“You’re pretty good,” I observed.

Demetria wiggled her left foot. “Want me to do yours?”

“Little Rose & Grave symbols?” I suggested.

“Subtle, Amy. Real subtle.”

I sat down and stuck out my foot. “Then you pick.”

By now, George had been knocked out of the tournament[6], and joined Clarissa on her towel, amusing himself with dramatic readings of the articles in her tabloids.

“‘It’s been a nightmare for her. She’s practically a prisoner in her own home!’ claims a source close to the starlet. ‘He even tells her what she’s allowed to eat!’ This is boring.” George flipped through a few pages. “Are there any articles on Odile?”

“Try Life & Style.” Clarissa tossed him another magazine. “According to them, she stole Lindsay Lohan’s boyfriend.”

“That’s our girl.”

Behind me, the porch door swung open, and Kadie stepped out. She glanced down at the steps, saw me sitting with my foot in Demetria’s lap, and let out the tiniest of sniffs.

Demetria’s brush stilled on my nail. I looked up at Kadie. “Am I in your way?” I asked coldly.

“No,” she said, but couldn’t seem to make a wide enough arc around us. I watched her pick her way down the steps and onto the lawn. She looked back at us and rolled her eyes, but it was her mouth I saw moving.

Dykes…

And then she was splayed out on the lawn, spread-eagled and gasping for breath.

“Wow, are you all right?” George asked. He was closest, but didn’t offer her a hand. “The path’s a bit uneven here.”

Clarissa buried her face in her magazine, but I saw her shoulders shaking. Had George tripped the barbarian?

Kadie rose and brushed away the crushed shells imbedded in her palms and shins.

“I’d be more careful around here if I were you,” George added.

“Who do you think you are?” she sputtered.

George rested his chin on his hand and smiled sweetly at her. “Who do you think we are?”

Clarissa sat up and swept her hair over her shoulder so that the Rose & Grave tattoo on her shoulder blade was clearly visible.

The barbarian fell back a step or two, then cast a glance around the porch. Harun and Jenny were staring at her, and Kevin and Ben had put a hold on their hands. Outnumbered, she turned and stomped off.

“Bitch,” Demetria mumbled, and returned to painting my toes.

Malcolm and Poe came up the path a few minutes later, and I found myself suddenly fascinated with Demetria’s work.

“How’s it going?” Malcolm asked, leaning against the nearest post.

“How would you suggest getting rid of a pesky barbarian?” George asked him, flipping another page.

“The usual. Sacrifice, altar, sacred knife, full moon. What do you think, Jamie?”

“Sounds good.” I flinched at the sound of Poe’s voice and Demetria tightened her grip on my ankle. “Who’s the target?” Poe went on. I sneaked a look at him from the corner of my eye. His attention was on Clarissa, who was doing yoga. In a bikini. The tease.

“Frank Myer’s wife,” George said in a bored tone.

“Jeez, can I help?” Malcolm said. “I can’t stand that bitch.”

“Yeah, and she doesn’t even know about you,” I murmured under my breath.

“Not for long, kid,” Malcolm said, and ruffled my hair. I looked up at him, and he gave me an easy smile. Maybe Poe hadn’t said anything at all about our morning?

“Did you hear about our excitement?” Clarissa asked, from downward-facing dog. She swept into a sphinx pose. “Strangers broke onto the island this morning.”

“Really?” Malcolm asked.

Demetria nodded and put the cap back on the nail polish bottle. “Yeah. Clarissa saw them from the boat.”

There! There. The merest flicker in Poe’s eyes. George looked up from his magazine, but he clearly couldn’t read Poe as well as I could. I wondered what Malcolm saw on his friend’s face. I forced myself to turn away from him, but every few seconds I couldn’t help but glance up to see if he was looking in my direction. No, nope, and always negatory.

“What do you think they were doing?” my big sib asked.

“Who knows?” Demetria said. “They’re gone now.”

Ben joined us on the porch, poker forgotten. “We also found a tape recorder and the remains of a campfire. I think they’ve been here before.”

Malcolm looked at Poe, who was drawing in the dirt with a stick. “What do you make of it?”

Poe shrugged, head down. “There’s no fence around this island. I’m sure they can pretty much come and go as they please.”

“Yeah,” Jenny said. “But you know what these guys are like. They can be real creeps.” She would know.

It may have been Poe and me on the beach this morning, but the tape recorder must belong to the people on the other island. I shivered. “I don’t like the idea of people sneaking around here,” I said. It reminded me too much of my recent experience with Dragon’s Head. “You said stuff had already been stolen.”

“What do you want me to do?” Poe asked, finally looking up. I felt myself shrinking under his steady gray gaze. “How do you propose we keep them out?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, neither do I.” He went back to his stick.

“Whatever,” George said. “I’m sure they’re harmless.”

“Okay,” Demetria said, “you’re done.” She stood. “I’m going back to the cabin.”

“Can I come, or will they mess up?” I wiggled my toes. New pedicure or not, I needed to extricate myself from Poe’s presence.

Clarissa tossed me her flip-flops. “Here, borrow mine. You’ll be fine.”

Shod, I followed Demetria up the path. As we passed Poe, he shot me a brief, inscrutable look, and I hastened as much as one can while wearing wet paint and someone else’s flip-flops on a sandy surface.

“I can’t believe I let that bitch get to me,” Demetria said as we walked back to the cabin. “Like I care what she says about me. And then George, of all people. Rescued by our great white hope. How pathetic is that?”

“I thought it was funny,” I said.

“But you have a soft spot for Prescott,” Demetria countered. “I can take care of myself.” She opened the cabin door. “Holy shit…”

I collided with her on the threshold. “What the…?”

I’ve seen many a trashed room in my day. There was the time Lydia planted fake secret society initiation paraphernalia in our suite. There was the time Gehry’s henchmen decided to rearrange Jenny’s base of operation this fall. There was the Great Cricket Invasion in January. All paled by comparison to the disaster that lay before me.

All of our clothes were tossed about the room, and most had been covered in splashes of paint. The mattresses had been ripped off the beds and thrown up against the wall. All of Jenny’s electronics had been smashed. Most noticeable of all were the words sprayed on the walls and mattresses in neon orange.

Slut

Bitch

Dyke

You know, the usual. At first, I wasn’t even sure that all of the curlicues of paint covering the walls were even words. Half of it looked like plain damage, but if you squinted, or turned your head just so, you could make out a variety of threats. Death to the Diggers. You people make me sick. Try wearing that skirt now was scrawled across the remains of Clarissa’s designer duds. Hacker whore now decorated the cover of Jenny’s laptop.

But the one that caught my eye was on the mattress that used to grace my bed.

Keep up your BREAST stroke, or next time you WILL drown.