum, Brylcreem, and Camel Lights.

“I missed you, Uncle Roy.”

Roy reaches over to punch me in the arm. “Good to see you too, William.” He’s wearing a freshly pressed dark blue Italian suit and a red tie, knotted in a perfect Windsor. He lowers his sunglasses to look at the textbook in my arms. “Studying hard?”

“I’ve got an exam tomorrow,” I say. “I’d like to pass.”

“Sure you would.” He nods and swings the Caddy around with an authoritative sweep of the arm. “You got a sweet gig going here. Gotta make it look legit, am I right? Sell it to the citizens?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and glance down almost guiltily at the history pages that I’ve been highlighting for the past two hours. The fact is, I started out making crib notes that I could smuggle into class in the palm of my hand and surprised myself by actually reading through the assigned texts and getting lost in the material—in a way that I realize is probably what people mean when they use the word learning. I decide to change the subject.

“Nice ride.” I nod. “I wasn’t aware they still made cars this big.”

“You bet,” Roy says, consulting the rearview mirror as he plucks at his tie, straightening the knot in some imperceptible way. “I told ’em at Avis that I wasn’t about to go driving around in some tuna can. They still got some actual Detroit muscle on the lot. You just gotta ask, is all.” As we drive out through the main gates, he whistles. “Beautiful setup here. A little cold for my taste, but classy.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a second of silence. I glance at him. It’s time to talk about why he’s really here. “Did you get a chance to check out an office space?”

“North of Boston, a town called Lowell.” He accelerates, and the car surges smoothly forward with a low-throated rumble. “Be there in an hour at the most.”

We arrive in style forty-five minutes later. The space in question is tucked away in an industrial park outside of downtown, a three-story walkup where all the lights are turned on. There are half a dozen anonymous-looking vehicles scattered around the parking lot and a janitorial van parked in the corner.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

“You like it?” Roy beams. “I rented out the second floor for a month. Got the office, conference room, reception area—the works. I figure it’s more than we need, but it was dirt cheap, and they even threw in a few phone lines. Got the whole thing for three Gs and no questions asked. Come on in and meet the fellas.”

“Is everybody here?”

“The whole crew.”

I don’t ask the next question on my mind, nor do I need to. As we walk across the parking lot to the stairs, Roy shoots a glance over his shoulder at me.

“I talked to your dad about an hour ago,” he says as he climbs the steps, in the same voice that somebody might use to say, I ran over a rabid skunk on my way to the leper colony. “Says he’s going to meet us here.”

Before I can apologize, Roy swings open the second-floor door, ushering me into an empty lobby with faded orange carpeting, all of it just desperate enough to look real for our purposes. I can already hear voices. I follow Roy past a deserted reception desk and into a large, depressing-looking room where six men in their twenties and thirties are standing around, leaning against empty desks, drinking coffee and chatting. There’s a pile of computer monitors, phones, and office equipment in the corner and a coffee urn on a table. An open door at the back appears to lead to a smaller, private office. When the men see Uncle Roy and me walk into the room, they all stop talking and look at us.

“Hey, there he is,” one of the guys says, holding out his hand for Roy to shake. “Good to see you again, Mr. Devore.”

“Likewise.” Roy shakes everybody’s hand and introduces me around. “William, meet the boys—Rudy Morales, Southie McLaren, Iron Mike Mullen, Lupo Reilly, and the Righteous Brothers.” The grin on his face just gets wider. “Fellas, this is my grand-nephew William. He’s getting his feet wet on this caper, but he’s the brains of the operation. You got any questions about how much cheddar we’re gonna squeeze from this chump, you direct them straight to him.”

The guys nod and smile. It’s pretty obvious they’ve all worked together before, and they all seem honored just to be sharing a room with a grifter legend like Roy. I know exactly how they feel, and now that they’re all staring at me, I get the distinct sensation of being out of my league with men who are all much better at what they do than I am.