Hesitantly, they bent their heads, turning their flashlight beams back to the pale violet surface of the map.

A clump of red stains had spread in one corner of the Peabody, a blooming poppy, lush with blood. Alex, Turner, Dawes. A posy of violence.

There were a few blots near the Hill and even two dots in the dorms, or where Alex thought the dorms were now. She couldn’t quite orient herself.

The map didn’t look like it had been updated since the late 1800s, and most of the structures she knew well simply hadn’t been built yet.

But High Street’s name hadn’t changed and there was a place Alex had no trouble identifying. The spot where a young maid named Gladys had fled, where her life had been stolen and her soul consumed by Daisy Whitlock.

That act had created a nexus of power, and years later, the first tomb of the first secret society had been built over it.

“Someone’s at Skull and Bones,” she said. The building on the map was small, the first version of the tomb, before it had been expanded. They stood together, looking at that red stain.

“It’s Monday,” said Dawes. “No ritual tonight.”

That was good. If they could get there in time, they wouldn’t have as many possible suspects to sift through, just a few people studying or hanging out.

“Let’s go,” said Turner, the bite still in his voice.

“Are we just leaving it that way?” Alex asked as they scooted back through the secret passage, leaving the bloody table behind.

“Don’t worry,” said Turner. “I’ll be back with a sledgehammer.”

Alex heard Dawes suck in a breath, distressed at the thought of any artifact being destroyed, no matter how vile. But she didn’t say a word.

They slipped back through the room full of jars and out the side exit, trying to move quietly. As soon as Turner pushed on the bar to let them out to the street, an alarm began to wail.

“Shit,” he said, ducking his head as Alex yanked up her hood. They burst through the door and ran to his car. The tempest’s power had diminished as the tea had gone cold, and she could only hope the museum’s security cameras hadn’t captured any clear images of their faces.

They wriggled into the car and Turner gunned the engine, squealing out into the empty street.

“Faster,” Alex urged as he navigated the Dodge toward High Street. They needed to get to Skull and Bones before their murderer left, or they’d have to start this whole process all over again.

“I am not looking to draw attention,” he growled. “And have you even thought about how you’re going to figure out who the murderer is and get a killer to join your little hell crew?”

She hadn’t. The cannonball had found her momentum.

Turner swung the Dodge right up to the curb in front of the ruddy stone tomb.

Alex had never liked this particular crypt. The others seemed almost silly, a kind of Disneyland version of a particular style—Greek, Moorish, Tudor, mid-century. But this one felt too real, a temple to something dark and wrong that they’d built right out in the open, as if the people who had raised those red stones knew no one could touch them. It didn’t help that she’d seen the Bonesmen cut human beings open and root around in their insides, searching for a glimpse at the future.

“Well,” said Turner as they climbed out of the car. “You have a plan, Stern?”

“We have to tread lightly,” Dawes urged, coming up behind them, still clutching her notebook. “Skull and Bones is very powerful, and if word gets back to—”

Alex pounded on the heavy black door. She didn’t know much about the tomb, except that there was a debate over the original architect and that it had supposedly been built with opium money.

No one answered. Turner stood back, arms crossed.

“Did we miss them?” asked Dawes, sounding almost eager.

Alex slammed her fist against the door again and shouted. “I know you’re in there. Stop fucking around.” “Alex!” Dawes cried.

“If they’re not home, who’s going to care?”

“And if they are?”

Alex wasn’t entirely sure. She raised her hand to knock again when the door cracked open.

“Alex?” The voice was soft, nervous.

She peered into the gloom. “Tripp? Jesus, is that ice cream?”

Tripp Helmuth, third-generation legacy and son to one of the wealthiest families in New England, wiped his hand over his mouth, looking sheepish.

He was wearing long athletic tear-aways and a dirty T-shirt, his blond hair tucked under a backward Yale baseball cap. He was a member of Bones— or he had been. He’d graduated the previous year.

“You alone?” Alex asked.

He nodded, and Alex recognized the look on his face instantly. Guilt. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

“I—” He hesitated. He knew he couldn’t ask them in, but he also knew they couldn’t stand there.

“You’re going to have to come with us,” Alex said with all the weary authority she could summon. It was the voice of every teacher, principal, and social worker she’d ever disappointed.

“Shit,” said Tripp. “Shit.” He looked like he was going to cry. This was their murderer? “Let me just clean up.”

Alex went with him. She didn’t think Tripp had the balls to make a run for it, but she wasn’t taking any chances. The tomb was like all of the society crypts, fairly ordinary except for the Roman temple room used for rituals.

The rest looked like most of the nicer places at Yale: dark wood, a few fancy frescoes, one red velvet chamber that had seen better days, and an abundance of skeletons, some famous, some less so. The canopic jars full of important livers, spleens, hearts, and lungs were all kept behind the walls of the temple room.

The tomb was dark except for the kitchen, where Tripp had been having some kind of midnight snack. There were cold cuts and bread on the table, and a half-eaten ice cream sandwich. It was a big, drafty room with two stoves and a huge walk-in freezer, all better suited to preparing banquets than serving a dozen college students. But when the alumni came to town, the Bonesmen had to make sure they put on a proper spread.

“How did you know I was here?” Tripp asked as he hastily returned everything to the fridge.

“Hurry up.”

“Okay, okay.” Alex noted his very full-looking backpack and wondered if he’d squirreled away more food in there. Hard times for Tripp Helmuth.

“How’d you get in?” Alex asked as he locked the doors and they headed to Turner’s Dodge.

“I never turned my key in.”

“And they didn’t ask about that?”

“I told them I lost it.”

That had been enough. Tripp was so hapless it was easy to believe he’d lose his key and anything else that wasn’t stapled to his pockets.