“Well, too bad,” Harper told her. “You’re a minor and one sip is all you get.”
“I used to eat sardines out of the can and drink the oil afterward,” Don said. “It was a gruesome thing to do. That oil always had little fish tails and fish eyes and fackin’ fish guts and little black rubbery strings of fish shit, and I drank it anyway. Just couldn’t help myself.”
Gil said, “Saw a movie where a fella said he’d eaten dogs and lived like one. I never ate a dog, but there was men that caught and ate mice in Brentwood. They called ’em basement chickens.”
“Worst thing I ever ate?” the Mazz speculated. “I wouldn’t like to go into the details in polite company, but her name was Ramona.”
“That’s lovely, Mazz. Very tasteful,” Renée said.
“Actually, it wasn’t even a little tasteful,” the Mazz told her.
“This reminds me: Are you going to eat the placenta?” Renée asked Harper. “I understand that’s a thing now. We stocked a pregnancy guide at the bookstore with a whole chapter of placenta recipes in the back. Omelets and pasta sauces and so on.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Harper said. “Dining on the placenta smacks of cannibalism, and I was hoping for a more dignified apocalypse.”
“Rabbit mothers eat their own babies,” the Mazz said. “I found that out reading Watership Down. Apparently the mamas chow on their newborns all the time. Pop them down just like little meat Skittles.”
“The worst part,” Allie said, “is that you’ve all only had one drink.”
Don said, “So who’s the captain of this ship? Who’s settin’ our course?”
“You’re so adorable when you’re nautical,” John Rookwood said to him.
“He’s right, though,” Renée said. “That’s the first order of business, isn’t it? We need to hold the election.”
“Election?” Harper asked. She was vaguely aware that she was the only person in the circle who didn’t have a knowing smile on her face—a fact she found mildly irritating.
“We need to settle on an evil mastermind,” Renée told her. “Someone to set the agenda when we have meetings. Some one to call a vote. Someone to make on-the-spot decisions when there isn’t time to vote. Someone to boss around the minions.”
“That’s silly. There’s just seven of us. Eight, if you count Nick.”
Don Lewiston lifted his eyebrows and turned an expectant expression toward Renée Gilmonton.
“You’re off by fifteen,” Renée said.
“Make it seventeen,” Don said. “The McLee brothers are with us too.”
“There are . . . what . . . twenty-five people ready to . . . strike out on their own?” Harper asked. Dumbledore’s army, she thought. The Fellowship.
“Or strike out at Ben and Carol,” Don said, “and take back the damn camp.” He saw Allie blanch and added, “Strike out gently, I mean. Politely. You know. With good manners.”
“We can do some things by way of a vote,” Renée said. “But working in secret as we are, a lot of choices will require an executive decision. It’s a necessary job, but I don’t think it’s likely to be a terribly rewarding one . . . or particularly safe. You want to think about what might happen to whoever we put in charge, if we’re discovered.”
“I don’t need to think about it,” Allie said. “I know. When my aunt talks about slicing the rottenness out of camp, she’s not playing with words. She’s talking about cutting a bitch. She’d have people killed. She’d have to set an example.” Allie smiled at them, but looked wan. “I read in history that public executions used to be popular events. I’m sure if Aunt Carol announced one, Mrs. Heald would make sure there was popcorn for everyone.”
The fire cracked and hissed. A coal popped.
“You really think it could go that far?” Gil asked, his voice suggesting only mild curiosity. “Public executions?”
“Boy,” the Mazz said. “After the shit we seen go down in Brentwood, I’m surprised you got to ask. Myself, I can’t get too worried about the consequences. I’ve already decided I’ll do whatever I have to, to get out of that basement meat locker . . . one way or another. On my feet or on a slab.”
“Same,” Gil said.
Harper said, “But we can’t vote tonight. Not if there are fifteen—seventeen—other people who want to throw in with us. How would we manage such a thing?”
Don and Renée and Allie traded looks and Harper felt once again that they were ahead of her by a step.
“Harper,” Renée said. “We’ve already managed it. Everyone has already cast their vote, except for the seven of us in this room, and maybe the McLee brothers.”
“Nope,” Don said. “They made their wishes known, too.”
“So it’s down to just us. And let me tell you, it was hard work getting us this far. It isn’t so easy to hold an election for the head of a secret society. Because I wouldn’t tell anyone who was in and who wasn’t. I don’t like to be paranoid. But I couldn’t discount the possibility that some of the people who told me they want to leave Camp Wyndham are feeding information back to Carol. For example, I never heard a single vote for Michael Lindqvist. I’m sure most people would be shocked to hear he’s with us. He’s always been Ben Patchett’s right hand. No . . . most of the voting condensed around the two or three really obvious candidates.”
“What makes someone an obvious candidate?”
“Anyone who isn’t a part of the Bright anymore. Anyone who isn’t singing Carol’s song. Basically: the people in this room tonight. Not only do we all still have to cast our vote, we’re also all the leading candidates.” She reached into a worn, striped shoulder bag she had brought with her, and came up with a tablet of yellow lined paper. She placed it facedown on an end table. “After we fill out our own ballots, I’ll let you know how everyone else voted.” Renée reached into the shoulder bag again and came up with a pad of red sticky notes. She peeled squares off, one at a time, and handed them around. Don found a chipped mug with pens stuck into it and passed them out.
“Do we have an official title for the man or woman who wins this thing?” Gil asked, frowning at his own blank square.
“I like ‘Master Conspirator,’” said the Fireman. “That has a nice ring. A touch of poetry and darkness to it. If you could get killed for having the job, you should at least have the pleasures of an official title with some sex appeal.”
“So it shall be,” Renée said. “Cast your vote for Master Conspirator.”
There was a fidgety silence and the sounds of pens scratching on paper. When they had each finished, Renée was waiting with her tablet in hand.
“Of the fifteen people I spoke to,” Renée began, and cleared her throat, and went on. “We had two votes for Don and two votes for Allie.”
“What?” Allie cried, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Three for the Fireman,” Renée said, “four votes for Harper, and four for me.”
Harper flushed. Her Dragonscale prickled—not unpleasantly.
Don said, “When I spoke to the McLee boys, they made their intentions clear enough. They both picked Allie.”
“No, no, no, NO,” Allie said. “I don’t want the fucking job. I’m sixteen. If I won this thing, my first act as head honcho would be to burst into tears. Besides, Robert McLee only voted for me because he has a weird crush. A muscle twitches under one eye whenever he talks to me. And the other one just does what Robert tells him. Besides, they shouldn’t get a vote! Does Chris McLee even have pubic hair yet?”
“I agree,” the Fireman said. “No pubes, no vote. And since I’m against child sacrifice, I’m in favor of allowing Allie to unnominate herself. Did anyone who voted for Allie have a backup choice?”
“As it happens,” Renée said, peering at her pad, “they do. One person chose John as an alternate. The other selected Don.”
“Fack,” Don said.
“Did the McLee brothers have a backup choice?” Renée asked.
“It wouldn’t matter if they did,” Don said, “since we agree they’re too young to vote.” Which was how Harper knew they had also picked Don as a backup.