Poe leapt across me to grab Puck before he could give our position away, but it was too late. Puck had already jumped to the top of the wall that separated the Dragon’s Head property from the alleyway.

“Middle name should have been Asshole,” Poe grumbled.

In place of a response, I coughed, politely, and he seemed to notice that he was still lying on top of me, his hands resting in places that weren’t exactly public access.

“Oops.” He stood, and brushed snow off of his pants. “Here’s an idea for next year’s taps, Bugaboo,” he said, and pulled me to my feet, making as if to brush snow off me before I gave him a warning swat, “only tap the ones who are interested in keeping your secret operations secret.”

I laid a finger against my ski mask–covered mouth. I was to blame for many things involving George Harrison Prescott, but not this. “Remind me who it was that tapped our dear Puck?”

“I liked it better when you were playing mute.”

“You always have,” I replied, as the alarm went off.

Alarms in most buildings on campus might bring a few offhand observers, perhaps some threatening glares from light sleepers or heavy studiers, and campus security. Alarms at a secret society bring reporters. And since the offices of the Eli Daily News were right next door, I’d say, Winter Break or not, we had approximately eight seconds before our masked countenances turned downright conspicuous.

“Jump!”

“Right. New signal.” Poe jumped. I followed, missed the ledge, and proceeded to scrape elbows and knees on the stone as I slid down the wall.

Poe’s face shot over the ledge, silhouetted against the purply-orange sky, a signature of overcast New Haven nights. “Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” He reached down and gave me a hand.

I looked over the wall at the virgin snow on the ground inside. Crap. Could we make the leap all the way over to the cleared walkway in the center of the yard? Did it even matter anymore if the Dragon’s Head knights knew where we came from, now that the alarm was blaring loud enough to be heard up Science Hill?

Poe jumped down from the ledge and landed in the snow, and I saw black-clad figures doing the same all around the yard. Guess not.

We convened at the kitchen entrance near the back. “What brain donor was responsible for moving in early?” asked Thorndike, a.k.a. Demetria Robinson. She was rocking her set of broken-in breaking-and-entering duds and picking the lock on the Dragon’s Head back door.

Poe and I pointed at Puck, who gave us the finger.

Angel arrived. The New York socialite most called Clarissa Cuthbert was almost unrecognizable with her fall of blond hair tucked under her ski mask. “That was…unexpected. Lucky almost had the alarm system disabled. Bond’s furious. They’ll be along in a minute.” She stared at our motley crew. “Where are the others?”

“Forced to abort.” Lil’ Demon, known to her legions of fans as bad-girl starlet Odile Dumas, leaned against a wall and attempted to catch her breath. “I tried to wave down Tristram and Frodo, but they were totally zoned out.” She squinted at Poe. “Who brought him?”

I shrugged. “He brought himself, as usual.”

“I don’t blame the boys for getting distracted,” said Angel. “We’ve been waiting for half an hour. I almost forgot what we were doing myself.”

“I think the term is ‘woolgathering,’” said Poe.

“Yeah, if you’re my grandmother,” said Thorndike, and the door popped open.

“Wait,” I said. “Wasn’t your grandma a Black Panther?”

“Okay, so not mine, exactly. She skipped the tatting lessons in favor of showing me how to crack safes. Let’s go.”

We slid inside the building, taking up positions in the main hall according to our pre-arranged plan—a plan that now seemed to contain several obvious and glaring holes. Lil’ Demon, in possession of the two-way radio, directed us to keep our headlamps off for the time being and peeked through a scratch in one of the blacked-out windows to assess the damage.

Dragon’s Head, unlike most of the dedicated society buildings on campus, is a retrofitted frat house. Instead of the windowless, mausoleum-like tomb we members of Rose & Grave enjoy, their building is more of a Tudor mansion. Back before all the frats were kicked off campus and the society had taken over the property, you could be a member of the fraternity that called this place home and, in your senior year, of Rose & Grave as well.

To wit: We know every crevice of this house. Because past generations of Rose & Grave ceded their loyalty to us Diggers, we know the location of every secret room, every back stair…every emergency exit. And we’d probably need each one if we still wanted to pull this caper off.

“Crowd’s forming,” whispered Lil’ Demon. “Bond says the rest of the crew was forced to give up or be recognized. He’s trying to mingle and keep giving us updates.”

“Perfect,” I said. “So we’re down to what, Ocean’s Six?”

The alarm died.

“Ocean’s Seven,” said Lil’ Demon with a laugh. “Lucky came through after all.”

“Either way,” said Poe, “we’re not going to have time to get Orpheus and get out. I bet they’ve got security on the way. I know their caretaker will have been roused, and any members already on campus.”

“So you think we should abort?” I asked.

“I think it might already be too late to make a clean getaway.”

“Spoilsport.” I almost stuck my tongue out at him, then remembered the mask.

“I think that title belongs to your friend.” He gestured to Puck, who’d taken up residence on one of the leather wingback chairs and looked relaxed enough to pour himself a drink. “He’s the one who got us into this mess.”

True. Okay, time for some decisions. I addressed the group. “Here’s my thought: The same crowd that’s keeping us from getting out might be helpful in preventing the members from getting in. Too many witnesses. I say we’re made whether they catch us inside or outside. So let’s keep to the plan. All in favor?”

There was a chorus of “Aye”s in the darkness. Poe crossed his arms, but his expression was unreadable beneath his mask.

Puck clapped and rubbed his hands together. “I love it. Let’s go get arrested.”

Lil’ Demon looked around. “Where’s Thorndike?”

“Already working,” came a voice over Lil’ Demon’s two-way. “And I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Lay it on me,” Lil’ Demon said.

Thorndike’s voice crackled through the radio: “The bad news is, I’m not going to be able to open the safe. The good news is, I found something even better.”

“Impossible,” said Poe, shaking his head, so the beam of his headlamp swerved like a lighthouse ray.

“I’m with him,” said Puck. “Weird as that sounds.”

Angel peeked into the hallway and down the stairs. “There’s no way we’re moving it without a dolly and about seven burly men.”

Lil’ Demon stood speechless in front of it. “What…what is it?”

To hazard a guess, I’d say the Maltese Dragon. The statue before me was about six feet tall, plated with gold leaf, and encrusted all over with semi-precious jewels. Lapis eyes flickered in the glow of the LED headgear a few of us wore, and ivory fangs jutted out from carnelian jaws. Jade scales mixed in with the gold. It was, without a doubt, the most precious thing in the society’s possession. (It was also way nicer than the tiny marble statue we’d come here to reclaim.)

I’d been through most of their house by now (I can’t call this windowed Tudor a “tomb”) and, nice as it may be, their headquarters held none of the grandeur of the Diggers’ own home base. Their meeting room was cozy and well appointed, but enjoyed neither walls covered with expensive antique oil paintings nor a painted dome ceiling, like ours. Of course, I’d memorized their floor plan, but seeing the rooms in person gave a different impression completely. The whole building had a far less grandiose air than the only other tomb I knew.