“Almost there!” I shriek as we hit a particularly large bump. This path, for all its rockiness, is going to get us there a lot faster. All we need to do is get past this next—“Dash!” I shriek as I lose control of the wheel and the car skids down a slope with the pump house as its final destination. I spot the old building in front of us, looming like a sore thumb in the distance. We’re going so much faster than I intended. We’re going to crash—

I slam on the brakes seconds before we plow right into the building, stopping short of it by only a few feet.

Pulse in my throat, I take a moment behind the wheel to process what just happened. All is quiet, except for the pounding in my ears. I let out a breath. We did it. I did it. My hands are shaking, and I’m sure if Dash had a body, he’d be sweating right now.

There’s no time to waste. I tear out of the car and race toward the door. Harlowe doesn’t know I read her thoughts—or whatever the hell that was—so this extra time, before she arrives, is critical. Even if she did guess where I’m headed, it’ll take her at least a few more minutes to get here. Reaching the front double doors, I wrench them open.

Inside the dilapidated building are my friends—Maude, Theodora, and Pippa. They are seated in three metal chairs, and each one of them is handcuffed to a chair leg by the wrist. They look groggy, like they’ve woken up from a disorienting nap.

Standing in front of them are Ivy and Graham.

“We weren’t expecting you yet,” Graham says, sizing me up. “But whatever. You’re just in time for the show.”

The Hazing

I take a step toward my friends. “Are you okay?” I ask.

Maude shifts in her chair, trying to move her arm, but she meets with resistance. It’s the handcuff, shackling her wrist to her chair leg. Frustrated, she tries yanking it, but nothing happens.

“Where are we?” Pippa asks, surveying our whereabouts skeptically.

I don’t blame her for being freaked. This place is ancient and intimidating.

“The pump house,” I answer her, about to move to help her with the cuffs when Graham steps right in my path. Something glints in his hand. It’s a large kitchen knife, the kind you use to chop vegetables.

“What are you planning on doing with that?” I ask, contempt in my voice.

“I’m not sure you want to know,” Graham says.

The double doors clang open, and in rushes Harlowe. Panting, she looks murderous.